Hamilton, Donald - Novel 02

by The Steel Mirror (v2. 1)

  “Don’t you see?” she breathed. “If we go back… tell them…”

  Emmett asked softly, “Do you know what that place was?”

  She nodded her head. “But—”

  “And you still want us to drive away without telling them they’ve got an impostor—?”

  Her voice was suddenly clear and firm. “Do you realize what will happen to me, darling, if they learn that what he said doesn’t mean anything? that I still have a perfectly good motive for killing Stevens? Is it that important, John?” Her voice changed. “Please… for me,” she whispered. “Put it away. At least hear what he has to say, darling.”

  Mr. Nicholson said, “Probably Ann’s right, Emmett.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Kaufman’s voice said, “there’s no need for violence, Emmett. Nothing is going to happen to you. I wouldn’t dare let anything happen to you now; it would call attention to precisely what I want to keep concealed. We are simply going to have a little talk. When we’re through you’ll be at liberty to run to the nearest telephone, call Mr. Kirkpatrick, and tell him that Dr. Kissel is not Dr. Kissel. If you still want to.”

  Emmett looked down at the gun in his free hand. The fact of the matter, he reflected bitterly, was that a gun was no good unless you were going to shoot somebody with it. He wasn’t, and they sensed it. He put the thing back into his pocket. The girl in the front seat relaxed visibly and ran the tip of her tongue over her dark lips. Dr. Kaufman wiped perspiration off his glasses with a clean white handkerchief. Emmett was rather shocked at the realization that they had actually been afraid of him.

  Dr. Kaufman started the car again. As they picked up speed the blanket of heat seemed to lift a little, allowing them to breathe.

  “Well,” the doctor said, “now that the excitement is over, suppose we talk like reasonable human beings. First of all, the question of Dr. Kissel’s business at the Project; this does not need to concern us. It is, shall we say, on a higher operational level. It is enough for us to know that to come here in the guise of Dr. Reinhard Kissel, a well-known—in his own country—scientist, he has allowed himself to be crippled, and disfigured by plastic surgery; that he has given up his family and career in the hope of obtaining for his country a few scraps of knowledge which, if your country’s peaceful pretensions were genuine, should have long ago been available to any laboratory in the world…” He smiled into the windshield as Emmett stirred. “Well, it’s a debatable point, Mr. Emmett. We won’t argue it. The fact of the matter is that the true Dr. Kissel came into our hands, dying, well before the end of the war. He had some useful information about Nazi research; more than that, he had a recognized name; yet, because of his flight from Austria and subsequent experiences, very few people knew him by sight. There was a good chance that a substitute, well briefed and documented, could go undetected for a considerable length of time over here, in the United States; particularly if this substitute were supplied with a wealth of interesting information to use, shall we say, as bait.”

  Emmett reached over and removed Ann’s tight fingers from his wrist. He saw her face suddenly become drawn and white, and he regretted his action, because it had been childish. It had not hurt him to let her hold onto him, whatever his opinion of her behavior.

  Dr. Kaufman said, “However, in checking all eventualities, those in charge noticed in the true Dr. Kissel’s account a meeting with an American girl who, if still alive, might possibly prove embarrassing. The plan was put into action nevertheless; but as a precaution, Miss Bethke and I were assigned to make sure that Miss Nicholson was not apt to challenge the identity of the spurious Dr. Kissel. Unfortunately, we found that the reverse was true. Miss Nicholson had forgotten her experiences in the Gestapo prison and was very likely, if she ever learned that he was in this country, to ask ‘Dr. Kissel’ to fill in the gap in her memory.” Dr. Kaufman grimaced at the rear-view mirror. “Reporting this, I received one of the comprehensive plans of operation they make a habit of giving you, ordering me: a) to establish Miss Bethke, and myself if possible, in a position close to Miss Nicholson; b) to do my best to prevent Miss Nicholson from attempting to make contact with ‘Dr. Kissel’; c) to lay the groundwork for removing her without embarrassing questions, should she insist on seeing him; and, d) to discredit her testimony in advance as much as possible in case all other efforts should fail.”

  “Then you did hide the magazine,” Ann whispered. “The one that told about him coming to teach at Fairmount.”

  “Miss Bethke took care of that,” the doctor said.

  “And… you tried to kill me in Boyne?”

  “Yes,” the doctor said curtly.

  Mr. Nicholson drew a deep breath.

  “And… the time before, when I was supposed to have tried…?”

  “Miss Bethke administered a slight overdose to give you the necessary reputation for attempted self-destruction and to have an excuse for getting me on the case.”

  “And… Stevens?” she breathed.

  “Mr. Stevens,” the doctor said, “was going to tell the newspapers about your wartime experiences. Unfortunately, while Miss Bethke was reporting this to me, you vanished. Not knowing where you were, or how soon we might regain contact with you, we had to stop Stevens. We could not afford publicity that might reveal the story of your meeting with Dr. Kissel until we could be quite sure of…”

  “… of killing me?” Ann whispered.

  The doctor nodded, watching the road. “We could not take the chance of having you publicly refuting the newspaper story by citing Dr. Kissel as a witness.”

  “So you killed Stevens instead? Because I was not… not available.”

  The doctor nodded calmly.

  “… and tried to blame it on me, to make Dad believe I…!” Ann’s voice began to rise “… and then in Boyne to make it look as if I’d committed…!”

  Emmett put his hand on her knee and squeezed hard. She stopped, took a long breath, and was silent. Everyone waited, as if a little embarrassed by the display of indignation. At last Mr. Nicholson cleared his throat.

  “But Plaice, Doctor… Plaice reported that you were in Denver that night.”

  Dr. Kaufman said, “A voice called your Denver office, Mr. Nicholson. I’m afraid that you’re a little too trusting where telephones are concerned.”

  “And Plaice?—”

  “He’s being held, waiting for your word to release him.” There was a definite disadvantage, Emmett decided, in holding a conversation with a man who showed you only the back of his head and the glint of his spectacles in a small rectangular mirror. It was surprising how little you could tell from a voice when you did not have the face to go with it.

  “… your word, Mr. Nicholson,” the doctor said smoothly, “that we’ll agree to forget this conversation.” He raised his hand briefly from the steering wheel. “Please, Mr. Nicholson. Let’s just take a look at the present situation. When Metschnik failed to stop the young couple in the mountains, and you informed me that Mr. Emmett was quite set on the interview, I saw that I could no longer hope to prevent it. For one thing, Metschnik was in the hospital, two of my men were keeping an eye on Plaice in case he should break my alibi prematurely; and that hardly left me enough force to cover the roads into Numa. And for another thing, once it was known that Miss Nicholson—pardon me; Mrs. Emmett—was definitely on her way to see Dr. Kissel, nothing could be allowed to happen to her, or somebody might have got the idea that we were averse to letting Dr. Kissel meet an old acquaintance. There was nothing left to me, therefore, but to advise ‘Dr. Kissel’ what to tell the young lady.”

  Emmett said, “I thought Dr. Kissel was under guard. How did you get in touch with him?”

  The doctor laughed. “Dr. Kissel has developed a convenient aversion to barbed wire fences, Mr. Emmett. And he likes to stroll around the town of Numa in the evening; even the FBI can’t cover a man, particularly one who is supposed to be friendly and has to be treated with respect, every moment of the time. We have contact
s.” He cleared his throat and went on, “Well, if I instructed him to tell Miss Nicholson that she had actually betrayed her French comrades, she would be quite sure to call attention to the fact that he was not Dr. Kissel at all. And while it would look as if she were attacking him out of spite and to discredit his testimony; and while her medical history would prevent her accusations from carrying a great deal of weight, nevertheless a certain amount of damage would be done. We could not afford to have Dr. Kissel’s identity questioned, even by an unbalanced young lady with questionable motives. The alternative, of course, was for Dr. Kissel to assure the young lady that her wartime record had been quite heroic; and count on her sense of self-preservation to keep her silent.”

  Emmett glanced at Ann, seeing her color and become pale again. Mr. Nicholson stirred. “And what makes you think we’ll—?”

  “Please,” the doctor said, “let me finish. As it now stands, your daughter has been absolved from guilt in the wartime matter, am I right? Dr. Kissel’s testimony to that effect is on record. This casts certain doubts on her motives for killing Stevens. In a few days, if we come to an agreement and everything progresses satisfactorily, the Chicago police will discover Stevens’ watch and wallet in the possession of a drunken vagrant who will confess to the murder. Whether this man is finally convicted or not, I rather believe that by the time they are through with him the Chicago police will pretty well have forgotten their early suspicions of Mrs. Emmett.”

  Emmett asked, “And if we go back?”

  “If we go back, Mr. Emmett,” the doctor said, “Dr. Kissel will be forced to testify that he is, indeed, a foreign agent whom you and Mr. Nicholson bribed and blackmailed to give the right testimony; using him for your private ends in the full knowledge, of course, that your failure to report him would allow him to continue to have access to secret information. Of course, your action in finally giving the facts to the authorities may save you from a charge of treason, but I don’t think you’ll have a very pleasant time of it,” the doctor said, “particularly since I will have to confess to the murder of Stevens. I killed him, of course, on Mr. Nicholson’s instructions. Perhaps I was a little over-zealous, but Mr. Nicholson had offered me a considerable sum of money if I could persuade Stevens to keep quiet; and when the man refused, I lost my head and killed him… I will, of course, have to testify that I have been aware throughout the case that Miss Nicholson—Mrs. Emmett—did betray her French husband and his associates to the Nazis, not only through proof shown me by her father, but by the medical evidence…”

  Ann shifted position but did not speak. Emmett found that he still had his hand on her knee; he felt her hand cover it, holding it there.

  Emmett asked the question, “What medical evidence?”

  “The amnesia, of course,” Dr. Kaufman said impatiently, flinging his head around to throw them the answer, then looking back to the road. “And that very interesting and symbolical act of trying to break the mirror in her cell. Has she told you that when, after meeting Dr. Kissel, she was returned to her cell, she turned to the mirror on the door and tried to break it? It happened to be metal. This is the last thing she recalls. Ask yourself, Mr. Emmett, under similar circumstances, what significance a similar act on your part would have.”

  “Go on,” Emmett said.

  “You come into the cell,” the doctor’s voice said. “You catch sight of yourself in the mirror. You are not looking your best, perhaps, but at this late date, sick and exhausted as you probably are, is your physical appearance going to arouse you to a frenzy? Yet you turn on the mirror and try to smash it… It’s an act of self-loathing, is it not? She could not bear to look at herself. Perhaps she even truly wished to kill herself. Ask yourself why, Mr. Emmett.”

  Emmett was silent. The doctor continued: “And the amnesia. Amnesia, Mr. Emmett, is the human mind’s ingenious way of avoiding a memory too dreadful for the patient to live with. But Miss Nicholson could recall every unpleasant detail of her torture, up to a point. There is no physical evidence that anything more terrible happened to her later. What, then, is her mind trying to protect her from knowing, except that she betrayed them?” Dr. Kaufman smiled at the road ahead of him. “I am explaining this at length because officially, of course, I will not know what the true Dr. Kissel had to say on the point. Actually, of course, the real Dr. Kissel stated with heat that Miss Nicholson did betray…”

  “We just have your word for that,” Emmett said quickly.

  “Exactly. Which is why I went into the medical aspects of the case. And don’t forget the proof in Mr. Nicholson’s hands, which you have so blithely ignored. It doesn’t really matter, Mr. Emmett,” the doctor said cheerfully. “After all, you can’t prove she didn’t do it. There is absolutely no evidence in her favor, and a great mass of evidence against her. The question is, after all, what will a jury believe? What will the newspapers believe? After I admit that Miss Bethke and I have been banking fees and salaries large enough to be classed as polite blackmail, paid to us by Mr. Nicholson for remaining silent, it will be clear enough to the court what he believes. And Miss Nicholson’s two attempts at suicide, which you will have difficulty proving to have been anything else at this late date, will indicate what her private belief is on the subject. Your faith in her courage and integrity will sound very touching in court, Mr. Emmett, assuming that you still feel that way at the time, but it will prove nothing except that she’s a very pretty girl with whom you are in love.” He cleared his throat. “On the other hand, Mr. Emmett, if you remain silent this can all be forgotten.”

  He felt Ann’s fingers tighten on his hand. “Please, John,” she whispered. “Please. We’re not at war, are we? What difference can it really make what that man learns? Everyone says it’s just a matter of time before they learn all about it, anyway.”

  He felt very sorry for both of them, for being the people they were. There were times when you would like to be somebody altogether different from yourself, who could do the things you somehow could not do.

  Dr. Kaufman had stopped the car at a through highway although there was nothing coming in either direction. Now he swung in left into the sun; the sound of the motor rising smoothly to three distinct peaks with the shifting of the gears.

  “Think it over,” he said. “You can call Mr. Kirkpatrick from Santa Fe, if that’s the way you want it to be.”

  chapter TWENTY-FIVE

  When they reached Santa Fe late in the afternoon it was no cooler. They stood in the hotel corridor while the bellboy fumbled with the key; the three of them left alone together by the doctor and nurse, who had got off at a different floor. It was, Emmett decided, an apt phrase: each one of them was alone with the problem he had to solve, yet they were all three bound together by the fact that each one’s solution would affect the others. Then they were inside, and the boy had gone, and the door was closed. There was, after all, a little breeze coming in through the open window; and the dusk of the room seemed somewhat cooler than the harsh sunlight outside.

  Ann walked to the bed and sat down. Her face was shiny and almost ugly with strain and weariness. After a while she raised her eyes to the two men standing above her. She did not speak.

  “Well,” Mr. Nicholson said. “Well—”

  Then he turned and walked to the telephone.

  “Dad?” Ann said.

  “Damn it,” he said, “I was in the marines, once.”

  The phrase and its implications made Emmett furiously angry, with an anger out of all proportions to the immediate cause.

  “For God’s sake,” he said, “what the hell has your service record got to do with making a simple telephone call, Mr. Nicholson?”

  The gun chafed his thigh. He took it out and looked at it. He felt angry enough to kill somebody, but he could not see what it would accomplish. He tossed the gun clattering on the dresser. Ann was watching him.

  “You too?” she asked.

  “Don’t be silly,” he said.

  “Even if it
means—?”

  He said, “Oh, go to hell, Ann. You aren’t that dumb.”

  Mr. Nicholson picked up the telephone. “I’m sorry, Sister,” he said in a rather businesslike voice. “After all, we can’t let those damn Reds…”

  It was, Emmett reflected, a little difficult to realize that you were watching a couple of men being very patriotic. They sounded like a couple of jackasses. Ann got up and walked quickly to the window, and stood there, looking out at the roofs of Santa Fe in the afternoon sunshine. Emmett turned to the dresser and dropped the gun out of sight into the top drawer, wishing, as he touched it, that he had never seen the thing. He thought, You were getting to be pretty hot stuff, kneeing people, throwing drinks at them, and slugging them with jack handles. It’s just as well somebody’s reminded you that you aren’t Humphrey Bogart, or there would have been no living with you.

  He said, “Damn it, Mr. Nicholson, do you need a squad of marines to help you work that telephone? Let’s get it over with.”

  Ann’s father looked up angrily. “Keep your shirt on, Sonny-boy.”

  Somebody rapped curtly at the hall door. Mr. Nicholson replaced the telephone quickly, almost guiltily. Emmett turned towards the door, but Kirkpatrick walked in before he could reach it. The big man looked hot and rumpled and sweaty, yet somehow brown and competent.

  “I left your car with the doorman, Mrs. Emmett,” he reported. “He’ll send up the keys.”

  “Thank you.” Ann turned at the windows, the light behind her. “My father and… and Mr. Emmett have something to tell you,” she murmured.

  “I see.” Kirkpatrick smiled. “Did it go all right?” he asked.

  “I think so,” she said. Her voice seemed a little distant. Emmett could not see her expression for the heavy shadows on her face; the sun was bright in her hair. “I don’t think they guessed that I’d told you. But you’d better ask—Mr. Emmett or…” She caught herself and brought her voice back from the distant room to which it had retreated. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll lie down for a minute, I’m rather tired. Call me if you need me.”