LOST TO THE WORLD

by Libby Sternberg

  Linda smiled as if about to laugh. “Why all this focus on Germany?”

  Before he had a chance to answer, she volunteered, “Dr. Jansen’s parents live in Detroit,” she said. “He just got back from visiting them not too long ago. Julia told me.”

  “Where they from—you know, originally?”

  “Sweden,” Linda said quickly. “I mean, I think that’s where they’re from.”

  “What about Susan Schlager’s husband, where he from?”

  “Not sure. Sue doesn’t say much about him. Why?” she pressed.

  Sal ignored the question. “You ever talk to him on the phone?”

  “No.”

  So she wouldn’t have heard Schlager’s accent. Had Susan deliberately hidden the guy’s background—and, if so, was it significant or just a natural desire to shield her husband and herself from lingering anti-German feelings after the war?

  “Do you want to know where I’m from, too?” Linda teased.

  Sal gritted his teeth. “No. Just Jansen and Lowenstein. And anybody else they worked closely with.”

  Linda stood, a folder in her hand. “Then I suggest you go downstairs.” She walked to the filing cabinet near the door and, without looking at him, added, “Leon and Grace both work extremely closely with Dr. Jansen. And I know they’re from overseas.”

  Christ—no one had mentioned their names before. Sal wrote them quickly on his notepad. “Where are their offices, and what do they do?”

  “They’re very involved with the polio research,” Linda said as if he should have already known this. “Offices are in the basement, down the long hallway to the right of the stairs. Just ask someone when you get down there.” She smiled at him.

  He thanked her and left.

  ****

  The basement hallway was quiet and empty. At regular intervals overhead lamps cast brash light against the shiny white-painted walls. Sal narrowed his eyes. It felt more like a ward from a lunatic asylum down here with heavy locked doors and a sense of danger. Where was this “someone” he could ask about where to find folks? He passed several closed doors with “storage,” “linen,” and “boiler room” stenciled on their pebble-glass windows. These folks might be involved in polio research, but it was probably no more than cleaning offices and labs. Okay, he could take a joke. But even so, he’d talk to this Leon and Grace. Sometimes you got your best information from people who stayed silent and watched while they did their jobs.

  Up ahead, a door opened, and a short, ginger-haired man stepped out. He had a cane, like the secretary upstairs, and started to walk in the other direction.

  “Hey, sir! Could you help me out here?”

  The man turned and looked at Sal. He was small-featured as well as short. His face was round with fleshy cheeks and tiny eyes like gleaming marbles.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’m looking for a Leon and Grace. I need to talk to them.”

  The man tilted his head as if he didn’t understand, then without a word, went back to the door to the room he’d just left. Pulling a key ring from his pocket, he unlocked the door and waited for Sal.

  As Sal approached the room, he heard odd murmurings and rustlings. His throat went dry. Jesus, maybe there were mental defects down here. Did the doctors experiment on them? The smell was foul, too, like piss and worse. He wrinkled his nose as he walked through the door.

  And stared at two tiers of cages, wrapping around the room, each filled with a chimpanzee. There must have been two dozen of them, or more.

  “That’s Edsel.” The man pointed to a listless chimp in the farthest cage from the door. “And over there is Fran and Gracie.” He turned to point out two chimps on the opposite wall who were grooming themselves. “But I’m afraid you’re too late for Leon. He passed on this morning, poor fellow.”

  Sal’s neck warmed with anger. Damn it to hell. He certainly was an easy mark, wasn’t he?

  He cleared his throat and stood up straight, then asked the man—Earl Dagley was his name, the animal tender—about the monkeys, acting as if he’d come down specifically to question him on their care and treatment.

  Dagley was all too eager to oblige. Sal had the impression he had few opportunities to talk, at least to people. He seemed to have a real affection for each of the animals in his care, speaking of them by name, relating their special eccentricities. At the very end of the conversation, Sal asked him about Lowenstein, Jansen, and Susan.

  “A great man,” Dagley said, shaking his head sadly. “Dr. Mike was a real gentleman. A great boss.” About Dr. Jansen, he was less effusive but still complimentary—probably, thought Sal, because that doctor was still alive and able to affect Dagley’s employment. “Dr. Jansen is sometimes sharp, that’s true. But these doctors, you have to understand, are under a lot of stress these days. They can’t afford to suffer fools, if you know what I mean. They’re doing God’s work.”

  At the mention of Susan, Dagley’s face clouded. He knew who she was, and, by his posture and expressions, it was clear he didn’t like her.

  “She didn’t have much to say to folks like me,” Dagley offered when Sal pressed him.

  “You mean to people in your kind of work?” Sal gestured to the hallways, indicating those who worked in the hospital’s ancillary services, the cleaning staff and the like.

  Dagley’s mouth twisted into a half smile. “No, people like this.” He held up his cane and shook it. “I think she was afraid she’d catch it from me.”

  Sal’s eyes closed to slits. “But she worked with a crip—a polio victim—every day.”

  “That don’t mean she likes it.”

  Sal questioned him more on what he meant, but Dagley’s observations weren’t based on any specific event, merely fleeting moments where Susan looked away when he came into view, or said hello to other workers in the hall while avoiding him. It was small stuff, but Sal didn’t doubt that Earl was on the mark. After years as a polio victim, his senses were probably acutely attuned to snubs.

  Sal thanked him and left, wondering if Julia was attuned to those snubs as well and if they’d bothered her enough to do something about it.

  ***

  Things always go wrong when you want them too much. Brigitta consoled herself with that thought as she sipped coffee at the lunch counter in Hutzlers. It wasn’t as nice as their tea room, but you could get a good, cheap hot dog and coffee here, and nobody would bother you. Because it was well past the lunch hour—nearly closing time, in fact—she had the counter to herself.

  She’d broken a well-manicured nail when opening the lobby door to the first law firm she’d visited. And the office manager there had been less than welcoming. Rude was more like it. Lectured Brigitta on how hard it was for some of the fellows who’d been in the war finding jobs even now ten years later. Too many women are hanging onto jobs they have no business holding. Brigitta had sat, gloved hands in her lap, smile frozen on her face, and just nodded. Secretarial work is a woman’s job, she’d offered. But the office manager had rebutted that as well. She knew of a good man who’d be a great secretary, she’d scolded Brigitta, but didn’t want to try for the jobs now that that field was such a “henhouse.” Brigitta suspected her application would collect dust for some time there.

  At the second law firm, she’d snagged her stocking on a dented trash bin. Luckily, the run had stayed under her skirt, but she’d been constantly aware of how she arranged herself when sitting after that, and she worried that it had made her appear distracted. At least at that firm there was the possibility of an opening—one of the girls was getting married in June. She hadn’t yet put in her notice, but the secretary who’d interviewed Brigitta was sure the young bride wouldn’t stay for too much longer. Brigitta would have to check back.

  And finally, at the third firm she’d stopped by, an inky typewriter ribbon left carelessly on the side of a desk had fallen, leaving a black streak near the hem of her jacket. Oh, the secretary at the desk had been profoundly apologetic, offeri
ng to get some water to dab out the stain. No, thank you, I’ll just take it to the cleaner—and thinking, another bill I can’t afford. Brigitta had thought the entire office had looked careless and ill-tended and the secretaries unhappy to be there. Even if they’d had an opening, she’d have been reluctant to jump at it.

  “Anything else, hon?” The waitress poured her some more coffee.

  “No, thanks. Just the check.” She opened her purse and removed a cigarette case. She had time for a relaxing smoke before she had to head down to her old office where she’d agreed to meet Sean. She had that all planned out, at least. She’d told him to pick her up a half hour after everyone else usually left. So she wouldn’t have to run into any of her old colleagues. Grimacing, she looked at her stained jacket. She could take it off and drape it over her arm when they were together. He wouldn’t see the smudge.

  She was looking forward to their evening more than she’d anticipated. It seemed a lifetime ago that he’d said he’d call her, a time when his call would have meant little more than an opportunity for a friendly smile. But when he’d telephoned her last night in the midst of her depression, she’d grabbed his offer like a lifeline.

  Just because Gavin had been a cad didn’t mean she should rule out all men. She sipped some coffee, studying her chipped nail. Sean was solid and dependable. Maybe she’d unnecessarily limited herself by focusing so obsessively on establishing her own financial independence. With two incomes—well, she’d stopped thinking about that when Ernie had died, but maybe it was time to resurrect that dream. Two incomes would mean not just a home but a fashionable home. Someplace in Cedarcroft where her friend lived but a better home than what she could afford on her own. Marriage didn’t have to mean giving up…things. It could mean enriching one’s life, not in the financial sense alone, of course. No, there were other advantages to marriage. Sean looked like a good, strong man. A man capable of providing a woman with satisfaction, with passion.

  She shook her head. Listen to yourself, Brigitta. The man asks you out and you’re already thinking of marriage. Take your time. Don’t rush into things. This is how you landed in this current mess. No plan.

  ***

  Sean strode into the office with the blue bottle and photographs, being careful to stop in to see Mark O’Brien first. He was on a mission now to make sure O’Brien noticed everything he was doing to advance the case. O’Brien looked busy, but that didn’t stop Sean from spending a good half hour filling him in on everything he’d learned—in minute detail, in fact. In detail so excruciating that it would have qualified as a good bedtime story. By the time he was finished, Sean knew O’Brien was glad to be rid of him.

  With a smile, Sean went to his desk where he found a note from Sal. No German accents, nothing to indicate Dr. X or Dr. Jansen were from that country. Nothing more on Susan Schlager. He’d tried calling around for her aunt on the Eastern Shore with no luck. He’d talked to some of the Schlager neighbors and found the couple kept to themselves. One neighbor thought he was from Austria, another thought he was a German POW, another that he was Polish.

  It was just five o’clock. Sal had left for the day.

  Folding the note, Sean’s smile turned to worried frown. Sal hadn’t indicated he’d actually talked to Jansen. But if Jansen found out they were nosing around again, he might skip before they had a chance to zero in.

  He grabbed his keys, tidied his desk and made for the stairs. If he hurried, he could stop by Hopkins before picking up Brigitta at six. Just a quick checkin with Jansen.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “THESE NEED TO BE REDONE.” He handed her the stack with the marked pages on the top. With a sinking heart, she saw that those pages were at the beginning of the article. Perhaps the corrections were minor things, things she could accomplish with an ink eraser and carefully inserted letters.

  No. Dammit. He was adding new words. Unnecessary words. She looked at him from the tops of her eyes as she banged the papers on her desk to straighten them. She’d be there for hours if he expected this tonight. Surely he didn’t…

  “I’ll be stopping back this evening to finish up some things, so if you put it on my desk, I’ll be able to re-read it before the morning.” He looked at her as if daring her to protest. And she couldn’t afford to do that. Maybe he was deliberately provoking her so he could tell Mrs. Wilcox how unwilling she was to perform. Julia was sure Susan would have promised to work late as often as needed. She could even hear her simpering to Dr. Jansen: “Poor Julia, she can’t help it. That leg tires her out something awful.”

  “Yes, Dr. Jansen.” She turned toward her typewriter but knocked over a pencil holder in the process, spilling pencils, pens and erasers on her desk and the floor. With a red face, she bent to retrieve them as Dr. Jansen left the office.

  He didn’t get far. In the hallway, she heard the detective, Sean, greeting him, asking if he had a few minutes. Dr. Jansen wouldn’t like being questioned. Good. So he would be delayed this evening, too.

  “I’m in something of a hurry.”

  “This won’t take long.”

  “Really, I can’t stay. Can we do this tomorrow?”

  Julia smiled, listening to his discomfort. But that reminded her. She needed to slip his personnel file back into Mrs. Wilcox’s office. She shouldn’t have taken it in the first place. It had been a petty thing to do.

  But there was something in it the detectives might want to know. A couple things actually, one of which she’d known already. That other detective had asked Linda—the secretary had told her—about it this afternoon—where Dr. Jansen was from. Detroit. Detroit was where the Parke, Davis lab was, the one with the infected monkeys.

  She pulled out fresh papers and put them in her typewriter, half listening to the conversation in the hall.

  “….she identified you as the man who came to Dr. Lowenstein’s house. What did you take?”

  “How dare you accuse me of taking anything!”

  “A file is missing. From his upstairs den. Lower left desk drawer. What did you take?”

  Dr. Jansen was silent.

  “I can get your fingerprints…”

  “Really! It’s not like I’ve never been in Mike’s house. He…he did have me over, you know. I am a colleague…”

  “Dates and times.”

  “What?”

  “Give me the dates and times you were at his house.”

  “I don’t think I can remember. For god’s sake, it was a long time ago….”

  “You’ve only been here a year. Should I check with your secretary?”

  Julia heard Detective Reilly take a step, then stop abruptly as if being pulled back.

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary. I don’t remember the times. But I do remember now what I was looking for when I…I went to his home. I…” He sounded nervous, as if he was struggling to get a story straight. “Dr. Lowenstein was involved in some research related to muscle reactions. Poliomyelitis affects nerves that control muscles. He’d told me I could…stop by and get the papers. I was in a hurry and when he didn’t answer, his neighbor came by asking me if I needed help. I should have come in and asked him myself, of course. I realize that now. But then again, he had perished by then so…. Those papers were what I was looking for in his lab, too.”

  “Where are they?”

  “I didn’t find them. They were gone!” Dr. Jansen’s voice rang with anger, and Julia wanted to rush out and tell the detective that when Dr. Jansen was his most angry it was usually because he’d made a mistake or was caught in an inconsistency. She rolled a blank page into her typewriter and busied herself preparing the corrected papers on the stand to her right.

  “Why did you lie to me?”

  “I didn’t lie. You accused me of taking something. I didn’t take anything. Yes, I went to his house….”

  “Did you know Dr. Lowenstein before you came to Hopkins?”

  A pause. Then, “No.” Soft, not at all like the strong responses earlier. T
he liar, thought Julia.

  “Don’t leave town.”

  “I hadn’t planned on it.”

  “Aren’t you going to a conference in California?”

  Oh, no. Why did he have to mention that now? It would get Julia in trouble. Sure enough, Jansen’s angry voice confirmed her fears.

  “Did my secretary tell you that? She had no business….”

  “No, she didn’t tell me, Doc. One of the other girls mentioned it.”

  Julia breathed out and smiled. Sean Reilly had no idea how much he’d helped her with that lie. Dr. Jansen might now wonder if it was Linda or Susan who’d spilled the beans.

  “Well, yes, I am going to a conference. But not for a few weeks.”

  “What is it and where?”

  “The National Society of Immunology. San Francisco.”

  Not the National Society. Its western chapter was meeting there. Strange that Dr. Jansen was going to a regional meeting. One more thing to tell Sean. Julia started typing. In a few seconds she heard the men parting. If she worked quickly, she might get out of the office in a couple hours. Words on the page became meaningless symbols as her fingers responded automatically to what she read, leaving her thoughts free to wander. She’d have to call her father for a ride. She didn’t relish taking the bus late at night. But maybe she should. Beth had said their father had been looking tired lately. He did way too much for them. Helen really needed to learn how to drive. And maybe Julia should, too. Maybe there were levers she could have attached to a car….

  “Miss Dell…”

  Startled, she jumped in her chair. Detective Reilly stood in front of her desk.

  “You can call me Julia.”

  “Do you mind if I ask you a few more questions?” When he noticed her gaze dart toward the hall, he reassured her. “He’s left and he thinks I have, too.”

  She breathed out a long relaxed sigh. “You can ask me. Go ahead.”

  “I need to know how much you know about your boss.”

  A laugh burst from her. “That’s hardly ‘a few more questions.’”