“Don’t even think that, Fayette. He’s part of something much bigger. Don’t do anything until I’ve reported this to Mason. We have to let the Navy handle this.”
“I don’t trust the Navy now.”
“Then trust me. Let me learn what I can about this. You can trust me, can’t you?”
“Can I?” Fayette’s eyes burned through him.
“Yes,” said Erich. “You can.” And the words hung there not so much like a lie as a desperate, feeble wish.
Mrs. Bosch came outside, handkerchief still in her hand, mouth and eyes drawn down. She mournfully looked around before she saw them. She came over, grimacing when she attempted to smile. “Poor little Juke. So many times he deserved a good slap. But he did not deserve to die.” And the tears began to flow again. She could not say another word until she had blown her nose. “Did I do all right, Meester Zeitlin? I did not say anything I should not have?”
“You were fine, Mrs. Bosch. Again, I’m sorry.” Her grief seemed genuine.
“Yes. We had our outs, Juke and me. But he was all boy.” She blew her nose again. “Hank, dear? Would you hail us a taxicab? I need to go home and lay down.” She waited until Fayette was down at the curb before she whispered, “Do you think what happened had anything to do with our business, Meester Zeitlin?”
“No, Mrs. Bosch. None whatsoever.”
“Good then. Because I could not live with myself if I thought our spying might have brought harm to the boy. Good day.”
A taxi had pulled to the curb. Erich followed her down to the street. Hank held the door open for her and Erich was able to speak to him while Mrs. Bosch climbed into the backseat.
“I’ll come to the house this afternoon, Hank. I’ll tell you everything.”
Fayette looked at him, lowered his eyes and got in beside Mrs. Bosch. He slammed the door, the taxi drove away and Erich knew he wouldn’t tell Fayette everything, despite the murder.
Church Street and Navy Intelligence were a few blocks to the south. Erich walked, steeling himself with speculations. He could not believe a foolish worm like Rice had killed the boy. He knew the type all too well—the superfluous man, a modern Hamlet, Marcel Proust among gangsters. Erich himself was such a man. Rice was incapable of murder, but it would be impossible to convince Fayette of that. Now, in addition to protecting Fayette from Mason, Erich would have to protect Rice from Fayette. He was helpless at both tasks. He wanted to step back, let Fayette kill Rice and go to the electric chair, ending the whole vile business.
Full of messengers and the clatter of teletype machines, the corridor seemed like part of a larger, efficient machine. Erich tried to feel impersonal and efficient. Full of urgent news, he knocked on the door of their office and entered without waiting for an answer. The commander was not alone.
Sitting across from Mason, frowning over their square shoulders at Erich, were Sullivan and yet another gray-suited, elderly boy from the FBI. An interrupted sentence seemed suspended above their heads.
“Excuse me, Commander Mason. I apologize for being late, sir. I’ve come straight from the city morgue. There’s something you should know immediately.”
“Good morning, Mr. Zeitlin. Something concerning this?” Mason took a sheaf of photographs off his desk and handed them past Sullivan to Erich.
The photos were large and shiny. The first was of a chalk rectangle drawn on a patch of ground beside some crates. A square marked off one end of the rectangle, like a head. The other pictures showed the same patch of ground, the chalk lines replaced by a body in a white dress. Head and dress were black with blood. Two policemen stood in the corner of several pictures, eyes cut out, mouths grinning.
“You can’t be so free with those pics, Mason.”
“Erich’s to be trusted,” Mason assured Sullivan. “He knows as much about this as we do. Almost.”
The death that had seemed brutal but clean at the morgue became horrifying in the photographs. Erich restrained his rage and coldly returned the pictures to Mason. “How did the police know to send these to us?”
“We asked for them.” Mason watched like a man waiting for you to get the punch line.
Erich knew what was coming. “How did you know the boy had been killed?”
“Because Sullivan’s man here—” Mason gestured at the young man sitting importantly in the other chair “—watched Rice do it.”
“You arrived too late to stop it,” said Erich.
The young man looked insulted. “No. I followed the suspect all night without losing him once. It was too dark for me to actually see the homicide, but I was close enough to hear it. A man makes quite a racket when he beats another man to death. I would have had no trouble stopping it. Of course, I couldn’t intervene without revealing to the suspect he was still being followed.”
“Do you see now?” said Mason, grinning happily. “Rice killed the houseboy. Which means Rice is a spy. He knows we’re on to him and thinks he can save himself by killing the witnesses. He doesn’t know about you and Sullivan in the basement or he wouldn’t have lifted a finger. But now he’s tipped his hand. We reported it to Whyte this morning and he agrees. We’ll be able to tail Rice through hell or high water, until he leads us to the others. Yes, my little brainchild is beginning to pay off.”
Erich felt sick. “But the boy. He was innocent.”
“It’s regrettable the colored boy had to die, but he was hardly innocent. Just your garden-variety Negro deviant. They have a high mortality rate anyway, second only to firemen.”
What would Fayette do if he learned this? And thinking about Fayette, Erich recognized something else. “If Rice thinks there are only two witnesses, then won’t he try to kill Fayette?”
“I’m sure of it. You might tell Hank to take care next time he sees Rice. Without giving away too much of the game to Hank, of course.”
“I just spoke to Fayette. He already thinks Rice killed the boy.”
“A natural paranoid response,” Mason explained. “Although in this case he happens to be correct.”
Erich took a deep breath. “You should know, sir, that Fayette talks about killing Rice the next time he sees him.” He wanted to wake up Mason to the fact that the violence springing from his clever scheme threatened to be endless.
And Mason became more serious. “We can’t let that happen.”
“No,” said Sullivan. “I’ll instruct my men to intervene if that looks likely.”
“The way he intervened when Rice killed the boy?” said Erich, nodding at Sullivan’s man.
Sullivan glanced at Mason, blaming him for his subordinate’s disrespect. When Mason said nothing, Sullivan said, “That was different, Zeitlin. We have priorities. Our chief priority here is to keep Rice alive until he leads us to others in his organization. Sometimes the only effective means of intervention is a gunshot.”
Erich had to fill in the tense gaps between Sullivan’s matter-of-fact sentences, as if they were code. “Do you mean…if it looks like Fayette might kill Rice,” he said, “you’ll shoot Fayette?”
“If it’s absolutely necessary, yes.”
“But if Rice tries to kill Fayette—?”
“We have to live with it.”
Erich looked at the calm faces around the desk: Sullivan annoyed that an explanation was necessary, the younger man impatient but polite, Mason mildly curious about Erich’s reaction.
“No, it’s not really fair,” Mason admitted philosophically. “But wartime, Erich. And all is fair in love and war.”
“But we’re not at war with Fayette. He’s one of us.”
“Well,” went Mason. “Yes and no.”
Erich exploded. “You can’t let him be killed just because you think he’s mentally defective! That’s murder! You’re his commanding officer. He’s in your care. Would you let your own son be murdered just because he’s a deviant?” Erich was so angry he grabbed at any argument, no matter how irrational.
“I told you not to let your subordinat
e in on this,” Sullivan grumbled. “These Jewish intellectual types are all alike. They care more about splitting hairs than getting a job done.”
That infuriated Erich further, made him too furious to speak.
“Let me handle this,” said Mason. “I know how to talk with Erich. You and your man may go now. Again, you’ve done a remarkable job.”
The FBI men stood up and stepped around Erich without looking at him. He stood helpless with anger, burning from Sullivan’s rebuke, unable to come up with an answer until the men closed the door behind them.
“Killing a man—two men—for no clear purpose,” he told Mason, “is better than doing nothing at all?”
“You’re overreacting, Erich. Sit down. You saw the body at the morgue? It’s natural you’d be upset right now.”
Erich sat down. He wanted to stay angry, but anger confused him. He wanted to take refuge in Mason’s calm rational manner.
Mason leaned back and pulled the cord on the venetian blinds. The slats opened and there were trees and sunlight outside. The room became less sinister, more normal, even commonplace.
“You know,” said Mason, settling into his chair. “There’s a very good chance Hank won’t be killed. By either Rice or our friends. That’s the worse that could happen. Things don’t always turn out as badly as we fear.”
“Why not send Fayette away from here? Place him somewhere where Rice couldn’t get to him. A ship or jail. Even a mental hospital.” Erich could mention the hospital only because anything seemed preferable to death now.
“No. Sullivan needs him on the street. New York’s a difficult place in which to follow someone. The job’s much easier when you know what your subject is after.”
“Fayette’s life is at risk because Sullivan needs bait?”
“There’s more than just individual lives at stake here, Erich. There’s a war on, to coin a phrase. What we uncover with Rice may save thousands of lives.”
“Or none at all. His spy ring could be as inept as he is.”
“There’s that possibility. There’s also the possibility that, if Hank were still at sea, he would die anyway. Ships are torpedoed every day.”
“Americans die in auto accidents every day. But that doesn’t justify letting them murder each other.” Erich looked down at the police photos still on the desk.
Mason looked down and saw them, then abruptly turned the sheaf of pictures white side up. “Who are these people to you, Erich? What makes you so concerned about this riffraff?”
“It has nothing to do with them. It’s the principle involved.”
“You’re not in love with Hank Fayette? Just a little?”
It was said idly, a random suggestion without any note of accusation. The suddenness of it stung Erich. He refused to be flustered. “No, sir. This assignment has not awakened any hidden desires, if that’s what you mean.”
“Just an idea. Something for you to keep in mind.”
Erich felt Mason had mentioned it only to cast doubt on his righteousness, and as a subtle piece of psychological blackmail. Side with us or we will suspect your sexuality. Erich held tight to his righteousness. “What we’ve done with Cooper and now with Fayette is identical to what we condemn the Nazis for doing.”
Mason’s eyebrows went up ever so slightly. He closed his eyes and sighed. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Erich. You leave me no recourse but to pull rank on you. Take out one of those triplicate forms for travel orders, will you?”
“Sir?”
“I thought we might reason this out together. Since you remain adamant…I have some documents I want hand-delivered to Washington. You’ll leave by train this afternoon and remain in Washington for a week. That should give our situation enough time to resolve itself.”
“Sir, I’d prefer to stay here while this is going on.”
“Why? What do you hope to accomplish?”
Erich was silent. He knew of nothing he could do, except continue his role as a witness, a voyeur.
“If you stayed, I’m afraid your conscience might lead you to do something dangerous, to both our operation and your future in the Navy. You do see my point? It’s either that, Erich, or I send you to the brig for insubordination. That could mean a month or more.”
“That’s my only alternative?”
“Yes. You know where you keep the forms. Get one out and type yourself a brief vacation. I understand Washington’s lovely this time of year, almost tropical.”
Erich went to the filing cabinet, found the correct form, sat down at the typewriter table and typed last name first, first name last. He went through the motions of obedience, expecting any minute to feel indignant again, full of anger over the easy manner with which Commander Mason got him out of the way. Instead, what Erich experienced was relief. It was being taken out of his hands. Erich could not, in good conscience, wash his hands of Fayette. But Mason was washing his hands for him. There was nothing to gain by standing to his principles and going to the brig. Mason already knew where Erich stood. There was nothing to do but obey. The tension of the past week, the past month in fact, suddenly gave way to a numb, soothing peace.
“You are to leave by noon, Erich. If you haven’t reported to the Office of War Information by seven tonight, you’ll be arrested by anyone inspecting your papers. I’m leaving you on your own cognizance. Don’t disappoint me.”
Erich typed in the correct times. “I won’t have time to see Fayette before I leave? I’d like to warn him at least against leaving the house, sir.” It was a final moral gesture, nothing more. Erich knew the request would be denied.
“You know too much. There’ll be the temptation to tell him everything. I won’t give you that temptation, Erich. I’ll go down there myself sometime this evening. Yes, I’d like to get a peek inside the house before this is over.”
Erich whipped the form from the typewriter and presented it to Mason.
Mason was suddenly suspicious, surprised by Erich’s quick obedience. Then, signing the order, he said, “I’ll have one of Sullivan’s men run you up to your hotel in his car. He can put you on the train. Any objection?”
“Not at all, sir.” It made Erich feel better, in fact. He was not responsible. He was not his own man anymore. He gave himself up to the machine, which was what he had wanted from the Navy all along. He was free from the terrible nuisance of self, morals and loyalties.
An hour later, a bored FBI driver escorted him beneath the soaring iron trellises of Penn Station to a smoking train packed with servicemen like himself.
The house stood at noon on the other side of the noisy farmers’ market. Disguised in a loud necktie and workman’s cap, Blair walked among the haggling Italians and Greeks who bought produce off the trucks to sell from their own street carts and horse-drawn wagons. The hot square stank of horse urine, human sweat and rotting vegetables. Blair bore with it all, keeping an eye on the door beyond the trucks and sun umbrellas, waiting. Once, he walked around the corner to the spot where he had killed a man. That seemed like days ago. The corpse was gone, of course, and the only blood was on the aprons of paper-hatted men lugging crates full of frightened chickens into the building. Blair stood in the sun, fingered the warm weight in his coat pocket and knew he could do it again. His only bad moment today had been when he tried Anna’s number. A man answered, said he knew of no such person, then gave the game away when he angrily said, “You are never to call this number again.” Blair could kill anyone who stood between him and Anna, even her father.
Out in the square, he waited and watched. He burned to enter the house, but it wouldn’t do to ask for the sailor, go up to his room and shoot him there. The sailor was too large to be killed any other way except with the gun. Blair had to wait until he went out. Then he could follow and catch him alone. He hoped there would be enough light this time to see what a man looked like when he was dying.
18
HE GASPED AND WOKE up, as if he had dreamed something terrible. He remembered no dream.
For a moment, he remembered nothing. It was as if he’d been knocked cold. He was naked on a sweat-soaked bed in a room where the only light was the yellow glow of a drawn window shade. A fly bounced against the glowing shade. Other beds, bunks, rooms and barracks came to mind until he recognized where and what he was. His cock was hard. Hank touched his cock, and remembered.
He quickly sat up, putting both feet on the floor. He could not stand. There was a taste of sickness, like the smell of boiled cabbage, and a feeling of anger so strong he seemed unable to move until he broke something, a window or something. He sat there for the longest time, thinking about the corpse this morning, then Juke, knowing one was the other. His mind shut off. He stood up and pulled clothes over the hot and cold of his skin.
His footsteps treaded the stairs—the house had never seemed so deserted and haunted during the day. Piano music played softly behind Mrs. Bosch’s closed door. Hank walked back to the kitchen, then turned around and walked back out. Juke’s absence was too present in the kitchen. He knocked on Mrs. Bosch’s door.
She looked up from the arms of her chair and turned on a lamp when he entered. She seemed to have been sitting there all day. When they got back from the morgue, Mrs. Bosch asked Hank to sit with her, but he had gone upstairs to be alone with his anger, only to fall asleep. She dabbed her eyes with a fresh handkerchief and turned the radio down. There was a glass of sherry on the table beside her and a half-eaten box of chocolates. She sniffed and sadly said, “I don’t know what to do about dinner, Hank.”
“Did Mr. Zeitlin ever call or come by?”
She screwed up her face to remember, then shook her head.
It didn’t surprise Hank. The little foreigner was as cold and two-faced as the others, acting more guilty than the others, but still one of them.
“But Dr. Mason—Commander, I mean. He rang up,” said Mrs. Bosch. “I am to tell you not to leave the house tonight. Because he wants to see you. Here.”
“What does that jackass want?” Hank sneered.
Mrs. Bosch looked at him funny, then raised her long nostrils and inhaled. “You do not smell so good, Hank. You will wash up and shave before our guests arrive?”
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