Different Drummers

by Jean Houghton-Beatty

  He moved to the small table beside the desk. “Step over here, please. We need to take your fingerprints.”

  He took her outstretched hand and rolled her thumb across the pad before pressing it onto the first square on the card.

  Something inside her rattled. “Fingerprints? What on earth do you need my fingerprints for?”

  “It’s for your dossier, part of the profile we have on you.” His voice sounded jaded, weary, as though none of this was his idea. When every fingerprint was taken, he motioned to the chair in front of his desk, indicating she should sit. He looked again at her papers on the desk in front of him, then up at her.

  “We have some questions to ask which you must answer as honestly and truthfully as you can. First, do you now or have you ever belonged to or been affiliated in any way with the Communist Party?”

  Kathleen stared at him, waiting for him to smile. Surely he was joking. But he tapped his pen on the desk and returned her stare, waiting for her reply. The Communist Party? What business was it of theirs what her political affiliations were? Oh, she knew all about the Cold War, had heard all the talk in England. You couldn’t turn on the radio, or read the papers without seeing something about it. The international clock was ticking like a time bomb, the fuse all but used up. The rest of the world could do nothing but watch from the sidelines, wait for the moment when the Soviet Union or the United States got so carried away with their paranoia of each other that one day, one of them, either some demented Russian or American, would push the button and trigger off World War III.

  But what did any of that have to do with her? She wasn’t a Russian. She was English, for God’s sake, America’s closest ally.

  Along the row of desks, other passengers were showing their papers, obviously being asked the same set of questions. It was all routine. Some of the stiffness left her shoulders and she stopped clicking the clasp on her bag. Still, a little voice inside her warned she’d better tell the truth. She faked a carefree smile.

  “I did go to a couple of meetings with my uncle, but that was ages ago.”

  There was a jerk in her chest and the hairs on the back of her neck bristled as Harry Truman spun around to face her. He yanked his chair over to Jimmy Stewart’s desk, forcing him to move to the side. The dead cigar was thrown into the trashcan beside the desk, then the man leaned toward her. As he laced his pudgy hands together, she noticed his nails were bitten down to the quick. He had darting ferret eyes, eyes trained to search out the miscreants. Got one, they plainly said as they glowered at her across the desk.

  “You say you attended meetings of the Communist Party, not once but twice?” He was looking less like President Truman by the minute.

  She cast her eyes down and prayed for a crack to open up in the floor right down to the river, something she could fall into. “It was for an essay at school,” she said. “Something to do with different cultures. You know, different philosophies, that sort of thing.”

  “And what about this uncle of yours? Was he a card-carrying member?”

  “Well, yes, he was, but it wasn’t like you think.”

  Uncle Joe had been a member of the Party for three years and peddled the Daily Worker outside the Horse and Jockey pub in Chester every market day. When her dad had asked him why he was fool enough to stand for hours in all types of weather selling a paper nobody gave a damn about, Uncle Joe said anything was better than sitting at home listening to his nagging wife. It must have been true too, because after she ran off with their insurance salesman, he stopped going to meetings and never sold another Daily Worker.

  The family had thought the story winsome and funny, but how to explain her eccentric, lovable Uncle Joe to this man, now drumming his fingers on the desk and staring at her. There wasn’t one chance in a million he’d understand. He leaned toward Jimmy Stewart and whispered something, something about her luggage. With a sympathetic half smile meant only for her, and an almost imperceptible shrug, the younger man left the room.

  The ferret reached for a form from the stack at the edge of the desk. “We’ll need that in writing,” he said as he slid the sheet of paper toward her.

  She scraped her chair back about a foot.

  “I went to those meetings six years ago when I was only seventeen,” she said, cursing the quake in her voice. “I told you it was research for a school project. And as for my Uncle Joe, well he wasn’t a proper Communist. There was nothing fanatical about him. Anyway, he’s been dead a couple of years, so I don’t see how that matters now.”

  The interrogator crouched lower in his chair, a leopard out for the kill. “You don’t see how that matters now? A close relative of yours was a fullyfledged member of the Communist Party, and for whatever reason, and however long ago, you yourself attended Party meetings. You’ll see how much it matters when I tell you Communist ideology is unacceptable in the United States. Didn’t you know that?”

  His voice was tense, coiled, deliberately low, causing her to lean forward. His beady little eyes grew smaller, into tiny points of light. He was goading her all right, watching for any change of expression, something he could grab at. She hadn’t thought about it before but she bet he drank. It was written all over his big red face.

  She rubbed her sweaty palms along her skirt. Surely she didn’t look suspicious. Still, better to play it safe. She struggled to keep the growing panic from creeping into her voice. “I’ve never given a thought to joining any party. Not the Conservative, Labor, Liberal, or the Communist Party.” She clasped her hands together. “Most especially not the Communist Party.”

  She dredged up a weak, trembling grin. “I’m not in the least political. You won’t believe this, but I don’t even know the name of our local M.P.” An image of the very conservative Nigel Bartholomew-Hinde, who’d won by a landslide in the last election and who lives just a few streets away, flashed before her.

  The ferret gave her a questioning look as he rubbed the side of his nose.

  “M.P. That stands for Member of Parliament,” she said. A tiredness was creeping over her and she was ready to throw in the towel. “That’s it. There isn’t anything else I can say.”

  The ferret turned as Jimmy Stewart reappeared accompanied by a middle-aged woman. “Go with her, please,” he said to Kathleen, his voice more gentle now.

  “What for?”

  “I’m sorry but you’ll have to be searched.”

  “Searched.”

  Flaming heat raced up her neck. Along with the fear and unfamiliar feeling of inferiority being thrust upon her, her throat ached from the lump that had lodged itself there. If she blinked even once, tears would roll down her cheeks.

  “I’ve never been searched in my life. I’m not carrying anything important.”

  One of the ship’s stewards approached the men from behind. He carried a tray of refreshments for the American officials. Clearly sensing the grilling she was undergoing, he winked at her and smiled the most encouraging smile she’d ever seen. He’d been the steward at her table. Just the sight of him was so reassuring, so normal in what had become an alien place, it was all she could do not to run to him, grab his hand, and beg him to get her out of there. She looked around the library. British people were everywhere. They wouldn’t let her come to any harm. And after all, this was a British ship, a little bit of England on a faraway shore.

  She turned back to the ferret and brushed away the tears with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry I can’t make you see I’m only an ordinary English girl, newly married to an American soldier. But I paid passage on this ship and I’m also a British subject. I think I have the right to place a call to the British Embassy. And also, please, I’d like someone to send for the captain.”

  Somehow, probably from all the movies she’d seen, she knew she was within her rights.

  The ferret smirked. “You want us to send for the captain. Do you honestly think the captain of a ship such as this would come, even if we asked him?”

  Kathleen sta
rted to click the clasp on her purse again—open, close, open, close. “Yes, he’ll come. You see, I know him.”

  Would you call dancing with the captain at the ship’s farewell party last night knowing him? It was a long shot, but after all, they had talked as they’d waltzed around the room. He’d asked her name and she’d questioned him all about his glamorous life at sea. Even when the dance had ended, they’d talked at least another minute, as he slowly led her back to her table. After a short speech to the cabin class passengers, he’d waved good-bye, and then made his way out the room. She’d been so flattered, she could have died. She was the only one in the whole ballroom he’d asked to dance. Surely if the interrogator sent for him, the captain would remember her. This was after all the SS Belgravia, one of the largest ships afloat. The captain of such a vessel would be no man to be trifled with. Did the ferret want to create an international incident?

  She looked again at the other people patiently waiting their turn, but who were now showing much interest in what is going on in her corner.

  She turned again to her interrogator. “Yes, send for the captain, please. He’ll vouch for me and he’s bound to ask for an explanation.”

  She sensed the ferret’s sudden uncertainty and almost said demand instead of ask but better not lose her edge.

  He shifted in his chair, then for the next couple of minutes looked again through her papers, or pretended to. Eventually, he turned to the searcher and waved her away. He picked up the big red stamp at the side of the desk and banged it hard on every paper she had, before handing them back to her.

  “If you move from the address noted, you must notify the Immigration Department immediately. Failure to do so could result in deportation.”

  She leaned back and closed her eyes to sort out the bees buzzing around in her brain. She had the feeling this man had known all along she was no more a Communist than he was. Eventually she heaved herself out of the chair and didn’t look at him as she picked up her papers, then turned, and headed for the door. Once outside the library, she leaned against the ship’s rail and stared out at the river, waiting for the trembling to ease and the nausea to go away. Finally, she made her way to the cabin to collect the last of her things.

  Half an hour later, as she walked toward the gangplank, Jimmy Stewart came out of the shadows. “Welcome to America,” he said. “I wish you well in your new life, and hope you won’t judge us too harshly. We’re going through a difficult time right now. Read all you can about Joseph McCarthy. You’ll see what I mean.”

  Almost in control again, she smiled at him. “Yes, I will. And thank you.”

  “No hard feelings?”

  “None whatsoever,” she said as she shook his outstretched hand.

  After gliding through customs without a hitch, she stood on the wharf with her luggage beside her and took one long last look at the Belgravia. She turned her face to the sky, and let the warm sun wash over her before flinging her arms high, trying to capture the feeling of the gulls overhead. And it worked. They called out a welcome as they soared on the gentle updrafts of air, some even seeming to hang still in the almost windless sky.

  A taxi pulled up to the curb. “The Hillshire on Fifty-ninth Street, please.”

  She stepped inside and readied herself for the thrill of a lifetime—a ride through the dazzling streets of New York in a yellow cab.

  * * *

  At last in the Hillshire Hotel with Georgina, Kathleen didn’t elaborate on the incident in the ship’s library except in a passing sort of way. Their time together in New York was short and why waste even a minute of it talking about international politics when there was so much of this wonderful city to see. Perhaps one day she would tell Bob about it. Now was not the time.

  Within an hour of arriving at the hotel, she and Georgina headed out again for Macy’s to look for that very special dress Kathleen would wear when she came face to face with her mother-in-law that very first time.

  “This is pretty.” Georgina held up a periwinkle dress in a silky fabric with matching jacket. “It’s your size too, a ten, and it’s also fifty percent off.”

  “Ah yes, this is it.” Kathleen took the ensemble from Georgina and held it high before taking it to the fitting room. She slipped the dress over her head and pirouetted in front of the mirror.

  “You’ll have to get it,” Georgina said. “When Bob’s mother sees you in that, she’ll think her son married a movie star. Besides, the blue is the exact same color as your eyes.”

  Kathleen splurged on the wide-brimmed navy blue hat, trimmed with little flowers the same color as the outfit. The high heeled navy shoes she bought had platform soles, ankle straps, and even little detachable pom-poms on the front. She’d wanted a pair this snappy for years.

  That night and in the pouring rain they went to the theater to see Audrey Hepburn in Gigi. It was still raining three hours later when they hailed a cab to take them back to the hotel. Kathleen stepped out behind Georgina, eyes cast down to make sure her raincoat didn’t trail in a puddle. A bright object glittered there, almost covered by the murky water. She reached down and plucked out a ring with a large green stone in its center flanked by what looked like two diamonds.

  Back in their room, Kathleen wiped it with a tissue then handed it to Georgina. “What do you make of it? It was in that puddle.”

  Georgina held it up to the light. “Somebody’s probably tearing their hair out right about now wondering whatever happened to this.”

  “You’re not trying to tell me that huge green stone’s a real emerald, are you?”

  Georgina nodded. “I’d almost swear to it. I know for sure the diamonds are real.” She looked up, her eyes bright as the stones in the ring.

  “What should we do now?” Kathleen asked. “I can’t keep it if it’s valuable, but I’m not sure about turning it in at the desk.”

  “Me neither. Who can you trust these days?”

  Georgina sat on the edge of the bed, still staring at the ring. “I noticed an antique jewelry shop just a couple of blocks away from this hotel. Let’s go there tomorrow after breakfast and have it appraised. If it’s valuable, we’ll have to report it to the police. And if it’s worth as much as I think it is, whoever claims it is bound to offer a reward.”

  Kathleen grinned. “In that case, how can I say no.”

  * * *

  The next morning the jeweler examined the ring. “The large stone is a true emerald flanked by flawless diamonds. The setting is definitely foreign.”

  He pushed his glasses to the top of his head as he listened to the girls tell him how Kathleen found the ring. “As regards price, well, excuse me for just a minute.” He disappeared into another room, taking the ring with him, returning in a few minutes with a small bottle and a chamois. He cleaned the ring carefully and held it up to the light again before placing it on a small black velvet cushion. He shone a bright light on it for them to see.

  ”Take a good look at the emerald. Do you see the inner glow deep in the center?”

  ”Yes,” Kathleen whispered. “There’s a sort of fire-glow coming from it.”

  The shop door opened and a policeman entered. He ambled toward them and tipped his cap. “Good morning, Mr. Frank, ladies. Now which one of you found this ring?”

  Goose pimples popped out on Kathleen’s arms. The jeweler had called the police. Surely he didn’t think she’d stolen it. She half raised her hand.

  “I did. When I stepped out of the taxi last night, there it was lying in the gutter outside the hotel.”

  “That’s true,” Georgina said. “I was with her and we have other witnesses. The taxi driver as well as the hotel doorman saw her pick it up.”

  The policeman pushed his cap to the back of his head. “Oh, I believe you all right. Still, it’ll have to be handed over. Something this valuable will never go unclaimed. You’ll need to come to the station to fill out some papers. It’s just around the corner. Shouldn’t take more than ten or twenty minutes.�
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  “But what happens if nobody claims it?” Georgina asked.

  “The rules are if nobody claims it within one year, it’s yours.”

  Kathleen gulped. “You mean there really is such a thing as finders, keepers?”

  The policeman smiled at her and slowly shook his head. “Don’t even think about it, little lady. If this ring isn’t claimed in one week, my mother wasn’t born in Ireland.”

  At the police station, Kathleen couldn’t recall the Conroys’ street address in Eddisville and asked Georgina if it would be all right if she wrote down her address in Chicago. Afterwards they went for a quick lunch in the Hillshire’s snack bar. Then, because Kathleen was leaving first, Georgina helped her lug her two suitcases to the sidewalk to wait for a cab.

  She held on to Kathleen’s arm while she talked. “I don’t want to sound like the voice of doom, but be careful, Kathleen. Are you sure somebody will be there to meet you?”

  “Of course they will.” Kathleen smiled, trying to reassure herself as well as the sharp-eyed Georgina. “There are only two buses a day to Eddisville from Columbia. It’s just a small town. If I’m not on one, then they’ll know I’ll be on the other. Besides, I can always get a taxi.”

  Georgina handed her a piece of paper. “This is my address and telephone number. If you should ever need me, all you have to do is pick up the phone. Now promise me at least that much.”

  Kathleen stuck the scrap of paper in her purse. “I promise, but I don’t know why you’re so worried about me. Nothing’s going to go wrong. You seem so, so apprehensive.”

  “I know. It’s just that I hate to see you go. And, well”

  “Well what?”

  “You’re such a dreamer. In every other respect you’re so level-headed. But you’ve got these romantic ideas about America, and especially the South, as if it’s some sort of Shangri La. This isn’t the movies, Kathleen. It’s the real thing. You think there’re magnolias growing outside every house and mint juleps on every table don’t you?”