Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  He picked up a fourth cable, this one from D. Philetus Rothcoe, who asked for permission to put an agent or two on the Grof Szent-Germain, a fellow known to be an exile, but with a great deal of money, and a number of international businesses; rumor said he had spent the war in southern France, possibly aiding the Resistance, or one of the covert groups operating in Savoie and the Piedmont. But there was no confirmation of this to be found. Rothcoe said there was something fishy about the Grof, who ran a number of publishing houses and had been in contact with some of the American academics in Paris, but there were no provable connections to either the Reds or the Nazis. Letter of particulars to follow in diplomatic pouch was appended to the coded message. Broadstreet tapped the page with his index finger, wondering what would be best to do; Rothcoe was a dedicated coordinator, but inclined to get overzealous with present and former aristocrats, a group the CIA was not inclined to antagonize. He wanted to get through his morning work so he could reward himself with a pipe of rum-soaked tobacco and a cup of coffee. But this business with Rothcoe needed to be resolved shortly if the surveillance of the self-proclaimed Ex-Pats’ Coven was to continue, undetected this time or so he hoped. Thus far, those assigned to infiltrate the group had been discovered, and there were hints that another approach was needed to gain the intelligence sought. Perhaps a decoy of some sort would work; someone they would accept without having to admit him—or her—to their numbers. Maybe there was a way for this Grof Szent-Germain to be useful.

  His ruminations were halted when the intercom on his desk clicked into life. “Mister Broadstreet?” said the voice of his secretary, Florence Wentworth.

  “What is it, Florence.” He made it a statement instead of a question; Florence did not often interrupt his work.

  “There’s a gentleman in the office. He says you’ll want to speak to him. I don’t know why he’s come; he refuses to tell me. He says only that it is essential to see you, and that he is unwilling to disclose his identity.” She stood expectantly and uncomfortably, waiting for Broadstreet’s decision.

  “That makes it all suspicious,” said Broadstreet a long minute later, with slight fatigue at this interruption. Probably someone from the red press, or the yellow press, which was almost as bad, he thought, looking to get a lead on a story. Or one of Hoover’s boys, snooping. That was more likely.

  “It might be worth talking to him,” Florence suggested a bit tentatively.

  “Why is that?” Broadstreet grumbled.

  “He has a pin on his lapel, a veteran’s pin,” she said, and waited, then added, “Thunderbirds.”

  Broadstreet clicked his tongue, then said, “Oh, very well. Show him in.”

  The man who came into Broadstreet’s office was in his late twenties, of medium height, wearing a dark-brown suit with a white shirt, a sharkskin tie patterned in dark turquoise and dull gold. His pocket-handkerchief was also dull gold; he was carrying a tan fedora: certainly not FBI with a tie and a hat like that, Broadstreet thought. The newcomer smiled. “Mister Broadstreet. Thank you for seeing me.” He held out his hand with a nice combination of bravado and humility. “I know you’re a busy man, but this is—”

  “—important, you say. My secretary informed me.” He could see the shine of sweat on his visitor’s forehead, and slightly relented. “Convince me you won’t waste my time if I hear you out,” said Broadstreet, taking up his fountain-pen after he managed a hint of a handshake. “Begin by telling me how you decided to come to me.”

  “I was told that you were in charge of the investigations of run-away university instructors,” the man said.

  “And who told you that?” Broadstreet’s manner stiffened.

  “Major Allen Korlles is a good friend. He suggested I deal with you.” The man faltered, looking slightly dismayed.

  “I see.” Broadstreet decided he would have to have a word with Major Korlles—Army Intelligence shouldn’t be so loose-lipped. “Did you tell him what you want to tell me, or was it all lucky happenstance?” He sighed once, not loudly, but enough to make it apparent that he was feeling put-upon. How providential this all seemed: Rothcoe’s cable and this informer coming to see him—perhaps too providential.

  “No, I didn’t tell him, and I don’t plan to; he doesn’t want to know.” He pulled up a straight-backed chair and sat down, and found himself facing a wall of degrees and recognitions Broadstreet had earned; he did his best not to be impressed. “To begin with, I should tell you I’m related to Hapgood Nugent. I’m sure you must know who he is. He’s from the brainy side of the family, I’m in the commercial side.” He paused to breathe. “You can call me Grant Nugent, if you like.”

  “Because it isn’t your name,” Broadstreet interjected, and saw his visitor flinch, showing that he was new to deceptive techniques.

  The man nodded, making a quick recovery. “Bingo! You got that right.” He took a cigarette from a gold case, tamped it, and lit it, blowing out a thick stream of smoke. Belatedly he offered Broadstreet a cigarette and snapped the case closed when Broadstreet waved it away. “A year ago, before he left for Europe, Hapgood entrusted a couple of filing cabinets to my wife; against my better judgment, we stored them in the garage. I had a look through them some weeks ago and found out that there’s a lot of correspondence in them talking about economics—”

  “Hardly unusual for a professor of economics,” said Broadstreet in a tone that made the other man speak faster.

  “But some of them talk about Communism, and not always the way most of us would like. Sure, the Commies were our allies in the war, but not any longer, no matter what the professors like to think, and that goes for Hapgood as well as the rest of them. The professors he was writing to had a lot to say about Communism, most of it favorable to the Communists. Not the kind of things I’d want my kids to be looking into—especially not now. They could stir up all kinds of trouble, these letters. I was startled at how blatant Hapgood was about his theories. I had photostats made of the letters, of the most outspoken ones, and thought I should make them available to you. I found out you handle the investigations of those professors who have left America. Hapgood Nugent is in France just now, and three of his colleagues are also overseas. I thought maybe you can use these letters to find out where they have gone.”

  “And who are these professors?” Broadstreet’s pen was poised over his notebook.

  “Maynard Lundkin, D. G. Atkins, and Weston Teague.”

  Broadstreet wrote down all three names, though he knew where two of the three were and had men assigned to watch them. He circled D. G. Atkins, the one unaccounted for. “And why do you tell me this?”

  “My wife sends Happy money. She thinks I don’t know about it, but I do, and it troubles me for several reasons. She says Happy hasn’t done anything wrong, and that it’s all a witch-hunt.” His face grew flushed. “She says we owe him the same kind of loyalty we owe the country.”

  So, thought Broadstreet, this man isn’t a Nugent, his wife is; there might be some jealousy here to use. He cleared his throat. “And what do you think? Is Professor Nugent being hounded without cause?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care. That’s not my business. But the way things stand, the family’s embarrassed, and the people Happy’s been dealing with are known to be working with the enemies of this country.” He stared at Broadstreet while stubbing out his cigarette in the hammered copper ashtray on the edge of the desk. “If turning over the letters will help put an end to all this, then I want you to have them.”

  “Have you brought the photostats with you?”

  The younger man shook his head. “I didn’t know if you’d want them, or if they’d be safer here than in the filing cabinets in our garage. We keep them locked, but there are three windows with just latches. If someone broke in, and knew where to look…” He made a gesture of distress.

  “An attic or a basement might be better, and a lock on the door,” said Broadstreet, trying to keep from chuckling at this man’s idea o
f security. He took a chance and added, “You haven’t mentioned where you live.”

  “No, I haven’t. It’s not in Baltimore, I’ll tell you that much.”

  Broadstreet achieved a self-deprecatory smile. “You can’t blame a man for trying.” He cleared his throat and went on in a more authoritative manner, “And if I am interested, what do you expect for them? Money? A contract for government business? Some other advantage?”

  “I expect the badgering to stop. I want my family to be left alone. You know what I’m talking about. No more letters to the principals at my kids’ schools. They’re six and nine, they don’t know anything. They come home crying because the other kids call them Commies. Not that they know what that means. Whoever’s in charge of our case—and I assume there is a case—I want him instructed to keep away from my kids. I want it known by the FBI and police that I’m helping the government. I’m losing customers because of Happy, and I can’t afford that, not with my wife sending money to France.” His indignation had an undercurrent of fear.

  Broadstreet studied the man’s face. “I would like to examine the letters you mentioned. If you will send the photostats to me by registered mail, I will mention your assistance in my next report, and provide you with a copy of that report, in case you encounter any more difficulties. I can’t do much more than that without going higher up the chain of command. But I’ll see what I can do.” He would order more subtle surveillance, since this blatant approach was not working as they wanted, and Hoover would crow to the press about the CIA operating within the US. “If you’ll get your photostats in tomorrow’s mail, I’ll thank you for your help the best way I can.” He reminded himself that he had information on Nugent, as well as Lundkin and Teague. But Atkins had disappeared, and that worried Broadstreet more than anything he had learned about any of the other two. He held out his hand, signaling the interview was over. “Thank you, sir; I know this must have cost you a lot of thought,” he said, feeling the strong grip his informant offered.

  “You’re welcome. Assuming you come through for me.” He smiled widely and insincerely as he went toward the door. “Thanks for seeing me.”

  Broadstreet said nothing as he watched the door close, then picked up his receiver. As soon as he heard the dial tone, he twisted the number and listened for the ring on the other end of the line. The phone was answered before the third ring. “Broadstreet here.”

  The man on the other end of the line asked, “What is it?”

  “I may have a lead on Atkins.”

  “How much of a lead?”

  Broadstreet struggled to contain his nervousness; there was something about Channing—whose name he was not supposed to know—that made his skin crawl. “I’ll know by tomorrow evening, or the day after.”

  “That’s reassuring,” said the voice without any hint of confidence. “It would be useful to find him.”

  “In order to bring him back home?” Broadstreet asked boldly.

  “That depends on where he is,” the voice said.

  Broadstreet realized that he had asked one question too many. “Of course, of course,” he said quickly, staring at the telephone dial as if to read a message in its numbers and letters.

  “We’ll know by Thursday, if your information turns out to be right,” said the voice, in a tone there was no disputing. “Let me know when you have something to report,” he ordered and hung up abruptly.

  This was not quite the way Broadstreet had hoped this exchange might be, but he jotted a note on his foolscap pad before picking up his pipe and opening his tobacco pouch; he always thought more clearly when he smoked. Little as he liked to admit it, Broadstreet believed in omens, and when he saw one as obvious as this one, he gave it his careful consideration. There was something going on here, some kind of convergence, and he was determined to make the most of it.

  By noon, he had the beginning of a plan for how he could employ his visitor, one that could help locate Professor Atkins, and then he would be able to come up with a way to neutralize whatever it was that the good professor was doing. Atkins had been a thorn in his side for six years, and it was time to show him who was boss. He sucked on his pipe, realized it was finished; he took a pipe-cleaner from his center desk drawer and set about cleaning the burnt tobacco from the bowl, then working on the stem and mouthpiece. After a couple of minutes, he set the pipe down, ready for use. He looked at the clock on the wall, watching the pendulum swing for a little more than thirty seconds, then pressed the button on his intercom. “Florence?”

  “I’m here, Mister Broadstreet,” she responded promptly.

  “I think I’ll go out to lunch today; will you inform the dining room? I should be back at thirteen-thirty.” He waited for her to respond.

  “That’s one-thirty,” she said. “I’ll make a note. Where are you going?”

  “O’Doul’s, I think, but perhaps some place less crowded.” He took a strange pleasure in defying the rules to this extent. “If anyone needs to speak to me, get his name and number and tell him I’ll call back by sixteen hundred … four P.M.” Before she could confirm this, he clicked off and went to fetch his overcoat; he saw the windows spattered with rain and knew it would get heavier as evening came on. He crossed the street and turned right; there were three blocks to go to reach O’Doul’s, a bar and grill that was known to cater to the men who worked the classy part of the waterfront, and served Irish beer that came by ship from the Emerald Isle. Often crowded and smoky, O’Doul’s was a perfect place to watch the life of the harbor.

  Before he reached O’Doul’s, he changed his mind, and held up his arm to flag a cab. “The Helmsman,” he said as he got in.

  The cabby blinked. “Out on Merrimont Road? That’s almost an hour away.”

  “Yes, that’s the one,” said Broadstreet as he settled into the dusty cushions.

  “You got it,” the cabby said as he started his clock running and swung around in a U-turn, paying no heed to honks of complaint. “Weepy weather, yeah.”

  “It’s the time of year,” said Broadstreet in his most discouraging tone.

  The cabby kept on. “Place for sportsmen, the Helmsman.” It had, as everyone in the region knew, been a speakeasy with a small harbor where smugglers could tie up their boats all through the years of Prohibition. Now it was a rod-and-gun club with a private yacht facility, a toney place with a rustic exterior. It lent prestige to its members without the high expenses of country clubs and private golf courses.

  “Among others,” said Broadstreet, then wanted to bite his tongue for taking the bait.

  “You one of those others, then? You gotta be a member to go there.” The cabby laughed as if this were the punch-line of a joke. “Cause you sure don’t look like a sportsman.”

  “I’m not a yachtsman, if that’s what you mean, but I know my way around Chesapeake, and I am a member, not that it’s any of your business,” said Broadstreet; he had a small powerboat he sometimes used for fishing the estuaries and creek around Old Road Bay and the edge of Chesapeake Bay. He winced a little at his answer, but said nothing as the taxi rattled along the road in the steadily thickening rain.

  By the time the Helmsman was in sight, Broadstreet was regretting his impulsive decision; he knew he would have to call the office and explain why he was going to be so late returning. He needed a reason that was not unbelievable, but impossible to check out closely. It would have to be related to his work, but vague enough to be seen as a testing-the-waters meeting. He’d have to come up with a contact who wouldn’t come to his office. Yes, he thought as the cab turned onto Merrimont; he was going to meet a possible informant who failed to show up. A man named … something innocuous. Baker. That had a good, ordinary feel to it. No, Baxter. That was better, Mister Baxter had contacted him indirectly and this was the place he had recommended for their first meeting. He began to work on a legend for Baxter, trying to keep it vague enough that he could discard portions of it as needed. “Thus,” he mused aloud: the potential in
formant was in a union, and the union was being pressured by Communists. He grinned as the cabby cut his speed by more than half as he drove along the muddy road, approaching an unassuming wooden building of respectable size. Nine or ten expensive cars had drawn up in front of this structure, near the concrete steps that led to a double-door of dark oak. In the distance, beyond the trees, the masts of a number of boats rocked on the choppy waters of Old Road Bay.

  “That’ll be nine dollars, seventy cents. If you want me to come back and pick you up, tell me now, or fend for yourself. Pay me five bucks and I’ll guarantee you a ride home.”