He looked over at Annie and found her staring at him. He said, hearing his own urgency, ‘They’ll be here any second. Whatever they ask, you have to say I shot Frank.’ He could hear people pounding up the stairs. ‘Do you understand?’ he demanded again.
Seconds later a man burst into the room with his gun drawn. When he saw Plympton on the floor he pointed his gun at Nessheim, who let his fall to the floor as he raised his hands straight up in the air. From next door he heard a shout of surprise – agents had gone in there without any pretence of knocking. The interlocking door opened, and Reuters, the young FBI agent from the White House detail, was standing there, his gun drawn.
Through the doorway Nessheim caught a glimpse of Lucy Mercer Rutherford, sitting up in the two-poster bed in a lilac robe, a look of absolute terror on her face. The President was in the Shaker chair in the foreground, and he was dressed – except for his socks and shoes. The door closed as soon as Reuters saw that another agent was covering Nessheim.
‘Let me explain,’ Nessheim said to the Secret Service man.
‘Save it,’ said the agent. ‘You’re going to get to tell your story more than once.’
Epilogue
September 1940
Washington D.C.
IT SEEMED STRANGE to be parking right in front of Guttman’s house.
Nessheim had listened to the radio on his way from the airport and was glad to hear that the polls said Roosevelt was leading in all the key states. His re-election seemed certain. It wasn’t time for a novice in the White House, Nessheim thought, much less an isolationist. Germany had yet to invade England, and its air assaults, though severe, had not brought Great Britain to its knees. It looked as if the recalcitrant English might finally get some help from the U.S. Not that much admittedly, but it was a start, and it certainly made clear whose side America was on.
He got out, still feeling a little stiff. It had been a luxury to fly from Chicago, and the fear he had felt on his first trip on a plane had not recurred. He had enjoyed the flight, marvelling at the height they had reached and the fact that he was so far above the clouds.
He had come back without reluctance because Guttman had said he wanted to talk to him about his future. He had almost died twice working for the man, yet somehow this intensified rather than attenuated their bond. Not that he would continue working for the FBI; although he had not yet submitted a letter of resignation, it was only a matter of time.
‘Jimmy,’ said Guttman warmly as he opened the door and shook his hand. He didn’t seem as fat, and he was wearing a new suit and a handsome crimson tie. There was an air of energy about him that reminded Nessheim of their first encounter in Chicago.
Guttman’s suspension had been rescinded the day after Frank Plympton had been shot dead in Belvedere. Hoover had wanted his assistant director’s cooperation in making sure word never leaked about the attempt on the President’s life. The tacit price was Guttman’s reinstatement, and a bargain had been struck. When in late June Hoover announced the creation of a new Special Intelligence Section, he also announced that Guttman would be its head.
Mueller had been transferred, after arguing that it was not his fault that a distant cousin was the head of the Gestapo, and that he had no reason to suspect his childhood acquaintance Frank Plympton of anything other than practising the Washington art form of social climbing. Sally Cummings, on the other hand – she, thought Nessheim, was the One Who Got Away.
In the immediate aftermath of Plympton’s attempt Cummings escaped particular notice, sharing the shock at what had almost happened, and tending to her niece, who was distraught. And when Guttman finally felt he could ask her for an interview, Sally Cummings had gone to see Hoover instead. After half an hour, the Director had emerged, proclaiming that Sally was innocent of any wrongdoing. Almost simultaneously he’d asked Miss Gandy to arrange an urgent meeting with President Roosevelt at the White House, where Guttman imagined the guest bedroom of Belvedere would have featured in the conversation.
As they walked into the living room Nessheim spied Isabel, Guttman’s crippled wife, through the open door of their bedroom. When she smiled shyly at him he felt in a peculiar way that he was on home ground.
In the living room Guttman had set two glasses out. ‘Celery soda?’ he asked, but before Nessheim could decline he laughed, then went to the kitchen and came back with two bottles of beer.
‘So how have you been?’ asked Guttman.
‘Okay,’ said Nessheim slowly. ‘My dad died.’ It had been the month before, while Nessheim had been driving back from San Francisco after collecting his stuff. His father had dropped dead behind the house, as he was walking towards the barn. Nessheim only just got home in time for the funeral.
Guttman’s face sobered. ‘I’m so sorry, Jimmy. How’s your mom?’
Nessheim shrugged. ‘Not too bad. She’s selling the place and moving into town. She’s got a part-time job in a general store there, so she’s keeping busy.’ He had offered to stick around on the diminished homestead, with the implicit promise of making another go of it on the land, but his mother had vetoed that right away, saying she didn’t want to keep living in a house full of memories.
‘Your trip West go okay?’
‘It was fine.’ Morgan had departed by the time he had arrived, and Nessheim had paid a purely courtesy call on the new SAC, who knew nothing about him. His old friend Devereux was getting married, and had bought a new Chevrolet, so he didn’t seem to mind the loss of Nessheim’s pickup truck. They’d had lunch in Chinatown on California Street; Nessheim hadn’t even caught a glimpse of the fortune cookie factory.
Guttman was pursing his lips, usually the prelude to a proposition. ‘You thought about what you’re going to do next?’
‘A little.’ Nessheim wasn’t going to volunteer much.
‘What if I told you I had a terrific assignment lined up? It suits you to a T. The only downside from your point of view is that you’d still be reporting to me.’ He smiled, but he was watching Nessheim closely.
‘Harry, no offence, but I don’t think D.C. is my kind of town.’
‘Who said the job was in Washington? It’s on the coast.’
‘San Francisco?’
‘Try Hollywood,’ said Guttman.
‘You want me in the movie business?’ Nessheim laughed, thinking of Melvin Purvis.
‘I do actually,’ said Guttman. ‘But no, I can’t see you on the silver screen myself. You’d be working in a studio.’
Great, Nessheim thought, he would be making the pro-FBI propaganda movies Hoover had already persuaded the studio moguls to produce. No thanks, he thought. But before he could open his mouth, Guttman drained his glass and stood up. ‘Think about it, then we can talk some more,’ he said. He was looking out the picture window towards the street. ‘I’ve got to go out for a while. You sit still – there’s somebody coming who wants to see you.’ This time the smile was for himself. ‘I think you’ll want to see them too.’
When the bell rang, Nessheim opened the front door.
‘Hi,’ she said. He’d always liked the coolness in her voice, the way she didn’t gush.
‘Hi, Annie,’ he said simply. He’d tried writing to her, once from California, then after his father’s death, but he had never mailed the letters.
They went into the living room, where after a moment’s awkwardness while he took her coat and hat, Annie sat on the sofa and he took the big wing chair.
‘It’s good to see you,’ he said, and though she gave a wan smile, she did not say it back to him. She wore a patterned cotton dress and jacket, and her hair was longer, swept back from her face. It softened her appearance, highlighting the attractiveness of her face, and the power of her surprisingly green-blue eyes.
There was so much to say that he couldn’t. ‘Are you still working for the Justice?’ he managed to ask.
She nodded. ‘He’s been very understanding. Though I don’t think he’s invited to Aunt Sally’s evening
s any more.’
He’ll survive, thought Nessheim. He said, ‘I thought you sent out the invitations.’
‘I don’t send anything out for Aunt Sally any more.’
‘Don’t tell me she fired you,’ he said lightly.
‘Pretty much. And told me to find another place to live. I had two weeks to do it.’
He was stunned. ‘What happened?’
‘This was one scandal she didn’t think I could live down, I guess.’
‘She should talk.’ Sally had a lot to answer for, not that anyone could prove it. And Hoover had cleared her, to Guttman’s fury. ‘She’s the one who set you up – why should she be angry with you?’
Annie just shrugged.
‘Does she know …’ and he hesitated.
‘No. I didn’t tell her that. I haven’t told anyone.’
‘Good,’ he said.
Annie said, ‘And since she thinks it was you who killed the Golden Boy, you shouldn’t expect any more invitations to Belvedere, either.’ She laughed, and he was glad it was more happy than harsh.
He nodded, feeling he couldn’t tell her that her aunt’s involvement in the affair had been more than social. It seemed pointless as well as cruel to do so.
‘So where are you living?’ he asked. ‘And who looks after Jeff?’ He assumed Sally wouldn’t let Mrs O’Neill continue to help out.
‘Jeff’s started school, which makes things easier. I drop him off before I go to the Justice’s, then collect him in the mid-afternoon on my way home. It’s a long ride on the bus for me, but I can read.’
She hadn’t answered his first question. ‘But where are you living?’
She pointed over his shoulder, and he turned and looked out the living room’s picture window. ‘See the yellow house,’ she said, pointing. He looked across the street and saw a tidy bungalow with a summer awning still over its front steps.
‘It belongs to an old lady named Mrs Jupiter. Jeff and I have the apartment in her basement. It’s not Belvedere, but the rent’s less than Aunt Sally spent on canapés. Mrs Jupiter’s a nice old thing and I do a few chores for her around the house. It’s worked out pretty well.’
What a coincidence, he was about to say when the penny dropped. Annie said, ‘Harry came to see me about a week after … the shooting. By then Sally made it clear I had to find another place to live. I think at first he wanted to make sure I hadn’t been in league with Frank, though I also had the feeling Harry knew you hadn’t pulled the trigger.’
‘He’s sharp,’ said Nessheim.
‘Yeah, but he’s a nice man, too. He caught me at a bad moment; I hadn’t any idea where to go next. I was even considering Vermont – God help me, I was that desperate – and Harry couldn’t have been nicer. He put me in touch with Mrs Jupiter.’
The old softie, thought Nessheim, a little taken aback.
‘But what are you going to do?’ she asked. ‘Harry’s itching to have you back.’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking of signing up.’ He reasoned that if he enlisted there was more chance he could bluff his way through the medical than if he waited to be drafted. Not that he would tell Guttman any of this.
‘In the army?’ She looked concerned and also disappointed – or was he kidding himself?
‘I might as well – we’ll all be drafted soon enough. It couldn’t be the navy; I get seasick just seeing a boat.’
‘I thought that FBI agents could be exempted from the draft if they wanted.’
He shrugged.
‘Does Harry know about this?’ she asked.
‘No, and I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t tell him.’
She shifted on the sofa, sitting up with her hands on her knees. ‘You know, I was hoping you’d be coming back to Washington.’ She was looking down at her clasped hands. ‘I’ve missed our talks.’ She paused and looked away from him as she spoke next. ‘I’ve had a lot happen to me, but I never felt I really shared it with anybody.’
‘Me neither,’ said Nessheim truthfully.
She said, ‘When Harry first came to interview me, you were still in the hospital. I asked after you, and he said he thought you’d probably be going home for a while. That was his way of letting me down gently, I guess.’
‘I figured you’d never forgive me.’
‘For what?’
He was flustered. ‘A lot of things, I guess. Forcing you to show me Lady Dove’s letters. And then – with Frank, you know …’ He found himself stumbling so he stopped talking.
Annie looked thoughtful. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about Frank lately. It’s not as if I can pretend now that I really knew him.’ She gave a small sigh. ‘He was always pretty aloof. Kind-hearted, and he was good with Jeff – well, up to a point. He couldn’t take the rough with the smooth very well. I realise now he had a lot on his plate,’ she said, then softened, her voice full of regret. ‘I guess knowing that he wasn’t really in love with me just makes it worse.’
‘That will get better,’ he said gently.
‘Maybe,’ she said, though she didn’t sound convinced.
Guttman would be coming back soon, Nessheim sensed, and he didn’t know what to say. Impulsively he asked, ‘Can I write to you? You know, once I’m in the army I’d send you a letter maybe.’
She looked at him appraisingly. He was about to tell her he understood if she’d rather he didn’t, when she said coolly, ‘Like the letter you wrote from the train?’
‘I meant every word of it.’ He had to force himself to return her gaze. It suddenly seemed terribly important what Annie said next.
‘Okay then, write me another one. I might even read it.’
Acknowledgements
Kate Elton encouraged me to write this novel, and I am grateful for her support. At Random House UK, special thanks to Georgina Hawtrey-Woore for her advice and patience, Susan Sandon and Emma Mitchell. At Overlook Press in New York my thanks to Dan Crissman, Peter Mayer, and Michael Goldsmith. I would also like to thank my agent Gillon Aitken, Clare Alexander, and especially Andrew Kidd for his invaluable comments on earlier drafts.
My gratitude is owed to Julian Turton and Olivia Seligman for introducing me to the Dreiländereck and for their careful reading of what resulted; Marina Hamilton-Baillie and Jocelyn Turton for correction of my German; retired Special Agent Larry Wack for answering my questions about the 1930s FBI; Jeanette Thomas for help with the geography of Washington D.C.; Professor Emeritus Larry Hill of Texas A&M University, David McCormick, Sir Ian Kershaw, Stephen Glover, Jon and Ann Conibear.
Among my family, I would like to thank Willard Keeney for sharing his extraordinarily deep knowledge of American transport history; Bill and Polly Billings for lifelong (my life, that is) hospitality in Woodstock Vermont; and my brothers, Daniel Rosenheim and James Rosenheim. Laura and Sabrina Rosenheim also helped, as did – most of all – their mother.
Fear Itself Page 37