Wasn’t there the initial enthusiasm of the honeymoon months? The love-making deep into the night; the one lovely time Edward and I even made love in a bathtub in Venice and were bruised for days afterward. She felt a tingling in her loins from this remembrance.
And it was still good those first years together in London, she remembered. Exciting and new. It was only when we returned to America, when Edward’s political career floundered, that the marriage began to flounder, as well. It can’t be easy for him, she suddenly realized. He writes his books and articles, his voice is influential and powerful, but his loss of office when Wilson came to the White House must still hurt him. She felt sudden pangs of guilt at having grown so far apart from her husband.
She scrubbed her back and legs vigorously with the boar bristle brush as a sort of penance and got out of the bath, her fair skin pink from the heat and the rubbing, and wiped herself dry with a large soft ivory-colored bath towel.
Catherine was suddenly filled with the same sense of purpose toward Edward that she was about photographing the Washington slums. There is still time, she thought: time to make our marriage work, time perhaps even for children. I know Edward would love an heir, and a daughter to raise for me could be a fulfillment. What things I could share with her!
She threw on a bathrobe and went quickly to her room, dressing in a simple mauve-colored woolen skirt and long matching cardigan top. She did not bother with any make-up, merely combed her short hair out in the mirror.
Perhaps I’ll let it grow out again; Edward loved it when it was long.
White stockings and brown half-boots completed her outfit, and then she went downstairs to the music room where she knew Edward and Uncle Adrian would be ensconced.
As she entered the room, her husband was just finishing a phone conversation, his back turned toward her so that he did not see her enter. Adrian was seated, rather white-faced, in one of the armchairs by the fire.
‘Yes,’ Fitzgerald was saying into the mouthpiece. ‘We’ll need perhaps twenty men, fully armed … No, not over the phone. We’ll gather here and I’ll explain the situation. Fine. Two o’clock then.’
He hung up, turned and saw her. She stared at him, unable to grasp why they would need twenty armed men here this afternoon.
‘What is it, Edward? What’s wrong?’
Fitzgerald looked from his wife to Appleby as if trying to make up his mind how much to tell.
‘You two can’t go on prevaricating forever, Edward. What’s happening? Tell me.’
Appleby spoke for him. ‘My dear, it seems some fanatic is after me. Means to kill me, in point of fact.’
She rushed to Appleby’s side, kneeling beside his chair. ‘But that’s awful, Uncle Adrian.’
‘It’s Adrian’s mission,’ Fitzgerald said, coming to join them by the fire. ‘Someone does not want Adrian talking to President Wilson.’
She knew they would keep her out of the full truth, but suddenly that did not matter. It was Uncle Adrian who mattered.
‘What are we going to do about it?’ she demanded of her husband.
‘We have evidence to show that he means to attack tonight at the benefit performance at the New National Theater,’ he said.
‘Then we’ll cancel it,’ she said, standing now and facing her husband.
He smiled at her; she knew the meaning of it. His resolute persona.
‘Just the opposite, dear. We will go on with it as if no one is the wiser, and when our man attempts to get to Adrian, we’ll spring a handful of Pinkerton agents onto him. What is important is that the performance goes ahead as scheduled with no fuss so that our man is not scared off. It’s the best and safest way to protect Adrian’s life in the long run.’
She looked into her husband’s eyes for a moment, liking the strength and resolve she saw there. For an instant she felt like a heroine in one of the cheap romance novels she occasionally indulged in, swept away by the power of her man. And it was a good plan, it seemed to her after giving it a moment’s thought. Better to lay a trap for someone stalking you than to be forever looking over your shoulder. She kept her curiosity at bay about the who and why of the killer. This was not a time for questions, but for action.
‘That’s settled, then,’ she said. ‘We’ll all go together, as arranged.’
Fitzgerald made to argue with her, but she simply held up a hand to him. ‘You said it yourself: nothing should happen before the performance to scare off this man. I shall accompany you as planned. Now …’ She rubbed her hands briskly together. ‘How about some coffee? It looks like being a long and busy day.’
FOUR
Max stood outside the New National Theater in the freezing cold. He thought he had figured out everything; the lead tube, one end filled with potassium chlorate, was tucked in his coat pocket, a vial of sulfuric acid in the other pocket. He had cleaned and loaded his revolver and had taken the precaution of leaving his lodgings and the overly-curious Herr Meyer at Foggy Bottom, dumping the old suitcase and the rest of his clothing in the Potomac when no pedestrians had been within sight. The suitcase had served the purpose in disguising the pieces of his cigar; he no longer needed it. What he wore on his back and in his pockets were all that would be needed now.
Max would be traveling light after tonight.
Departure had also been arranged for. After Appleby’s death the trains and river steamers out of Washington were sure to be watched. He would lay low at the German Embassy for a few days and then leave disguised along with the remainder of the staff when they closed up the embassy permanently at the end of the week.
All so carefully planned, he thought, as he stumped up and down the sidewalk to stay warm. He had even joined a tour group going through the theater this morning to survey the interior and determine the position of the boxes, in one of which Appleby would be sitting, to figure out the best place to plant the bomb. He’d decided upon the foyer of the third-floor gallery where the acoustics were perfect for his purposes. He had also laid out the escape route, one possible avenue being the fire escape on the west side of the building, and a second being via the back stage door taking advantage of shock and surprise. The alley in back of the theater led off in both directions into a warren of turnings and access routes to major thoroughfares in the heart of the city.
But all of this careful planning was for nothing, he thought again, clamping his arms about his chest for warmth. All because I forgot one piece to the plan: a ticket.
Max had planned simply to purchase a ticket at the door for the top balcony. Any ticket would do; he was not intending to watch the performance. But upon arrival at the theater there was, in addition to the colorful placards striped in American and Belgian flags advertising the gala event, a new card in the ticket window: ‘Sold Out’.
He had asked the buxom older woman at the ticket window if there was not even standing room left.
She had looked at him severely, at his old coat and battered fedora.
‘No.’ Said flatly; end of conversation.
‘But I need to purchase a ticket. Any ticket.’
He noticed a magazine in her lap, The Police Gazette. She looked up from it in a huff.
‘There are no tickets,’ she said loudly, noticing his accent now. ‘You understand, or do you want an interpreter?’
At which he had given up on that approach, fearful of causing a scene.
Now a long black limousine arrived at curbside in front of the theater and an elderly couple in evening finery got out, illuminated by the weak electric lights along E Street. Max knew it was not Appleby. He had arrived a good half hour ago in a solid looking Cadillac accompanied by a very tall man and a woman. View of them had been blocked to Max by a sizeable crowd gathered at curbside in front of the five-story brick theater. Max had known it was Appleby only because the reporters gathered outside had said so, shouted so actually, as they jockeyed for position to get a photograph for their morning editions.
At that point, knowing he could not get into the
theater, Max had thought of simply shooting Appleby as he arrived and taking his chances with the crowd. Somehow he would escape. But that course had not been possible, either. The crowd of men at the curb had crushed in the British diplomat and his companions, and Max could neither get a clear view nor shot at the man. The only one he had been able to see was the man accompanying the British emissary, tall enough to stand a head taller than the crush of people all around him. Max had automatically taken in the man’s features: fine nose, high cheekbones, a strong rather than handsome face, pure white hair under the top hat; prematurely grayed. All in all it was a very American face, full of optimism and self-confidence.
And then they had gone inside the theater, much of the crowd along with them. Odd, he had thought at the time, so much of a crowd surrounding them. And another chance missed.
The older couple bustled into the theater now, the last to come and not wanting to be late.
Max knew the performance would start in a few minutes. The colored doorman in red livery had closed the doors under the awning after the elderly couple, and was now busy digging at his left ear with his little finger, his back to Max. The buxom lady at the ticket window had her head bent to her magazine, her lips moving as she read.
Now or never, he thought.
He ducked under the ticket window and got to the front doors without the woman seeing him. The doorman was still cleaning his ear as Max slipped through the door farthest from him. The lobby was large and grand with red carpets, red plush on the walls, crystal chandeliers overhead, and gilt scroll work on the ceiling trim. The warm air inside greeted him like an embrace. He quickly took off his hat and coat and began walking slowly, deliberately toward the wide flight of stairs.
A deep voice sounded in back of him. ‘Hello, sir.’
Max turned smiling.
The colored doorman was coming toward him.
‘Your ticket, sir,’ the man said, his long-fingered hand outstretched to Max as he approached.
‘No,’ Max said brightly. ‘The press doesn’t need tickets.’
The doorman stopped, looking confused. ‘You with the press? You’re late. Got a pass?’
‘It was last minute,’ Max said. ‘Our regular man got sick. Call my editor. He’ll tell you.’
‘Your editor?’ The colored man looked skeptical now.
‘Yes. The Evening News.’ Max had seen a newsboy hawking the paper outside the theater earlier. It was the first name to come to mind.
‘Just call him,’ Max urged. ‘I’ll wait here.’
The doorman shrugged. ‘OK. Sorry, sir, but I got my orders.’
‘Certainly.’ Max smiled at him. ‘It’s Samuels at the paper. Just tell him Per Walloon is calling. You see, I’m Belgian. Still improving my English; I write better than I speak.’
The doorman wasn’t concerned with the explanation, Max figured, for he moved off toward a door leading to a tiny office without really attending to this last bit.
Max waited for the fellow to enter the tiny cubicle, then gave a twenty count. Sure enough, the man peeked back around the door to make sure he was still waiting there. Max smiled broadly, and the man ducked back into his office reassured, but still leaving the door open. From where he was at the phone, however, he could no longer see the stairs.
Instantly and stealthily Max dashed up the stairs toward the gallery foyer on the third floor.
I’ve got five minutes, he figured, maybe ten before the doorman and ticket lady get together and realize I’ve gatecrashed.
And what if I have? he thought, taking the stairs two at a time and ignoring the subsequent pain in his left thigh. They’re not going to stop the performance for one gatecrasher, for one culture lover who sneaks into the National Theater.
Reaching the second landing he saw that the audience was just taking their seats, the halls were emptying. He slowed his pace, not wanting to call attention to himself.
Bells rang once: the performance was about to begin.
Max had to work quickly now; his schedule had been thrown off by the ticket fiasco. He circled the fan-shaped corridor going past the second-floor boxes, searching for telltale clues to where Appleby was sitting. He had to be very quick about this, for the milling people were filing into their boxes in all their evening finery: flashes of diamonds; cigars butted out in tall brass urns; feathers atop women’s heads wafting as they walked; the silk of evening gowns whispering with movement; the creak of patent leather shoes. Dressed in his blue serge suit, Max would stand out too distinctly from the rest once the crowd dispersed.
If there are any watchers here, he thought, they’ll see quite clearly that I don’t belong.
No panicking now, he told himself. No quick movements that might draw attention to yourself. He felt the knot of anticipation in his stomach that had built up over the past few days begin to loosen. He was in action now, and that was the important thing. He had a discernible goal, a mission, and he was underway. No more waiting and planning.
He noticed other men dressed in daytime suits with stiff collars stationed at strategic points along the corridor, but they had not seemed to notice him yet, caught as he was in the flood of audience filling the auditorium.
The bells rang twice now.
Max looked at these men as he passed by: heavy men for the most part; men whose necks looked almost as big as Max’s thighs. Stolid, purposeful, dumbly diligent. Max knew them instantly for what they were: plain-clothes policemen. Yet there was no going back now.
They are a good sign, he told himself, as he passed the final arc in the semicircular corridor. They mean that I’m getting closer to my quarry, to Appleby.
And he was, for around the far side of the semicircular corridor he caught sight for an instant of the tall white-haired fellow who had accompanied Appleby into the theater. He was conferring with another one of the thickset plain-clothes policemen in the hall, tapping the man’s forearm for emphasis as he spoke to him.
Max knew the type the tall man represented: money, power, influence. It was written all over him. He took an instant dislike to the man, wondering what connection he had to Appleby. Was he American at all? He seemed now to hold himself with the upright easy confidence of the British upper classes.
Max put these thoughts out of his mind as the man finished his conversation with the jowly plain-clothes policeman and re-entered his box, closing the door in back of him. The door closed away from Max, giving him a fleeting glance at its brass number plate: 23.
Right, then, he thought, turning on his heels and passing as calmly as possible back to the stairway leading to the third floor. The crush into the auditorium still shielded him from the notice of the watchers along this corridor.
I know where Appleby is, he thought; the rest will be easy. Even with the beefy watchers protecting him.
As Max reached the third floor the bells rang three times, the auditorium doors began closing, and the house lights dimmed. Max heard an announcement being made from inside: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome!’ a deep male voice boomed out. ‘This evening’s program has been slightly altered. We regret that our distinguished English visitor, Sir Adrian Appleby, will not be speaking tonight due to a case of laryngitis. He is, however, in attendance …’
At this point the third-floor usher closed the auditorium door nearest Max and the rest of the announcement was muffled followed by polite applause.
Warning signals sounded in Max’s brain: I don’t like this. Too many damned watchers here; too much difficulty getting in. And now Appleby’s not giving his address to start the program off as the newspaper promised.
But Max had no time to attend to these signals, nor did he actually want to. There was no more time to waste; he was in action, he wanted only to continue, to finish this job. He could hear Berthold in Berlin if he missed this opportunity: the high piercing tone of his voice as he would curse and rail at the incompetence of certain races.
‘We always knew you were not cut out of quite th
e right cloth … not meant for the life of action. Your kind never is.’
A muscle flexed in Max’s jaw at this imaginary upbraiding; he would not give Berthold that pleasure.
So it’s the old game again, is it? his ironical voice said to him. You have to prove yourself as good or better than them.
‘Yes,’ Max whispered aloud. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Beg pardon?’
Max had not noticed the man until now, so intent had he been on Berthold’s possible criticism, on avoiding failure at all costs. He was still staring at the auditorium door and the man, clearly another watcher, had approached without his being aware, and was now standing next to him so close that Max could smell cigarettes on his fetid breath. Max did not know if he had muttered the words to himself in German or English. A momentary panic gripped him and he forced it down, willing himself to remain calm.
He wiped his brow, looking at the man dressed in a brown wool three-piece, a button missing from the vest.
‘Sorry,’ Max said. ‘I’m not feeling at all well.’
The man looked at him closely.
It’s my accent, Max knew.
The man’s eyes squinted; his thick lips pursed. There was a tiny patch of toilet paper under his left ear where he had probably nicked himself shaving. Max wanted desperately for the man to go away, but he continued standing there.
‘Can I help you?’ he said finally, reaching out as if to hold Max’s arm.
‘No … thank you. I need to find the men’s room.’
More squinting. Max recognized the danger signals.
‘It’s over there.’ The man indicated with a bent thumb a door in the corridor wall behind them.
From inside the auditorium came the sound of an orchestra, the bell-clear tones of a tenor. Something from Puccini, Max registered automatically. He nodded at the big man and moved off to the bathroom.
And what if he calls for help? Max thought. I can’t allow that.
He faked a stumble, holding onto the wall for support, and the man came to his side.
‘I just need some water,’ Max said, almost in a whisper.
The German Agent Page 6