Thank God for small favors, he thought as he waited for the man to turn his back to him before going out onto the sidewalk. At first he made himself walk slowly, jauntily almost. It took a giant will to manage this, for his one instinct now was to run. There were no shouts for him to stop; no steps chasing behind him, yet he feared there would be at any moment. He continued walking naturally for a full block, reaching the Treasury, and only then did he allow himself to look back over his shoulder.
The policeman at the corner was not pursuing him, only staring quizzically after him.
As Max turned north at the Treasury he began running for all he was worth, racing like a track star, his lungs near bursting. He did not let up his crazy pace until he had gone past Lafayette Square. Just beyond there he caught a Georgetown line streetcar, out of breath and about ready to pass out, but free.
They were gathered in Appleby’s suite of rooms, somber as guests at a teetotaler’s wake. Fitzgerald stood at the tall windows, looking out at Pennsylvania Avenue far below. Normally he would be cheered by such a bird’s-eye view of the capital’s premier street: tonight it depressed him to see the people, cars, and streetcars so small looking, so insignificant. It made him feel helpless.
I could be dead right now, Fitzgerald thought. Running blindly toward the killer as I did; it’s a wonder he did not simply shoot me.
Fitzgerald looked back in at the sitting room: Adrian was sprawled out on the divan like a swooning diva, a bag of ice to his head. Anyone would think he was the one to get bashed over the head, Fitzgerald thought. But Lewis had won that dubious honor, and sat meditatively in an armchair, a white bandage wrapped around his head. Moments before, the house doctor had warned ominously of concussion, and Lewis had chased him off with a bear growl and a threat to concuss certain parts of said doctor’s anatomy if he did not leave that instant.
Niel stood by the door, a fresh stick of gum in his mouth, grinning at all and sundry.
A baseball pitcher, Fitzgerald thought. That is what the fellow reminds me of, with his gum and interminable grin.
‘A complete fiasco, Edward,’ Appleby sighed. ‘That’s what this is. Twice the fellow has been within our grips, and twice he has escaped.’
‘I’m sure Scotland Yard would do better, Sir Adrian,’ Lewis said.
Fitzgerald looked at him with surprise: he had not known irony was among Lewis’s repertoire.
A police sergeant knocked and entered the room out of breath. ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir,’ he said. ‘But Philips says to tell you that our man posted around back got a look at the suspect fleeing the premises.’
‘What?’ Lewis was on his feet, but had to grip the back of the chair to steady himself. ‘How do you mean “got a look”? Didn’t he give pursuit?’
The sergeant shrugged. ‘That’s what Philips says, sir. I guess no one expected a bellboy. He said the fellow walked away from the hotel calm as you please, right up to the Treasury building. Turned north on Pennsylvania, but that’s the last we saw of him.’
‘Brilliant,’ Appleby said from his divan. ‘Bloody brilliant.’
Again the feeling of helplessness swept over Fitzgerald. Here we are in an elegant Regency suite in the finest hotel in Washington with armed police littering the premises, and the German is able to breach our defenses with impunity.
‘If I might intrude?’ Agent Niel said from the door.
‘Niel, I’m in no mood for this, understand?’ Lewis growled at him. ‘None of these inter-agency rivalries tonight. This is my turf; I’ll take care of it.’
‘Sorry,’ Niel said with a bright smile. ‘But it looks like it may be Bureau turf now, as well. You see we’ve been doing a fair bit of digging on our own with our meager resources. We have, however, turned up an interesting homicide.’
‘I’m not interested in your damn homicides,’ Lewis fumed.
‘Oh, you will be in this one.’
‘Let the man speak,’ Appleby said, sitting up now and placing the ice bag on the low rosewood table in front of the divan. A crystal vase overflowing with yellow roses sat in the middle of the table.
‘As I was saying,’ Niel continued. ‘Last Monday night there was a reported homicide at the medical laboratory of the Georgetown University not far from here. A night guard obviously surprised a burglar as he was leaving by the fire escape …’
Fitzgerald’s ears pricked up at the mention of this similar means of escape.
‘A rather professional job of killing, it seems. Cartilage to the brain; a clean kill, as the professionals would say. The burglar seemed to have broken into the chemical pantry. Officials at the laboratory say the only thing apparently missing is a vial of sulfuric acid.’
‘The active ingredient for these German tube bombs,’ Fitzgerald said, beginning to see the connection.
‘Wild speculation,’ Lewis said.
‘Not so wild,’ Niel said. ‘A young assistant who conducts tours at the laboratory remembers a gentleman that very day who showed great interest in the chemical pantry and who also seemed quite interested in the view out an alley window. Our fellow probably unlatched the window while acting as if he was gazing out of it. This curious visitor matches the description of the assassin from the New National Theater.’
‘Fine,’ Lewis said, sitting down again, a pained expression on his face. ‘So we know where M got his sulfuric acid. We know he made a bomb; we know he’s a careful planner and ruthless as hell. But what does this have to do with you?’
‘The night watchman,’ Niel grinned at him. ‘He was a government employee. That makes this federal business, you see?’
‘I for one am happy to have you aboard,’ Appleby said. ‘It looks as though we could use all the help we can get.’
‘Glad to hear that, Sir Appleby.’
Fitzgerald watched Adrian wince at the appellation and wondered if he would finally correct the agent, for Niel had obviously not picked up on his own attempts to do so. He felt himself agreeing with Adrian, however; perhaps they could use fresh help, and then he felt disloyal to Chief Inspector Lewis for having thought this.
Yet he had to remind himself that this was not a popularity contest they were running; it was a life and death struggle with a cunning and powerful enemy. It really was a wonder that no one had been killed tonight. The fellow had obviously been hiding in the wardrobe in that room on the third floor, waiting for them to charge on past.
I had the instinctive feel for him, Fitzgerald thought. I sensed he was in there. But Niel called; the police had mistaken a real bellhop for the killer, and we were all diverted just long enough for the man to make his escape via the fire escape once again.
But if I had opened the door to that wardrobe, he thought. What then? Who would have walked away alive?
‘I’m sure there is plenty of room for both services on this case,’ Niel was saying. ‘And I strongly disagree, Sir Appleby—’
‘Sir Adrian,’ Appleby finally said, correcting Niel.
‘Oh.’
Niel did not look embarrassed or put out, Fitzgerald noted. He simply noted the correction and filed it away for later use.
‘I strongly disagree that this was a fiasco,’ Niel went on. ‘We didn’t catch our man, but we’re coming closer to him. We know a lot more about him than ever before. We know, for instance, what he looks like under his beard. We have several face-to-face encounters with him and can put together a new sketch of him to circulate. We also know that he has an injured left hand. The lady on the ninth floor may have a tendency to exaggeration, but the trail of blood the fellow left behind corroborates what she says. He’s got a nasty wound there, may even have to see a doctor. And we know he left on foot. No getaway car waiting for him in the immediate vicinity. Maybe we’ll be lucky; maybe the fool is taking public transport and somebody will remember him and his destination.’
From his chair Lewis groaned at this suggestion.
‘All right,’ Niel allowed. ‘I said maybe we would get lucky. I d
on’t bank on it, though.’ He clapped his hands together suddenly, rubbing palms. ‘It hasn’t been a bad night’s work, all in all. Though I do hope in future, Mr Fitzgerald, that you’ll rein yourself in a bit. I had the killer in my sights until you ran into the field of fire.’
‘It was damned brave of you, Edward,’ Appleby said. ‘I shan’t forget it.’
‘Brave and rather foolish. You’re lucky to be alive,’ Niel said, looking at him now rather curiously. ‘What he said up there to you, that he was letting you live for now. It seemed almost that he knew you, or that he had some personal grudge against you. A rivalry or vendetta? You didn’t, by any chance, recognize the man?’
Fitzgerald shook his head. ‘I simply assumed that he felt I had foiled his plans both times: at the theater and here at the hotel. That he was warning me off.’
Niel nodded. ‘Interesting. It might be something we can put to use. A special animus for you.’
The room was silent for a time; traffic sounded from out the window, muffled and distant.
‘We have work to do, gentlemen,’ Niel said. ‘The president will not return until Monday and there’s no way to contact him, it seems. My boss has been on to the White House, as well, but it’s no go. The president needs rest, is the reply we get. The president needs a break from all concerns.’ He looked squarely at Appleby. ‘It wouldn’t do, I imagine, simply to see the vice president or somebody else in government?’
Appleby shook his head slowly and Fitzgerald was quick to explain that they had gone through that option as well, but it came down to the fact that Sir Adrian would need to talk with the president face-to-face eventually. That was the only way his ‘business’ could be conducted.
Niel shifted his gum from one cheek to the other and clucked his tongue. ‘Must be some kind of business. The longer you delay, the more you put your life at risk.’
Appleby sank back down horizontal on the divan at this statement.
There followed another silence broken finally by Niel. ‘So, where to now? It looks like we need another lodging for Sir Adrian. Some place right away from Washington, if possible.’
Fitzgerald brightened, pulling himself out of his defeatist thoughts. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t I think of it before? I’ve got just the place.’
The phone rang then in the room, and Niel went to it. ‘Yes?’ He listened for a moment. ‘Sorry, Mrs Fitzgerald. Yes, he is here.’
‘Oh, lord,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘I completely forgot about Catherine. She must still be waiting for me at the restaurant.’
Max got off the nearly empty tram at Wisconsin Avenue. By now he was in bad pain. He had managed to staunch the flow of blood by pressing hard on the wound, but his entire arm was on fire and he felt almost as weak as he had after being wounded at Ypres. He kept his wounded hand tucked into the pocket of the jacket.
He knew, however, that he had to lead a circuitous route to his lodgings in case anyone could trace him this far, and so he began walking up Wisconsin past a saloon when a group of sailors came stumbling out, drunk and laughing. They saw him lurching along the sidewalk in his bellhop uniform and began teasing him.
‘God, I love a man in uniform,’ one of them, a huge ungainly man, said.
Another spun him around playfully, and Max tried desperately to keep from falling. He wanted to pull his gun and be rid of them all, but that would be suicidal. If nothing else, it would mean he’d be traced to this vicinity for sure.
‘You oughtta trade that in, sonny, for a real uniform,’ the big sailor said.
Max said nothing, and hunkered against the wall of the saloon for support.
‘Ah, leave the little guy alone,’ another sailor finally said. ‘He looks like he’s got problems enough already.’
‘Fucking bellboy,’ the big sailor said disgustedly. ‘We’re getting ready to fight the Germans, and he’s humping rich bastards’ suitcases around.’
He made to kick at Max, but the other sailors finally pulled him away.
‘Come on,’ one of them said. ‘Let’s find some women.’
Max waited for the sailors to be well up the street before proceeding.
They’ll love war, he thought. Just let them get in their first sea battle; let them feel the floorboards underneath them rock from incoming shells; let them see their buddies blown to pieces by shrapnel; let them struggle in the freezing waters of the Atlantic with an oil slick all about them, praying it doesn’t catch fire.
Oh, war will be a lovely adventure for them, all right.
His anger fueled him, and he was able to weave a crazy-quilt route back to the World Peace League House. The front door was unlocked and he went in, crossed to the stairs and reached the first landing before he passed out.
He had no idea how much time had passed, but it was still dark outside his window when he awoke. He was in bed, and Annie McBride was sitting in a chair at his side.
‘Hello,’ she said.
He lifted his left hand; it was bandaged neatly. He was stripped to his underwear lying in clean linen sheets.
‘Don’t worry. I closed my eyes when undressing you.’
He felt himself smiling weakly. It was an unaccustomed feeling.
‘I burned the uniform in the furnace. I don’t suppose you’ll be needing it again?’
He shook his head, not knowing what to say. ‘Thank you,’ he finally managed.
She shrugged, making the wooden chair creak as she moved. ‘It’s a nasty wound.’
He stared at a water stain on the ceiling over the bed, not replying.
‘You want to tell me about it?’ she finally said.
The water stain reminded him of an early abstract painting he had done, one of the first ever: a circular miasma like the ripples of cause and effect extending from an unintended action.
‘You should not be involved,’ he said, turning his head to look at her.
She nodded, half-smiling. ‘I was wrong the other day,’ she said. ‘You don’t really remind me of my son. That was only sentimental hogwash, remembering his death. John was a softy at heart. He carried a gun, but I don’t think he would ever have used it.’
She looked at him closely, and again Max wondered if he could trust her.
‘No. Who you really remind me of is myself. It’s people like us who need to act to change this world before it imprisons us all in the lock-step of standardization, mechanization and materialism. Before the likes of Ford has us all working like drones on assembly lines and reading the illustrated magazines to see what we should be buying at Sears and Roebuck. John used to complain about the 35,000 men, women and children killed in this country each year in industrial accidents, about the upper classes who were only one percent of the population and controlled half the wealth. He was a great reader of Marx, was my John. I guess the difference between me and him is that I’m more fearful for our souls than our bodies. And the soul of this planet is being ground into the mud of Flanders, isn’t it, Mr Voetner? You’ve been there, haven’t you? I saw the scars on your leg when I was putting you into bed. Shrapnel wounds, by the looks of them. And I see the scars in your eyes, as well. Fey Annie.’ She chuckled.
‘You sound like an anarchist,’ he said, attempting a bit of brightness to distance himself.
‘Anarchist, Marxist, populist, socialist, pacifist, pragmatist. I’m any kind of “ist” as long as it means change.’ She smiled at him. ‘Why am I telling you all this? Now you’ve got your cornered animal look on again. And that’s why I’m talking, to take the fear from you. To take it from myself. It’s a fearful time, and only action can counteract fear. I figure you’re doing the action. I hope you’ll be giving as good as you get soon,’ she said, nodding at his wounded hand.
‘I should leave,’ he said. ‘They’ll be looking for me.’
He did not need to explain to her who ‘they’ were; she understood.
‘I run a respectable house,’ she said. ‘There’s never been any trouble here. About that I’
ve been cautious. I see no reason anyone would come looking for you here.’
‘All the same …’
‘You rest now, Mr Voetner. In the morning we’ll talk about it further.’
She put her hands on her knees and got up from the chair with some difficulty.
‘Your gun’s under the pillow, if you’re interested. I put your other things on the mantle over there.’ She indicated the tile-lined fireplace opposite the bed, turned to go, and then suddenly looked back at him over her shoulder, a devilish smile on her lips.
‘That was some to-do they had at the New National Theater this week, now wasn’t it. They say some assassin was after a diplomat.’
Their eyes locked for several moments, and Max read trust and compassion in hers. His entire body suddenly relaxed, melting into the cool sheets, and he was asleep not minutes after she closed the door in back of herself.
‘But you could have been killed,’ Catherine said, touching her husband’s cheek with the back of her hand.
They were sitting up in bed together, and she was extracting details of the latest outrage from Edward with some difficulty. Had she not spoken to her uncle at the hotel, she would never have known how heroic her husband had acted; how impulsively. Edward would not tell her about it.
‘Were you awfully frightened?’
He smiled to himself. ‘I’m getting rather used to it, actually,’ he said. ‘Twice in one week and all that.’
‘You don’t have to play the brave soldier with me, Edward.’
He grinned sheepishly, like a little boy with a secret. ‘Niel is right,’ Fitzgerald said suddenly.
‘How is that?’
‘The evening was not a complete failure. We have a very accurate description of the man now.’
‘Am I allowed to hear?’ she asked with a good deal of sarcasm in her voice.
He arched his eyebrows at her.
‘All right,’ she said, trying to rid herself of the bitter tone in her voice. ‘What does he look like? Are his eyes large and white and does he foam at the mouth?’
‘It’s hardly a laughing matter.’
‘Well, that’s how you’re treating it, isn’t it? Just laugh the danger away. Make a joke about it. Be the brave man.’
The German Agent Page 14