Harriet the Spy, Double Agent

by Louise Fitzhugh

  Harriet narrowed her eyes to slits and stared at the back of Annie Smith’s head, noting the way her pink-rimmed ears stuck through her hair. I’m going to find out all your secrets, she vowed, and the thought of it made her deliciously happy. I’m going to start spying on you.

  WHY ARE THE FEIGENBAUMS SHELTERING ANNIE? IS SHE RUDE TO

  THEM? SHE APPEARS TO BE FOND OF THEIR CAT.

  Harriet paused for a moment, the tip of her pen in her mouth. She could practically hear Ole Golly exhorting her, “Write with your brain, not your tongue.” She set the pen back on the page and thought for a moment before she continued.

  NICE TO CATS ISN’T ENOUGH, she wrote, closing the notebook. She set it back in her trunk and turned the small key in its brass clasp. Her room was, as always, in order, her clothes for the following day folded neatly on top of her dresser. Spies needed to keep their possessions in readiness. One never knew when one might need to follow a lead on short notice.

  She changed into her new flannel pajamas, the ones that were cut like her father’s, with notched lapels. She imagined herself strolling onto the set of a black-and-white Hollywood movie, something with Katharine Hepburn and dark marble floors. Who is that dashing young woman? Not dashing, she decided, editing herself as she headed into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Insouciant. Yes, that was the word.

  She squeezed the paste onto her toothbrush and looked at herself in the mirror.

  Not insouciant, either, she thought. The word for this outfit is baggy.

  Harriet brushed, rinsed, and spit, set her toothbrush back into the rack and her glass in its usual spot, and switched off the light. A movement outside caught her eye.

  She stepped into the bathtub and peered out the window in time for the second and third 10

  flashes. Semaphore.

  11

  Harriet woke feeling happy, remembering the inspiration that had come to her just before sleep. She’d been lying in bed for what seemed like a very long time, trying to make herself tired by mentally tracing the shadow of every venetian-blind slat on her ceiling, when the thought had flown in like a gift: the best way to spy on Annie would be to spy with Annie.

  Spying was solitary work, she reflected as she pulled on the turtleneck sweater she’d chosen for school. Annie had time on her hands, and a good brain. Harriet would draw the girl into her daily routine, and once she had gained Annie’s confidence, and access to Morris and Barbara Feigenbaum, the answers to every mystery would be revealed. She picked up her green notebook and tucked it inside the zippered mail pouch she used to disguise it from prying eyes at the Gregory School, then sped down the four flights of stairs to the basement.

  “My Lord, what a clatter.” Cook looked at her, frowning. “You sound like a whole herd of buffalos.”

  “Buffalo. Plural and singular.”

  “Buffalo, plural, if my ears are judging.” Cook was slicing a bright red tomato for Harriet’s sandwich. There was no need to ask what she wanted for lunch—Harriet had taken a tomato and mayonnaise sandwich to school every day since her sixth birthday.

  That’s half my life, she realized with a shuddering thrill. She reached for a box of cornflakes, upending it into her favorite bowl.

  “One of these days, I am not going to find any winter tomatoes worth slicing. Not even at the Koreans’. You’ll have to eat ham or bologna like everyone else.”

  “Should that crisis arise”—Harriet opened the fridge and took out a half-gallon of milk—“I am prepared to go sandwichless. I am not everyone else.”

  “You can say that again.”

  Harriet, who secretly enjoyed these exchanges with Cook, opened her mouth.

  Cook was quicker. “But I hope you won’t.”

  Harriet shrugged and said, “That.”

  Cook looked blank. “What?”

  “I can say ‘that’ again.”

  “I can throw a tomato.”

  “But I hope you won’t.” Satisfied, Harriet poured the milk into her cornflakes, 12

  added a banana, and started to eat.

  Cook finished wrapping her sandwich and moved to the sink to rinse off the knife.

  “Are you going to school with the doctors’ niece again?” Harriet paused, spoon halfway to her mouth. Cook had once made it known that she had had offers of work from the Feigenbaums. Maybe she had inside information.

  “Why do you ask?” she inquired craftily.

  Cook shrugged, tipping her head toward the barred basement window that gave her a view of the neighboring sidewalk. “’Cause she just left her house.” Harriet leaped to her feet, grabbed her lunch box, and ran, ignoring Cook’s frustrated shouts. “Put your bowl in the sink! And don’t clatter!” The sun had come out, and the air was a little bit warmer than the day before. A man chipped away at his snowbound Toyota, and big chunks of ice fell away, crashing into the gutter. “I think doing semaphore letter by letter would take too long,” Annie said as they walked down the sidewalk. “Why can’t we have signals for whole phrases?”

  “Such as?”

  Annie thought for a moment. “‘Help, murder!’”

  “I don’t think that’s going to come up.”

  “It could.”

  “How about just ‘Help’?” said Harriet irritably. “One long flash, one short.” She opened her notebook and started to write.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” said Annie, stepping into the street. She bent down and picked up two pieces of red plastic that had cracked off someone’s taillight. She gave one to Harriet. “‘Help’ can be red.”

  The suggestion did have its dramatic appeal, but Harriet hated to let someone else make the choices. “I’ve already written One long and one short.”

  “So make that mean something else. Like ‘Did you get the homework?’” She’s taking over, thought Harriet. Whose idea was this in the first place? She opened her mouth to protest, but Annie was gazing down at the green notebook.

  “What’s in there?” she asked.

  I’ve hooked her, thought Harriet. “Nothing,” she said in a light, airy voice that implied just the opposite. “Just some notes from my spy route.”

  “Oh, that,” Annie said.

  She’s feigning disinterest, thought Harriet. I bet she’s dying to know. “I’ll be making my rounds after school, if you’d like to come with me.”

  “Why not?” Annie yawned. “I’ve got nothing better to do.” 13

  Harriet shrugged, mirroring Annie’s attitude. “If you feel like it.” They had arrived at the steps of the school. Annie turned to face Harriet. “You do understand I can’t speak to you if you won’t call me Cassandra.” This was outrageous. “I don’t see the point.” It’s my name.

  “No, it’s not.”

  “At the Gregory School, I’m Cassandra D’Amore.” Annie turned and walked straight up the stairs. I’m not going to follow, thought Harriet, folding her arms. And I’m certainly not going to call you Cassandra. Enough is enough.

  Annie was good as her word. All day long she refused to respond when anyone, even the gym teacher, addressed her as anything but Cassandra. At lunch, she unwrapped her sandwich—an onion bialy spread with chopped liver—and ate it in silence, while Harriet sat with Beth Ellen and Janie.

  “What’s in that sandwich?” asked Marion Hawthorne, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “It smells.”

  Annie didn’t respond, although Harriet noticed the tips of her ears turning pinker.

  I should come to her rescue, she thought, but she didn’t say anything.

  Marion nudged her friends Carrie and Rachel and stared at Annie’s chopped-liver bialy. “I bet someone’s hamster is missing this morning.” Carrie and Rachel broke into giggles and Marion smirked.

  “Don’t pick on Cassandra,” said Harriet. Annie looked up at her, startled, and then, for the first time, flashed her a genuine smile.

  The girls walked away from school with their backpacks and lunch boxes. “Too much geometry,” Harriet groaned. She hated m
ath homework.

  “It’s nothing,” said Annie. “I’ll show you some shortcuts. We covered most of it last year at my school in Boston.”

  “Boston?” said Harriet, suddenly beady-eyed.

  Annie took out the cracked piece of red taillight and squinted through it, closing her other eye. “So what is this spy route about?”

  “I watch people,” Harriet said, disappointed that Annie had bounced off the subject so quickly. Boston, she thought. Must remember to write that down.

  “Who?”

  “People with secrets. You know the Dei Santis?”

  “The grocery store family?”

  14

  Harriet nodded. “They’ve been on my spy route for over three years. You wouldn’t believe all the things I’ve heard. And Agatha Plumber, the rich one who lives in the mansion right next to the park? I hid in her dumbwaiter once.”

  “While she was home?” In spite of her mask of disinterest, Annie seemed impressed.

  “What would I have to spy on if she wasn’t there?” Harriet sounded severe, and reminded herself that her task was to lure Annie into the pleasures of spying. “I’ve cracked several significant cases,” she said, angling her chin for effect.

  Annie shrugged. “Okay. Where do we start?”

  Victory! thought Harriet, struggling to hide her satisfaction. “Let’s go to my house first for cake and milk.”

  “We did that yesterday.”

  “I always have cake and milk after school.”

  “Always?”

  Harriet nodded, annoyed.

  “And you always eat tomato sandwiches?”

  “So?”

  “You need some variety, Spy Girl.” Annie turned to the right.

  “My house is that way.”

  “So?” Annie was mocking her. I do not care for this, Harriet thought as her friend went on. “Let’s go around the block. Do something different for once.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it? I thought you said writers need to experience everything. What’s wrong with East Eighty-eighth Street?” It did sound a little absurd, when you looked at it that way. Harriet hesitated, thinking of Cook and her glass of cold milk.

  Annie took three more steps and turned back, impatient. “Come on, H’spy, your cake’s not going to rot. And who knows, we might find someone awesome to spy on.

  When my aunt took me to the Koreans’ last night, I noticed they’ve cleared out that vacant lot where the brownstone was knocked down last month. They had shovels and everything. Maybe they’re hiding a body.”

  That did it. Harriet hefted her backpack and set off for East Eighty-eighth Street with Annie, her new-minted partner in spying.

  “There.” Annie lifted her arm.

  “Don’t point, it’s too obvious. What am I looking at?”

  “Nothing. They’ve emptied the whole place out. Barrels of garbage. And look.” 15

  This time she jerked her head to one side without pointing. “What is that truck doing there?”

  Inside the chain-link fence was a large, battered box truck, with a couple of planks slanting down to the ground. Harriet narrowed her eyes as a tall, burly man walked out backward, holding one end of a big stack of plywood. He had a few days’ growth of beard and his face was unusually red, as if he had scrubbed it with sandpaper. He wore a strange faded hat with long flaps that hung over his ears, giving him the mournful aspect of a basset hound.

  As the girls watched, a second man, younger, emerged with the opposite end of the plywood stack, shifting his grip as the older man backed down the planks. “Easy,” he said, and the younger man nodded.

  “They’re building a coffin,” whispered Annie.

  “Let’s stake them out,” Harriet said. “Inconspicuously. Have you got any money?”

  “I might have some quarters.” Annie reached into her pocket and came up with three. Harriet opened the small zippered pouch on the side of her backpack and took out a dollar bill.

  “Excellent. Browse.” They strolled to the all-night greengrocers, Happy Fruit Farm, which everyone in the neighborhood called the Koreans’. A clear plastic jacket hung down from the awning, protecting the Granny Smith apples and clementines stacked in neat pyramids outside the shop. The girls situated themselves by a bin of mixed nuts in the shell, which gave them a clear view of the vacant lot and its activities.

  “They’re father and son,” murmured Harriet. “Look at those chins.” Annie nodded. On closer inspection, the man at the back looked no more than sixteen. He had his father’s broad shoulders but hadn’t grown into his height yet; when he set down the wood, his arms dangled awkwardly. He wore a dull brown quilted vest with an inside-out sweatshirt and threadbare jeans, and his pac boots, which looked way too large, were unlaced. He turned and walked back up the makeshift ramp. So did his father, pausing to hoist up the back of his trousers. Harriet was startled to catch a glimpse of red long Johns.

  “Where do you think they’re from?” she whispered.

  Annie whispered back, “Chicago. Gangsters posing as farmers.” I bet they are farmers, thought Harriet. She noticed the grocer’s wife staring at her, and made a great show of hand-picking just the right mixture of pecans, almonds, walnuts, and hazelnuts. Annie followed her lead without being told. She has an instinct for spying, thought Harriet, pleased to observe that Annie too picked out and threw back the Brazil nuts. “Look at the truck,” she said.

  Annie turned to weigh her collection of nuts in the hanging scale, giving herself a clearer line of sight. The two men were coming back out with a fresh load of wood.

  “What about it?” she muttered.

  “Those aren’t New York license plates,” Harriet said, feeling smug that she’d 16

  noticed this clue from a distance. “Let’s go closer and see where they’re from.”

  “New Hampshire,” said Annie, dropping the word’s final r sound and stretching the vowel in a rather convincing New England accent. Harriet looked at her. Annie shrugged. “State motto ‘Live Free or Die.’ See ’em all the time.”

  “In Boston?” Harriet watched closely to see her response.

  “There are more in New Hampshire,” said Annie. “How about we pay for these nuts and go back home and crack them? My fingers are cold.”

  “Fine,” said Harriet, giving the word a significant tone. I know why you’re changing the subject, she thought. I can wait.

  She added her nuts to Annie’s and went to the cash register, where Myong-Hee, the languid Korean beauty she often wondered about—was she a relative of the sour owners? An immigrant cousin, perhaps?— was reading a magazine.

  “One dollar forty,” Myong-Hee said. Harriet paid and went back to give Annie her change. Annie was watching the father and son in the vacant lot. Her eyes lingered on the son as he rolled back a cuff that was missing its button.

  “Big hands,” she commented. “Both of them. Murderers’ hands.” Harriet wished Annie would rein in her imagination and stick to the facts. Spying was not the same thing as fiction. But before she could raise an objection, Annie had grabbed her arm, her voice low and urgent. “We’ve got to come back here. Tonight.”

  “My parents won’t let me.”

  “Work out an excuse. You need help with geometry homework, you’re coming to my place. It’s settled. Meet me right here at eight.”

  “What if I can’t—”

  “But you can, H’spy.” Annie wheeled on one foot and set off down the block, leaving Harriet speechless.

  17

  Harriet looked at the grandfather clock in the library. Fifteen minutes till she was supposed to meet Annie. She’d spread her geometry papers all over the table, letting out such a string of frustrated sighs that her father looked up from his newspaper. “What in the world is the matter?”

  “I hate parallelograms,” Harriet said. “I can’t get them to follow the rules.”

  “If it makes you feel any better,” said Harry Welsch, who worked as a tel
evision producer, “I can’t even remember the last time I heard the word parallelogram.

  Geometry doesn’t come up much in most lines of work.” Harriet’s mother was passing along the hall. “I loved geometry,” she said brightly, sticking her head through the door. “Would you like some help?” That’s all I need, Harriet thought. There goes my excuse. Thinking fast, she said,

  “I’m almost done with my math, but Mrs. LaGoy gave us a biology work sheet that I must have left in my locker. I better call Annie.”