Louise's Lies

by Sarah R. Shaber

  ‘What does this have to do with Floyd’s murder?’

  ‘Please answer my questions, Mr Becker.’

  ‘I immigrated here after the First World War,’ Al said. ‘My wife was an American, so when we married I became a citizen.’

  ‘What did you do for a living? Did you speak English then?’

  ‘I was a bicycle messenger,’ Al said. ‘I had strong legs. I took English in a class at the Post Office. With my wife’s help I became fluent quickly and finished a clerical course. I went to work at the zoo in administration in 1933.’

  ‘Mr Becker,’ Dickenson said, ‘would you mind if I used your bathroom?’

  Al turned to him. ‘Officer,’ he said, ‘if you want to look around my apartment, go right ahead. You won’t see any swastikas or pictures of Hitler.’

  Royal nodded at Dickenson, who got up and went back toward the bedroom and bathroom.

  ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ Royal asked Al.

  ‘Not at all,’ Al said, getting up to fetch an ashtray.

  Royal took his time tapping a cigarette out of a pack of Camels and lighting it, giving Al time to compose himself.

  ‘I don’t mean to insult you, Mr Becker,’ he said. ‘But the murder victim was an acquaintance of yours, and you were in the bar when his body was discovered.’

  The flush of anger faded from Al’s cheeks. ‘I understand. It is hard to be of German birth these days. None of my neighbors speak to me anymore, even though we were friends before the war.’

  ‘You told me that you didn’t know Floyd Stinson well?’

  ‘That’s correct. I met him in the bar.’

  ‘Why go so far from your neighborhood?’

  ‘The Baron Steuben used to stock a large selection of German beers. It’s close to the old German embassy, you know. And my wife and I attended the Lutheran church around the corner. I enjoyed going there and speaking my native language. When Hitler came to power I stopped, I couldn’t bear the Nazi uniforms and flags. But after the embassy closed I began to return again. I hoped to run into old friends, but I didn’t. Everything has changed so much. But I did meet Floyd, and since he lived nearby and didn’t have a car, I continued to go to the Baron Steuben for our chess games.’

  ‘I find it hard to believe you didn’t know what he did for a living,’ Royal said.

  Al shrugged. ‘I didn’t think much of it. I figured he had a government job in some office. That’s why I was so surprised to see him in work clothes when I saw his body.’

  ‘Did you ever see him outside of playing chess?’

  ‘Sometimes we had dinner first at a café down the street. But it was closed yesterday because of the weather.’

  Dickenson came back into the living room. ‘The place is clean, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me, Sergeant, have you searched the homes of the other people who were in the bar?’ Al asked. ‘Or did you do that just because I was born in Germany?’

  ‘Yeah, because you’re German,’ Royal said. ‘Get over it. We’re at war.’

  I was intensely relieved to open the door and find Sergeant Royal on my doorstep. Officer Dickenson wasn’t with him.

  ‘Please come in,’ I said. ‘I’m glad to see you. I thought maybe you wouldn’t make it today.’

  Royal limped inside and shed his outer clothing. I hung it on the crowded coatrack. ‘Where’s your sidekick?’ I asked him.

  ‘Sent him on an errand so you and I could have a friendly conversation,’ Royal said. ‘I don’t want him to know that you and I are friends, and that you helped me work a murder case a while back. Figured you didn’t want him to know, either.’

  I certainly didn’t. And neither did OSS.

  ‘We’re low on coffee,’ I said. ‘Can I get you something else? Tea? Hot chocolate?’

  ‘Now that hot chocolate sounds good,’ Royal said. ‘I haven’t had any in years.’

  I showed Royal into the lounge and went back to the kitchen. Heating milk until just a few bubbles showed around the edge of the pot, I stirred in cocoa and sugar until the granules dissolved. When I took the mug into the lounge Royal had made himself comfortable, propping one leg on the cocktail table.

  ‘I can tell how much your knees hurt,’ I said. ‘I thought you were going to retire by now? Can’t you have anything for the pain?’

  ‘I can’t take laudanum during the day. It affects me, makes it hard to concentrate. What I need is to quit and get off my feet. But I reckon I’m going to have to work until the end of the war. Dickenson is a help.’

  He sipped on the steaming chocolate. ‘Man, that’s good,’ he said. ‘Brings back memories. So tell me why you’re so glad to see me.’

  ‘You know I’ll have to inform my superiors about the murder,’ I said. ‘But then you’d said not to mention this at work until we talked. I couldn’t do that. If my boss sees my name in the newspapers as a witness in a murder investigation and I haven’t told her I’ll be out of my job. And I like working.’

  ‘Her? Your boss is a woman?’

  I didn’t answer him directly. ‘I have a new position. It’s more confidential than the last one.’

  ‘Good,’ Royal said, finishing his cocoa. ‘You were wasted as a file clerk.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘No details of your new duties are available?’ he asked.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Police work was hard enough before the war, before everyone in this town had some vital secret to keep,’ he said. He pulled out his notebook. ‘Look, I’m going to read the statement you made last night. If it’s OK I’ll get it typed up as it is. There’s no reason for you to tell me the whole story again.’

  He read it to me, almost word for word what I had said last night.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said.

  Royal stuck the notebook back in his pocket.

  ‘Are you done with your interviews now?’ I asked.

  ‘Are your fellow boarders apt to walk in?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. Ada and Phoebe are in bed resting. Dellaphine and Madeleine are downstairs in their room. Milt and Henry are upstairs in theirs. Since we have flu in the house we’re allowed to keep the heat turned up, and everyone is using that time to be by themselves instead of crammed together down here in front of the fireplace or in the kitchen.’

  ‘Considering your security clearance I don’t mind telling you that I talked to your friend Joe Prager before I came here. Of course he verified everything you said. He seemed OK for a foreigner.’

  I felt myself bristle. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘It seems like half the people in this town got here after 1938, too many of them from other countries. How can I check on their backgrounds? How do I know if they are who they say they are? I don’t. Your friend could be a renowned European jewel thief using a forged passport.’

  I couldn’t help but smile when I pictured Joe dressed in black scaling the rooftops of Paris or Monaco.

  ‘Don’t laugh, it’s not funny.’

  ‘Not to you, maybe. So what can you tell me?’

  ‘The first thing Dickenson and I did this morning was interview Cal. He stuck to that loony story of his, that he found the body behind the bar and decided not to do anything about it until closing time! But he’s just brainless enough, and scared enough, to do it.’

  ‘He was so terrified the entire time we were in the bar, we thought he was deathly ill.’

  ‘He’s not healthy, that’s clear. I doubt he’s strong enough to have done the deed. Which doesn’t mean he’s not involved, of course. And as Dickenson and I left the crime scene, newspaper reporters and photographers were hovering like vultures around the bar, just waiting for the scene to be released so they could take their grisly photographs. I’m sure they’ve found Cal too by now and pumped him for details. Too late for today’s paper; it will all be laid out in tomorrow’s.’

  ‘I’m praying they leave my name out of their stories,’ I said.

  Royal
shrugged. ‘With luck they’ll be more interested in the victim and the society parasites who slipped out the back door than in you. Speaking of whom, I couldn’t talk to the lovebirds today. I didn’t make it past the butler at the Maxwell pile. It’s just a few mansions down from the Baron Steuben on the other side of Massachusetts, the fancy side. The butler said Maxwell wasn’t in, and I couldn’t prove he was. I’ll get to him eventually. And we can’t locate Mrs Scott. She’s checked out of her hotel. Avoiding the press, I guess. We’ll run her to ground too, though. Then we went to see Mavis Forrester. She had nothing new to add to your story, either. That broad is tough, I am telling you.’

  ‘She was reading her book the entire time we were waiting for the police. She didn’t seem more than irritated that there was a body behind the bar.’ The phrase still sounded like the title of an Agatha Christie whodunit to me. ‘Did you notice her mink coat?’

  ‘Yeah, takes a lot of pocket lettuce to buy one of those. You wouldn’t expect her to be alone. Without a man, I mean. And Al Becker puzzles me. I can’t quite believe that he didn’t know any more about Stinson than he said he did. If they played chess every week, what did they talk about? And he has a chip on his shoulder. Says that people distrust him because he’s German.’

  ‘I don’t blame him,’ I said. ‘He’s an American. Has been for years now. It must be awful for people to dislike him just because he has a German accent.’

  ‘What does he expect? We’re in the middle of a world war started by Germany. It’s not my job to be considerate and understanding. It’s my job to find out who killed Floyd Stinson.’

  Royal finished his cocoa and set the mug down on the coffee table. He stretched his leg, moving it from the coffee table to the floor, wincing.

  ‘Then I went on to talk to Walt,’ he continued. ‘He was just what I expected. Low on amps and voltage. Lives in a two-bedroom apartment with his wife and kids. He’s driven the same bus route up and down Massachusetts Avenue for years. He told me that he’d seen Al, Floyd and Mavis on his bus before, many times. Every Saturday night he meets his friend Chippy at the Baron Steuben for sandwiches and beer. Then I moved on to Chippy. He’s a loser who lives in a dingy room in an alley boarding house. Since he’s a jailbird the only work he could find was as a pinsetter in a bowling alley, a colored boy’s job. He ran off from the bar because he didn’t want anything to do with the police. I’m inclined to think neither he nor Walt is involved in the murder.’

  ‘So what you’re telling me, Officer Royal, is that you’ve got nothing,’ I said to him, grinning.

  ‘Not yet. But I’ll find out who killed Floyd Stinson. Police work is more about persistence than anything else. Stubbornness is my finest attribute. There’s one thing that’s really unusual about this case, though.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No one seems to know anything about the victim. Even though he’s been playing chess with Al for months, and frequented the bar before that, the other regulars didn’t know where he lived or worked. We’ll take his fingerprints at the morgue, of course, and ask the FBI to run them. Then we’ll know more about him than his mother does.’

  The FBI. The last people in Washington I wanted to have anything to do with – any more than I already had, that was.

  ‘At least you have a good timeline of events at the bar to work with,’ I said.

  Royal grinned at me. ‘You think so?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  He shook his head. ‘Louise,’ he said, ‘I believe you told me the truth. As to what happened before you and your friend Mr Prager walked into the bar, I don’t know for sure, and neither do you. Everyone else there could be lying in their teeth.’

  FIVE

  I slipped quietly downstairs and looked for the Washington Post. Dellaphine had brought it in, but it lay untouched on the cocktail table in the lounge. I grabbed it up and leafed through until I reached the crime section. ‘Body behind a Bar, while Customers Drank’, the headline blared. My stomach clutched again. The subheadings read ‘Maxwell Heir and Gloria Scott Flee’ and ‘Bartender Tells Gruesome Tale’. A photograph focusing on the interior of the Baron Steuben Inn, plus an old photo of Maxwell and Scott, completed the visual side of the story. I skimmed the article and didn’t find my name, or Joe’s. Or Walt’s, Chippy’s or Al’s. We were just ‘other witnesses’. Cal was the star of the piece. He talked his head off to the reporter, including all the gory details. I was ready to bet that bar would be packed tonight, despite the persistent cold weather. Cal could hold forth to the customers and collect some good tips. His boss would be happy and wouldn’t fire him.

  After catching my breath I reread the article more carefully. My name was still not there, thank God. That was something positive I could tell Miss Osborne. I folded the paper just as Milt came into the room

  ‘You’re up early,’ he said. Then he spied the luggage I’d brought downstairs with me.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ he asked.

  ‘Work,’ I said. ‘I may be gone for a couple of nights.’

  ‘Mother won’t approve,’ he said. He sat on the davenport and shook out the paper with one hand, opening it to the classified ads.

  ‘I know. She’s already told me,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. The world has changed, and she’ll have to accept it someday. God knows,’ he said, looking at his empty sleeve, ‘it’s changed for me.’ He flipped a page.

  ‘Looking for a new job?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah. I just can’t see myself as an elevator operator for the rest of my life, even if it only takes one arm.’

  The unmarked black Chevy coupe pulled up to the curb. I spotted it through the window; it was too gusty outside to wait on the sidewalk. I grabbed my valise and dashed out. The driver didn’t get out to open the door for me, and I didn’t blame him. I opened the back door myself, hearing the lock crackle as the ice inside shattered, and flung my valise into the back seat, sliding in after it. The car heater was blasting, thank goodness.

  It wasn’t far to the OSS compound. Traffic was light, since so many people were either home sick or told to stay away from work. The Chevy pulled up at the back gate of the compound. This time the driver opened the door for me. I toted my valise to the gate, where the guard, who was wearing an army parka trimmed with fur, nodded me through when he saw my OSS badge.

  Que building was at the southwest corner of the OSS complex, a walled compound tucked between ‘E’ Street and Constitution. The Potomac River and the Water Gate were just a couple of blocks to the west where Rock Creek Parkway followed the river. The War Department was two blocks away from the compound to the east. If you walked five more blocks to the east you’d run into the State Department and then into the White House.

  An army infantry company guarded both OSS and the War Department.

  Other buildings in the complex included the Old Naval Hospital, where General Donovan and the other OSS big shots had their offices. OSS staff liked to call it ‘the Kremlin’ when they were sure no one important could overhear them. Other buildings housed diverse OSS units like Procurement, Medical Services, Schools and Training, and Motor Transport. The Deputy Director of Intelligence John Magruder and his staff took up most of Central Building, which also housed the Planning Committee. One of the duties of the Planning Committee was to approve the psychological warfare operations proposed by my branch, Morale Operations. The South Building, the largest building on the campus, held Communications, Special Funds, the Naval Command, Security and the Research and Development branch. My earlier job, at the Registry, had been outside the compound at Annex #1, an old apartment house. I was thrilled to be located now where the action was, so to speak.

  The complex, usually bustling, seemed almost deserted except for our army guards, all wearing arctic gear like the guard at the gate. A few staff hurried from building to building, heads down against the chilly gusts of wind. Once inside Que I found the building even quieter than I had expected. The artists’ wor
kroom, usually a beehive of activity, held only a couple of people, one adding color to an anti-Nazi poster and another painstakingly inking in antique German letters on a pamphlet layout. A portable electric heater warmed the space so the artists could work without their coats.

  I pulled off my gloves and hat.

  ‘This is bad,’ I said. The colorist pulled off her fingerless gloves and rubbed her hands together. ‘Most of the branch is out,’ she said. ‘Everyone came down with the flu at once.’

  ‘It’s that damn cafeteria,’ the calligrapher said. ‘Crowded with people and their germs. If you don’t want to get sick you should bring your own lunch,’ he said, lifting a brown paper bag from the desk in front of him.

  Both had suitcases standing next to their chairs, so I wasn’t the only one prepared to spend the night.

  I edged open my office door. I still couldn’t get over having a workspace of my own, despite how tiny and dark it was. The typewriter, the crowded inboxes and outboxes, the office supplies, even the dreaded file cabinet, all belonged to me alone. Even better, I could work without wrapping my fingers in bandages to protect them from paper cuts or fending off other people’s elbows in the narrow aisles between the rows of files in the Registry. I didn’t see a cot set up in my office yet; surely I wouldn’t need to sleep on the floor. Someone must be bringing me one later.

  Miss Osborne, the Assistant Director of European Theater for MO and my boss, poked her head in my door. If I hadn’t been wrapped in so many layers myself I would have laughed. She wore corduroy trousers with long johns poking out at the ankles, a man’s pullover wool sweater that hung down to her knees and an ushanka with the earflaps down.

  ‘Louise,’ she said, ‘good morning. Good to see you. Don’t get settled. Leave your valise here for now, grab your typewriter and some office supplies. You and I are working in the conference room. Office Services set up a coal tent stove in there. It’s positively cozy. We, the women, that is, are going to sleep in there tonight.’

  ‘That’s quite a hat,’ I said, grinning. ‘You look like a Russian reindeer herder.’