Miss Osborne patted her ushanka. It was made of sheepskin, with the skin on the outside and the wool lining the inside. It was too big for her and settled on her head just above her glasses, even with the forehead flap tied up. The earflaps tied snugly under her chin.
‘You’re just jealous,’ she said. ‘My father brought this back after the First World War. He was part of the American Expeditionary Force in Siberia. He claimed this hat was the only reason he got back to the States with both ears still attached to his head.’
‘Wait, Miss Osborne,’ I said, as she turned to leave the room. ‘I have to tell you something terribly important.’
‘Tell me in the conference room, why don’t you; we can get coffee on the way.’
‘I’d rather do it here, where I know we can talk in private,’ I said.
She raised an eyebrow, then sat on the corner of my desk.
‘Spit it out.’
‘Have you read the Post this morning?’
‘I read it cover to cover every morning, you know that.’
‘Did you see the article about the corpse in the Baron Steuben Inn?’
‘The one where a murder victim was hidden behind a bar while there were customers on the premises? I sure did. What a story. And the Maxwell heir was there with his current inamorata. That should keep the gossip columnists busy.’
‘I was there too,’ I said.
‘What! Oh, Louise, no you weren’t!’
‘I was with my friend Joe Prager.’
‘Joe Prager? Do I know him?’ I explained that Joe was my Czech friend who was able to help us answer some questions we had about a German–Czech town when we were interviewing German prisoners of war a few months ago.
‘Joe has a British passport and a job here. He teaches Slavic languages at George Washington University. He used to room at my boarding house.’
‘You know how OSS Security hates publicity of any kind.’
‘Yes, ma’am, but the article didn’t mention my name. The press was more interested in Maxwell and his girlfriend. And the barkeep.’
‘Tell me the whole story.’
I told her everything.
She chewed on her pencil for a minute. ‘You were interviewed by the police, of course.’
That was when I told her that I knew Sergeant Royal very well.
‘He doesn’t know that you work for OSS!’
I felt my neck begin to knot and pain threaten my temples.
Seeing my expression, Miss Osborne leaped to her feet.
‘Louise! No!’
‘I assisted him when he investigated the death of an OSS staffer. Remember the man who drowned in the tidal pool? You must have read about it in my file.’
‘Oh,’ she said, subsiding, ‘that. Well, you haven’t done anything wrong. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Do you think this Sergeant Royal will keep you out of this?’
‘He’ll do his best,’ I said. ‘We became quite good friends. There were plenty of other witnesses. Joe and I were the last people to come into the bar before the body was discovered, so I don’t think we’ve got any unique information.’
‘OK. Just keep me informed. Anything I need to pass on to Security, let me know.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said.
‘And this Joe person,’ she said. ‘You know Security doesn’t like our personnel fraternizing with refugees, even if they are respectable.’
‘He’s just a friend.’
‘Don’t attract attention to yourselves.’ She stood up and adjusted her heavy sweater. ‘Let’s get on to the conference room.’
At least she hadn’t told me to cut off Joe, I thought, as I followed her down the hall. I didn’t know what I’d do if I ever got a direct order not to see him. The thought made my stomach knot into a painful ball that felt like I’d swallowed a walnut whole.
We stopped at the coffee table and filled our cups on the way to the conference room. As Miss Osborne stirred her milk into her coffee she smiled at me in an odd way, as if she was keeping a secret from me.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Let’s just say you’re going to be surprised when you meet the person we’re conferring with this morning. Pleasantly surprised.’
Merle was already in the conference room with another man, a civilian sitting with his legs crossed, reading the contents of a thick folder. He was an ordinary-looking person, perhaps better dressed than the average bureaucrat, except for the odd impression he gave because his hair was dark and slicked back but his beard was white and curly. He looked up from his work when Miss Osborne and I entered and stood up. My mouth went dry when I saw his face full on. It was Rex Stout! One of my favorite authors. I consumed his books like Milt went through a can of Vienna sausages. Of course I loved Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin, but I’d recently discovered Dol Bonner, the female private eye he’d introduced in The Hand in the Glove.
Miss Osborne untied the earflaps of her hat but left them hanging down over her ears. ‘Mr Stout, I’d like you to meet Mrs Louise Pearlie, my assistant. She’s a dedicated reader of detective novels.’
As Stout reached out to shake my hand I quickly wiped mine on my trousers so he wouldn’t feel how clammy it was.
‘Nice to meet you,’ he said.
‘Lovely to meet you, too,’ I said, managing to get the words out without stammering. ‘I am a fan of your books. I admire Dol Bonner. We need more female characters in detective fiction. I hope she’ll appear in more of your books.’
Stout smiled. ‘I’m glad,’ he said, ‘I’m fond of her too. And yes, I do have future plans for her.’
I would have liked to ask him how he managed to write an entire book in thirty-five days, when he began typing knowing just a few characters and the murder victim, but I knew he was in the office on business. Stout was president of the Writers’ War Board, an agency of professional writers who offered to write war propaganda for the government. He had put his own work on hold to keep himself available to the government for whatever they might need from him.
‘I know you’re due in General Donovan’s office in a few minutes,’ Miss Osborne said to Stout as we took our seats around the conference table. ‘But we do have a request for you today.’
Stout pulled a reporter’s notebook and a gold fountain pen out of his jacket pocket.
‘We simply must have more women,’ Miss Osborne said. ‘The government is short of the clerical staff it needs and the Women’s Army Corps hasn’t met its recruitment objectives. We need a new approach to convincing women to go out to work.’ Stout glanced up. ‘What do you think is the main reason women aren’t responding? We need to know so we can tailor a plan.’
Miss Osborne sighed. ‘We really don’t know. Our recruitment ads and pamphlets cover every question we think a woman might have about working in government. Young single women respond much better than women with children, as you might guess, but we don’t know how to convince them.’
‘It must be the children, then,’ I said. ‘It’s natural for mothers to want to care for their children.’
‘The day nursery system is excellent,’ Miss Osborne said. ‘Beneficial for the children as well as the mothers.’
‘Is that actually the case?’ Merle asked.
‘All the surveys indicate so,’ Miss Osborne said. ‘Children have fun and learn during the day while their mothers work, and mothers are pleased with the results.’
‘What you need are stories,’ Stout said. ‘You can assure women their children will do well in day nurseries, but telling them won’t convince them. You must show them. I’d suggest we work on some newspaper feature articles with actual women who are well pleased with the nurseries that keep their children, and perhaps some fiction short stories for the women’s magazines.’
‘We’re willing to try any approach,’ Miss Osborne said. ‘Otherwise the country might need to draft women for war work.’
Stout whistled. ‘That would cause an uproar.’
‘The Board meets in New York City next week. Faith Baldwin and Mary Roberts Rinehart are on our advisory committee. I’ll ask them to recommend a campaign to the Board. We could have stories in print within six weeks or so.’
‘Thank you. We’ll hope for a good result,’ Miss Osborne said.
‘I must go to my meeting or I’ll be late,’ Stout said. He tore a page out of his notebook and scribbled on it before tucking the notebook back into his jacket pocket. Then he handed the page to me. It read, ‘Mrs Pearlie, keep reading Dol, all best, Rex Stout.’
I’d encountered celebrities at OSS and around Washington before. I’d seen John Wayne at lunch with John Ford, who headed the OSS Film Unit, a couple of times. You couldn’t miss Wayne; he towered over everyone else in the OSS cafeteria. I even had a short conversation once with Clark Gable at a party. He was sad and preoccupied, though, since his wife, Carole Lombard, had died shortly before.
But Rex Stout! Wow! And I couldn’t tell a soul that I’d met him or that I’d gotten his autograph.
Officer Dickenson left the engine idling to keep the police car warm while he and Sergeant Royal waited until it was time to go to Leo Maxwell’s house for their appointment. They were a bit early, and it wouldn’t do to irritate rich people. They got so riled up when their schedules were disturbed. Both men lit cigarettes while they waited, filling the car with clouds of smoke.
‘You’ve shaved,’ Dickenson said to Royal, in between inhalations. ‘And your tie is clean.’
‘I felt it would be in my best interests to look presentable today,’ Royal said. ‘I expect that Leo Maxwell will have heard from his lawyer by now and will understand that he has to allow me to interview him. These are people who wear clean shirts every day, after all. They must have some familiarity with the law.’
‘Good idea,’ Dickenson said, glancing at his watch.
‘It’s still too early,’ Royal said. ‘Relax.’
Dickenson cranked his window down and threw out his cigarette butt. He’d parked out in front of the ugly Victorian mansion that had once been the German embassy, which was just a few houses down from the Maxwell pile. The entire German legation had been escorted out of the building a few days after Germany declared war on the United States on December 11, 1941. It had been shuttered ever since, protected by that useful neutral country, Switzerland.
‘That place gives me the creeps,’ he said to Royal.
‘What, the old embassy?’ Royal was lighting up another cigarette. ‘It’s just an empty building.’
‘It looks like a mausoleum,’ Dickenson said. ‘With the windows blocked off by blackout curtains night and day. Not a human being in sight.’
‘Not what it used to be,’ Royal said, glancing over at the building and shrugging. ‘How the mighty have fallen.’
‘Do you believe the things they say about what happened there?’
‘What things?’
‘You know, the parties.’
‘Sure,’ Royal said. ‘I had a buddy that did some security there on his off hours. I think the word he used was “depraved”. Caviar heaped in gold dishes, champagne fountains and dancing in three different ballrooms. He said the crystal chandeliers were as big as refrigerators. The women were draped in jewels. They looked like Christmas trees with breasts, he said. And every one of the thirty bedrooms in the place was put to good use. Most of the people who went to those parties weren’t even German. They were rich Americans and embassy people from friendly countries.’
‘And the spying? I heard the entire top floor was full of communications equipment.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘Do you believe the stories about the money?’
Royal cranked down his window and quickly threw out his cigarette butt before rolling it up again. ‘That there’s millions of American dollars in cash hidden inside the building somewhere? Money the Nazis used to pay all their spies and informants? Maybe.’
‘You don’t think the Swiss took it when they got control of the building?’
‘Nah. The last thing the Swiss need is more money. They’re rolling in it. They’ll come out of this war richer than ever. And they’ll want to hedge their bets. When the end of the war comes they’ll turn over that embassy just like they got it. It’s the way they are.’ Royal glanced at his watch. ‘Come on. Time to call on the Maxwell family.’
Merle leaned back in his chair after Rex Stout had left the conference room. A rangy Texan who’d been a newspaper illustrator before the war, he was now a forger for OSS. Honestly, the man could copy anything. He spoke and read German too, since his grandparents were immigrants and never learned English, although his Texas accent caused some hilarity among the native German speakers at OSS.
‘Get yourself some more coffee,’ he said. ‘There’s even sugar.’
I peeled off the outer layer of my clothing and poured myself a cup. It was lovely and warm in the room, thanks to the army tent stove that had been set up in a corner. The potbellied stove looked like a miniature of the big one that heated my grandparents’ house for years. I’d bet anything that it was surplus from the First World War. The stovepipe ran up and out a hole that had been cut in the wall and chinked with cement. A couple of scuttles of coal sat on the floor.
‘Now,’ Miss Osborne said.
‘What’s this all about?’ Merle said. ‘I know there’s always plenty of work to do, but shouldn’t we be at home avoiding the flu and the cold for a couple of days?’
‘We have an urgent project to plan,’ Miss Osborne said. ‘It can’t wait until everyone is healthy and the weather is better.’
She pulled a file out of her bag and I reached for a notepad and pencil.
She flipped through the pages of her files and then looked up at the two of us.
‘You are aware that President Roosevelt, Churchill and Stalin met in Tehran to discuss the invasion of Europe, the Second Front that must happen as soon as possible.’
‘Before the Russians are defeated,’ Merle said.
Miss Osborne smiled. ‘The Russians will never be defeated,’ she said. ‘Exhausted, out of supplies, ordnance and fresh troops, yes, but never defeated.’ The resilience of the Russian people and the stoicism of their troops had become legendary. Winter was their favorite season to fight, and they had begun their winter drive. The Russian people slept with their guns and ate their pets without complaint. There were rumors of Russian soldiers with eight wound stripes. And I’d heard from OSS observers who’d returned from the Russian front that as soon as a wounded Russian soldier came out of anesthesia, the orderlies threw a machine gun into bed with him, and he’d spend his convalescence taking it apart, cleaning it and reassembling it.
‘Maybe only ten people in the world know the actual plan for the invasion, but we do know it will come in the spring, while the Russians can still force Hitler to stay engaged in the east,’ Miss Osborne said. ‘The President briefed General Eisenhower in Carthage on his way home.’
The spring! What, five months from now? How could the Allies possibly stage the invasion of a continent bristling with firepower in that amount of time!
‘General Eisenhower and the military’s job will be the invasion. Our job in the psychological warfare services will be to wage a war within a war, distracting Hitler and the Germans from the invasion plan. Starting now.’
‘But we don’t know what the plan is yet, do we?’ I asked. Intense arguments took place all over Washington about the pros and cons of an invasion of France versus throwing Allied strength behind our position in Italy.
‘No, but General Donovan wants us to craft a new operation, one that’s simple, concrete, on the ground, that will begin to affect Axis morale. Before the holidays.’
‘Ruin Christmas for the Nazis,’ Merle said.
‘This is what can’t wait, what I want you two to start on today. We need to devise a plan and get it to London so it can be imple
mented immediately.’
‘We know nothing about the Allied invasion plans, but we want to distract the German military and worry the German people,’ I said. ‘Make them feel in danger.’
‘Exactly,’ Miss Osborne said.
‘Sure,’ Merle said. ‘We should be able to do that in a day.’
Miss Osborne dumped a stack of files and papers on the table. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘This is what’s going on in Europe. Let’s refresh our memories first.’
The Allies hadn’t invaded Fortress Europe yet, but we were already circling its walls. The Reds were somehow still holding off the Germans outside Kiev. The Fifth Army was within striking distance of Rome, planning to be there by Christmas, but their gains were measured in single miles. In August the Nazi government had moved major ministries out of Berlin to Vienna to escape RAF bombing runs over the capital city. The German military had moved resources to southern Germany and northern Italy to stop Allied forces moving north from southern Italy. There were probably fewer divisions in France now than at any time since the Germans occupied it. Which sounded to me like a good reason to invade through France.
OSS was in Europe now too. ‘Blueblood Bruce’, David K.E. Bruce, who had the challenging job of working with our British cousins, MI5, MI6 and the Special Operations Executive, all of which ran competing spy networks in France, headed our London office. OSS funneled piles of money to the European resistance, especially the French Maquis, to finance underground mayhem on the continent, annoying both the British and the French.
Since October, the first clandestine anti-Nazi radio station, Soldatensender Calais, broadcast a mixture of truth and fiction from England deep into Germany, reaching soldiers and citizenry alike. OSS provided a dozen writers and musicians to the radio station. Marlene Dietrich recorded special anti-Nazi songs for it in a recording studio in New York City.
OSS had a presence in the neutral countries, too. Allen Dulles was our spymaster in Bern. Colonel Robert Solborg commanded OSS in Lisbon, the spy capital of the world, the European city that harbored every European who could buy, barter, bribe or murder their way out of the occupied continent. Lisbon groaned under the weight of frightened refugees trapped between the Axis powers and the Atlantic Ocean. Much of Joe’s work was directed to finding the ships that would rescue Jewish refugees and carry them to safety.
Louise's Lies Page 7