Miss Osborne sat behind her desk and leaned back in her chair. ‘Fill me in,’ she said.
I told her everything that had happened since I last briefed her.
‘Does Royal have any thought that Stinson was more than a custodian?’ she asked. ‘That he might be working for one of the clandestine services?’
‘Not that I know of,’ I said. ‘He hasn’t said anything to me.’
‘Good. And the FBI isn’t involved in the investigation?’
‘They’ve run background checks at Sergeant Royal’s request, but that’s all.’
‘Good, excellent,’ Miss Osborne said, nodding her approval.
‘But ma’am,’ I said, ‘I’m becoming concerned about something.’
‘Just spit it out.’
‘By not telling Sergeant Royal that Stinson worked for us and that the murder might be related to espionage we’re running the risk that Stinson’s murder might never be solved. And it throws suspicion on people who could be innocent. Royal suspects that Al Becker killed Stinson. Just because Al knew Stinson personally, they worked at the German embassy together years ago, and because Al didn’t tell him the truth about his past. And there’s no connection between Stinson and the others at the bar.’
‘Why does the murderer have to be one of the people at the bar?’
‘Because the streets were deserted due to the cold. Neighbors didn’t see anyone else in the area. Royal thinks Al murdered Stinson in the storeroom and hid the body behind the bar. He came back to the bar as a customer later to see what had happened. And because he was supposed to meet Stinson to play chess and the regular customers would wonder where he was. The bartender hadn’t called the police yet because he was terrified.’
‘You don’t think Al Becker killed Stinson, then.’
‘No, ma’am, I don’t. Just because he was born in Germany and knew Stinson, that’s not motive or evidence.’
‘I’m sorry, Louise, I can’t permit you to tell Sergeant Royal about Stinson’s work for us. There’s no way a police officer can be counted on to keep information like that confidential.’
‘But an innocent man might be arrested for murder!’
‘This is war. One person’s fate isn’t important enough to warrant jeopardizing our operation. When the publicity over Stinson’s murder dies down we are going to try to recruit one of the Swiss caretakers to take over Stinson’s work looking for intelligence.’
‘Are you sure there aren’t millions of dollars hidden in the embassy?’
Miss Osborne shrugged. ‘Of course there’s no money in the embassy. Why would the Germans keep cash there? They had bank accounts just like everyone else.’
Just because I didn’t smoke didn’t mean I couldn’t take a mid-morning break. I waited for Sergeant Royal on the corner of Virginia and ‘E’, two blocks away from the OSS campus behind the War Department. It was a spycraft given that a crowd was the best place for a private meeting. Here there were so many knots of military men, secretaries taking their cigarette breaks and men in trench coats looking enigmatic that we would be completely invisible. Just another couple standing outside having a private conversation on a cigarette break.
I was still bundled up against the cold but the sun was shining full force down on me, and it felt good.
A police car, with Dickenson at the wheel, pulled up next to me. Harvey got out of the passenger side and Dickenson drove off. Harvey limped up to me.
‘I’ve got maybe ten minutes,’ I said.
‘This won’t take that long.’ Royal looked furious. The frown lines had deepened around his mouth and eyes.
‘What’s happened?’
‘When I got to Becker’s apartment this morning he was gone.’ He lit a cigarette, cupping his lighter against the wind.
‘What do you mean, gone?’
‘He took a bunk, Louise. I listened to your instincts instead of my own. I didn’t put a watch on Al Becker, and now he’s escaped. He’s had all night to get away and we have no idea where he went.’
I was dumbfounded. And embarrassed. I’d believed so completely that Al was innocent. Was it because I felt sorry for him? If so I wasn’t anywhere near as competent as I thought I was. I’d fallen for his pitch, that he’d been badly treated because he was German born and that being considered as a murder suspect was just more of the same sort of prejudice. I couldn’t believe I’d been so naive. Had I learned so little in two years in Washington?
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Louise, I know you meant well. You’re so capable most of the time that I forget you’re a girl. You’re going to be emotional when you like someone. I should have remembered that.’
I felt the heat rise in my face and deep in my coat pockets I clenched my fists. I clamped down on my feelings; damn it, I wasn’t going to act like a girl and cry now. Royal didn’t seem to notice my distress.
‘When Dickenson and I got to the apartment Becker didn’t answer the door. So I found the super and got him to unlock it. Becker’s clothes and private items were gone. There wasn’t a scrap of paper, an old toothbrush, not even yesterday’s newspaper, in the place. I’m telling you he stripped the place like an expert.’
‘He had a fancy car. Easily identifiable.’
‘It was still in its parking spot, stripped clean too. Becker must have abandoned it because it would stick out like a sore thumb on the road. Why drive when he could catch a train at Union Station in the middle of the night and go anywhere in the country?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and then immediately regretted it. Men never apologized, so why did I feel like I had to?
‘Louise, because we’re friends, because I’ve admired your past work, I shared what I knew about this case with you. You haven’t kept anything from me, have you?’
Yes, actually, I have. I haven’t told you critical information about the murder victim: that he worked for OSS, and that his assignment was to search for intelligence documents in the German embassy. And that his murder might have something to do with his mission. And that if Al was his murderer, he might be a spy, too. And I’m hiding this from you only because OSS doesn’t want the FBI to find out that OSS is intruding on their territory. Which they would if you informed them that espionage could be behind Floyd Stinson’s murder.
As badly as I had messed this up, I still knew when to keep my mouth shut.
‘Harvey, I swear what I told you was the truth,’ I said. My lies weren’t blatant, I told myself. I just hadn’t told him everything I knew.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ My stomach cramped painfully again, but I forced my face to stay relaxed.
‘Good. I need to get back to work,’ I said.
‘Me, too.’ He dropped his cigarette butt to the sidewalk and ground it out with the sole of his shoe. He gestured for Dickenson, who’d parked across the street, to pick him up. I turned and walked east back to the OSS compound. When I got there I’d have the pleasant task of telling Miss Osborne that I’d been wrong about Al Becker. At least I could assure her that Sergeant Royal was still unaware that Floyd Stinson was an OSS operative.
It didn’t matter one bit to Miss Osborne that I had been wrong about Al Becker. Or that Sergeant Royal was angry with me.
‘As long as your sergeant doesn’t find out Floyd Stinson worked for us, you’ve done your job,’ she said. ‘That’s all that matters.’
Not to me, I wanted to say. I needed to know why Al Becker murdered his ‘friend’ Floyd Stinson. Was it personal? Did it have something to do with Stinson’s work for OSS? With the years they worked together at the German embassy? When I saw Mavis Forrester on the Taft Bridge, was she on her way to see Al? If so, why? And it still bothered me, like an unscratched itch, that Leo Maxwell and Gloria Scott had chosen the unremarkable Baron Steuben Inn to meet in for a drink. If they didn’t want to be seen in public, why not get the butler in Maxwell’s pile to fix them one? I bet the Maxwell liquor cabinet contained more
than one bottle of whiskey. Unless Al was found and tried, or Royal unearthed new evidence and readmitted me to his confidence, I would likely never know. I hated feeling that my work was unfinished. And Stinson’s murder still felt like part of my job. Which Miss Osborne had made clear was no longer the case.
‘Louise, dear,’ Miss Osborne said. ‘Please pay attention.’
With disbelief I realized that Miss Osborne had been speaking to me and I hadn’t been listening!
‘I’m so sorry, ma’am,’ I said.
‘I understand that the Stinson murder is on your mind,’ she said. ‘But that’s over for you now. We have other work to do.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ I was mortified. For the second time today I’d been reprimanded by someone whose opinion of me I cared about very much. I needed to pull myself together before I completely lost my reputation for competence.
I pulled my heavy cardigan around my shoulders. It was cold in Miss Osborne’s office, but not as cold as it had been. We didn’t need to wear coats, and Miss Osborne had discarded her ushanka and substituted a scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. We’d turned the conference room back to its original purpose and been told we could go home tonight. Our adventure in holding down the fort was over, at least until the next bout of bitter weather or flu epidemic.
Miss Osborne and I were in her office and glad of the privacy. I took out my notebook and pencil and waited for her instructions. She pulled a sheet of paper out of a file folder and handed it to me.
‘Merle’s rendering of Krampus,’ she said.
It was perfect. Brilliant, in fact. Merle had spent so much time recently forging German materials I’d almost forgotten he was an artist. The creature that leaped out from his drawing would give anyone nightmares, even someone not familiar with the Krampus legend. The black, hairy creature lunged at me off the drawing paper. His back legs, one human and one cloven, propelled him forward. Glaring eyes, a long red pointed tongue and dirty sharp teeth filled his face. Enormous goat horns crowned his head. He brandished a whip in one hand and gripped a basket in the other. A basket to transport people into Hell.
‘It’s wonderful,’ I said. ‘Perfect. Has Merle laid out the card yet?’
‘The drawing is astonishingly good, yes. But I’m afraid the Planning Committee has rejected it.’
‘What?’ I said, taken completely by surprise for the second time that day.
‘General Donovan felt, and so did the rest of the members, that using a fairy tale character on the card would not be effective.’
‘Krampus is not just any fairy tale character. He’s, well, ancient. Historic. A part of every German’s childhood nightmares.’
‘I know, Louise.’ Miss Osborne’s all-business expression was replaced with a look of sympathy. ‘I understand. I explained all that. I liked your concept myself, or I wouldn’t have presented it. The committee wants something, well, less …’
‘Creative.’
She smiled at me. ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Do we need to look for another idea?’
‘The Committee has taken care of that for us.’ She pulled another sheet of paper out of the folder. ‘This will be the background to the card, in a shadowed grey, with the same words, “The worst is yet to come”, superimposed in heavy black.’
The background was just a jumble of Allied flags. I didn’t see the point to it. I was pretty sure the German people were already acquainted with their enemies’ flags.
‘This is it?’
‘Yes.’
I wanted to ball up the artwork and throw it across the room, but instead I handed the paper back to her.
‘Merle said you could keep his drawing of Krampus if you liked.’
I would like. I tucked it into my bag.
‘Now,’ Miss Osborne said. ‘Time to move on.’
On the way to lunch I stopped at Merle’s office, retrieved the drawing from my bag and knocked on his door. He called out to me to come in. He was at his drawing board as usual, the heels of his cowboy boots hooked over the bars of his stool, his walls crowded with samples and alphabet charts and sketches. He noticed the Krampus drawing in my hand.
‘You got the bad news, then,’ he said.
‘Yes, indeed I did.’
‘Fools. Bureaucrats should manage and let us think and create,’ he said. ‘What a waste.’
I held the paper out to him. ‘Would you sign and date this for me?’
He grinned and took it from me, signing it in ink with a flourish.
‘This is the first original work of art I’ve ever owned,’ I said. ‘Really, Merle, it’s great.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I worked hard on it. Less on the flags.’
Back in my own office I carefully pinned Krampus to the wall where I could see him from my desk. I was in the mood to be leered at. It was only lunchtime and I’d already been humiliated twice.
I opened the door to ‘Two Trees’ with relief. I’d come to think of it as home, and I was glad to be home. Away from my failures for a night, anyway. I dumped my valise on the floor and hung up my coat, hat and scarf on the already overloaded coatrack. The odor of Dellaphine’s fried chicken drifted down the hall toward me. We had her fried chicken once a week, but I never tired of it. Especially if it was served with mashed potatoes and green beans cooked with fatback. Yes, with the coming of the war Washington, DC had become a cosmopolitan city and world capital, but in some ways it was still a Southern town.
Phoebe came out of the lounge to greet me. She wore one of her pretty caftans and her hair had been freshly washed and pin-curled.
‘Phoebe!’ I said. ‘I’m so glad to see you up and about!’
‘Thank you, I feel much better. So does Ada. She’s gone to work tonight.’ Phoebe took me by the hand and drew me toward the lounge. ‘Come and have a drink with Henry and Milt and me. We’re toasting my good health.’
I would much rather have gone up to my room and collapsed on my bed and fixed myself a martini from the gin and vermouth I hid in my pajama drawer but I couldn’t say no to Phoebe. So I settled on the davenport and drew my feet up under me, first kicking off my shoes.
‘So you’re back from your adventures,’ Henry said, sipping from a highball glass. A bottle of Jack sat on the cocktail table in front of him. Things had sure changed around here, I thought. When I’d first arrived we weren’t permitted to drink in the lounge unless Phoebe suggested it, usually on Friday nights, but now the men had a drink whenever they wanted one. Milt had a highball glass in his one hand, too. Phoebe still frowned on Ada and me drinking at will, but Ada mostly went out to imbibe and I had my stash in my bedroom.
‘Let me get you a sherry,’ Phoebe said to me, pouring from a cut-glass-and-sterling sherry decanter into a tiny stemmed glass. I’d rather have had an inch of Henry’s Jack, but there were some allowances I had to make for Phoebe’s feelings.
‘Sleeping on a cot in my office isn’t what I’d call an adventure,’ I said, answering Henry.
‘What would you call it, then?’ Henry asked.
‘It was more like a girl scout camping trip,’ I said.
‘I still think it’s highly inappropriate,’ Phoebe said, handing me my tiny glass of sherry. I took it from her and sipped from it in what I trusted was a ladylike fashion.
‘Mother, really,’ Milt said. ‘You’re so old-fashioned. Louise has a job to do, and she can take care of herself.’
‘We were well chaperoned, I assure you,’ I said.
‘Warm too, I hope,’ Henry said.
‘Very.’
‘I still believe that a single woman must be careful of her reputation,’ Phoebe said. ‘It’s one thing that will never change, I don’t care what the ladies’ magazines or the government say.’
I was trying to think of a reply when Milt set his glass noisily down on the table, as if he wanted us to notice that he didn’t refill it. When he’d first returned from the Pacific without his left arm he drank quite a lot. He seemed
to have accepted his disability now and wanted us to know it. Washington was full of men who were much worse off than Milt; you saw men in wheelchairs and blind men learning to walk with white canes on the streets every day.
‘Oh, Joe telephoned earlier today,’ Phoebe said, her worries about me subdued for a while.
I felt my gut contract. Why would Joe be calling the boarding house in the middle of the day?
‘Really?’ Henry asked. ‘What did he want?’
‘He said he’d be out of town for work for quite a while and didn’t want us to worry if we didn’t hear from him,’ she said.
‘How long will he be gone?’ I asked, hoping no one would notice the quaver in my voice.
‘He didn’t say.’
‘Did he say where he was going?’ Henry asked.
‘Of course not,’ Phoebe answered. ‘No one tells anyone anything anymore. Everything is top, top secret.’
‘I can’t imagine why a university lecturer would leave town in the middle of a college semester,’ Milt said. ‘It makes no sense. I wonder what the man actually does.’
I leaped in to protect Joe’s cover. ‘You know, if the military needs someone to teach a language somewhere they’d pull a lecturer from the university if they needed to.’
‘I suppose so,’ Milt said, picking up the evening paper.
Dellaphine’s scrumptious fried chicken settled like rocks in my stomach. I was so worried about Joe it was all I could do to conceal my feelings, much less eat. Where could he be headed? He worked for the Joint Distribution Committee, a Jewish charity, now working covertly to help Jewish refugees escape occupied Europe. Teaching Slavic languages was his cover. He could be on his way back to New York, or on a flight to Lisbon, Geneva, even Algiers. Anywhere Jews fleeing the Nazi regime might congregate. Maybe he’d been assigned to a permanent job overseas. Depending on his mission I might not hear from him for months. For a second I didn’t think I could bear it and almost burst into tears. But crying was something a modern girl wasn’t supposed to do these days.
Louise's Lies Page 12