The houseboat’s metal sheathing blocked the wind, so inside the temperature was bearable.
‘See,’ Joe said, gesturing toward a miniature pot-bellied stove with one burner. ‘You stoke the stove with coal and wood – Lev said it takes just a few minutes to get toasty – and you can make coffee or scramble eggs on the burner.’
I imagined the inside of the houseboat when it was cozy and warm. There was a dinette, a settee that opened into a double bed, a lavatory, an icebox, a couple of storage cabinets, and even a shower. The fabric on the curtains and upholstery was a gay red and white check splashed with blue anchors. The wood cabinets and drawers gleamed.
‘So what do you think?’ Joe asked again.
‘I love it!’ I said.
‘So you’ll come?’ he asked, his voice breaking just a bit.
‘Of course,’ I said, and my voice showed my emotions too, squeaking a little.
‘Maybe next weekend,’ Joe said, taking both my hands. ‘At the latest, the weekend after that.’
My stomach clenched, whether from nerves or anticipation I couldn’t really tell. We locked eyes, our cold breath fogging around us, while Joe’s grip on my hands tightened.
‘I can’t believe it,’ I said.
‘Truthfully,’ Joe said, ‘I’ll believe it when we are actually here together. Otherwise I don’t think I could get through the next week in one piece.’
Just Joe and me alone together. For two entire days. No Phoebe. No Ada. No Henry. No Dellaphine or Madeleine. I was fond of them all – well, all except Henry – but I didn’t want them to know about our love affair, and neither did Joe. Love affair! Was I really going to go ahead with this?
Joe pulled me into his arms. I felt his soft beard on my cheek, then his mouth on mine, and then his tongue, and suddenly I was warmer than I had been in a very long time.
Joe was the first to pull away. ‘We can’t,’ he said. ‘Lev could be back at any moment.’
‘I know,’ I said.
‘He said there’s a good café across the street,’ Joe said. ‘That’s where he eats most of his meals. Let’s go get some coffee.’
The wharf where the Miriam was docked jutted out from Maine Street, which ran along the shore of the Washington Channel of the Potomac River. It was roughly halfway between the Washington Yacht Club and the steamship berths of the Potomac River Line. Maine Street dead-ended a couple of miles west, at the Army War College near the mouth of the Anacostia River, which in turn sheltered the Navy Shipyard.
So Miriam was quite secure. And so were her many neighbors. Every berth on every dock on the Potomac was taken. The housing situation in Washington was so critical that people lived on houseboats, converted tugs, sailboats, basically anything with a cabin that floated, and even some quite grand yachts.
In the summer, laundry floated from rigging and people relaxed on deck chairs drinking beer with records playing in the background. Dock-mates cooked hamburgers on barbeques on the dock on the weekends. Bathing beauties decorated the sun decks.
But in this weather the boat decks and the docks were deserted. Icicles hung from sailboats’ rigging, and the motorboats were imprisoned in the ice. I saw few people. They must either be inside their cabins or out looking for someplace warm, like a library or movie theatre, to spend part of the day.
Dinghies, used to get from a deep anchorage to the shore, floated behind the big sailboats too clumsy to dock. Frank Knox, the Secretary of the Navy, lived on the Presidential yacht, the Sequoia, which was berthed at the Yacht Club. The Potomac itself was thick with navy warships and transport vessels. Patrol boats cruised the river, concentrating at the mouth of the river during the day when the submarine-net gates were open.
Clutching our hats to our heads and bent into the wind, Joe and I hurried down the dock towards shore, but were stopped by a coast guardsman with a war dog on a leash. The guardsman was wrapped up in a heavy pea coat, scarf, and foul-weather trousers and boots. The dog wore a warm wool coat too, navy blue with the USG insignia. Laced-up canvas booties protected his feet. Other than that he didn’t look much like a war dog. He was a poodle!
‘Ma’am,’ the seaman said, touching his cap. ‘I’m Petty Officer Silva, Coast Guard port security.’
‘Is something wrong?’ Joe asked.
Instantly, the petty officer was on the alert, casually slipping his submarine gun from his shoulder to his free arm. ‘You’re not an American, sir? Russian?’
Joe spoke excellent English, but he trilled his ‘r’s softly, and occasionally substituted a ‘t’ for a ‘th.’
‘No, Czech,’ Joe said, reaching into his coat pocket for his papers before being asked. ‘I have a British passport and an American visa.’
Petty Officer Silva leafed through Joe’s passport. ‘How do you come to have a British passport, sir?’
‘I lived in London for years, teaching Slavic Languages at London University. When the war began I was recruited to teach here for the duration,’ he said.
‘Very good,’ Silva said, handing Joe’s papers back to him. ‘And you, ma’am?’ he said, nodding in my direction.
‘I’m a file clerk. I work for the government.’
‘Enjoying a nice walk on this freezing cold morning?’
‘We were looking at a friend’s houseboat,’ Joe said.
The petty officer slung his submachine gun back over his shoulder. He gave a sign and his dog stood, wagging his tail. It must have been the canine sign for ‘at ease’.
The dog was jet black, his thick wiry hair cut evenly over his muscled body.
‘Can I pet him?’ I asked.
‘Sure, now you can.’
I scratched the dog behind the ears, and he licked my hand. ‘I’ve never seen a poodle war dog before,’ I said.
‘Poodles are smart,’ the petty officer said, ‘and strong. They’re real dogs. It’s too bad civilian owners give them those sissy haircuts.’
Joe opened the café door for me, and we found a seat at a table. The elderly Negro waiter came and took our order for coffee. ‘We got plenty left since it’s Saturday,’ he said. ‘Sugar, too.’ When he returned with our cups the coffee was dark and hot. Feeling started to return to my hands.
‘I hate it when you’re questioned because of your accent,’ I said.
Joe shrugged. ‘Can’t be helped. People are frightened and suspicious. It could be worse. Imagine if I was Italian, or French, or even German.’
I lowered my voice. ‘What if someone decides to check out your job?’
Joe shrugged that off too. ‘The JDC has the connections to protect me. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.’ Joe drained his coffee. ‘I have to go to the office today,’ he said, reaching for my hand. ‘Let me take you home first.’
‘Not necessary,’ I said. ‘I have to work today too.’
As instructed by Agent Williams, I stood outside the Washington Public Library, one of Andrew Carnegie’s stunning contributions to his country, huddled up against the leeward side of the great stone staircase, as if waiting for a friend to pick me up.
At the exact prearranged time an old square-bodied Ford Woody station wagon with regular DC license plates pulled up to the library. Williams was driving, his fedora, with its silly yellow feather stuck in the ribbon, pulled low over his face. I hurried down the steps. Williams leaned across the front seat and opened the door. I slid inside.
Williams shifted gears. ‘I figure,’ he said, ‘that we should get to the Martins after Leroy goes to work. That way we, or rather you, can question Anne again. You don’t need a cover. I’m just your driver, by the way.’
‘We should avoid St Leonard,’ I said. ‘I might be recognized, and then everyone in the town would know the Martins were getting a second visit from the government.’
‘Agreed,’ Williams said. ‘We’ll stop for gas and to use the rest room in Prince Frederick. Is there a way to get to the Martins’ house without going through St Leonard?’
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Not
without a boat! But I don’t think we’ll attract any attention. The road through St Leonard leads to the Solomons Island training base, so plenty of unfamiliar cars pass through the town.’
‘You know,’ Williams said as he shifted gears and moved out into traffic, ‘I believe we’ve met. You look familiar. Your name is too, and Pearlie is uncommon.’
My heart began to race. ‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘Maybe someone introduced us at a bar, or at restaurant? I don’t remember you, but I’ve met so many new people since moving to Washington.’
‘Maybe,’ he said, losing interest in the conversation as he navigated the still icy roads of Massachusetts Avenue.
Sure enough we motored through St Leonard uneventfully, turning down the rough track that led to the Martins’ home.
‘If you see Leroy’s truck,’ Williams said, ‘duck down and I’ll back out as if I took a wrong turn.’
The truck was gone. Williams abandoned the FBI dress code long enough to exchange his fedora for a wool cap.
Anne Martin opened the door to my knock. ‘My husband’s not here,’ she said.
‘That’s okay,’ I said, ‘but I came to speak to you. This is Mr Williams, my driver, do you mind if he comes inside with me? It’s awfully cold.’
‘I have no idea what else you might need from me, but of course you can come in, both of you,’ Anne Martin said.
Williams doffed his cap and said, ‘Thank you, Ma’am.’
Anne led us to the sitting room but didn’t offer us any refreshments. I sat on the couch with her, and Agent Williams took a chair at the table and removed a pulp novel from his coat pocket to read. The man was a good actor. Still, I wasn’t sure that a cap and a dime Western transformed him from an FBI agent into a bored workingman. Anne kept glancing at him.
‘I don’t understand why you’ve come back,’ Anne said. ‘Didn’t we answer all your questions the last time you were here?’
‘Just following up,’ I said. ‘The postcard originated in a, shall we say, sensitive part of France.’
‘I’m not comfortable talking about any of this without my husband,’ she said, crossing her arms.
‘Well, then, perhaps we could arrange to return sometime when both of you are here.’
‘No!’ she answered, more strongly than necessary, but then subsided. ‘My husband wouldn’t like that. Go ahead and ask your questions. Let’s get it over with.’
I wondered if Anne’s husband treated her badly. I saw no physical evidence of manhandling. Her manner was relaxed and direct, and she seemed cheerful enough. Perhaps she just wanted to avoid Leroy’s chronic unpleasantness.
Williams crossed his legs at the ankle and turned a page of his novel.
‘You’re from South Africa originally, is that correct?’
‘Yes. I came to the United States with my grandmother. After the Boer War.’
‘What about your parents?’
‘They died. And we lost all our property during the war.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
Anne shrugged. ‘It was a long time ago. I’ve put it behind me.’
‘You and your husband met this Richard Martin only once?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Before the war. His ship was docked in the Potomac, and he had time off, he said. He came to visit Leroy. Leroy had no idea who he was until Richard drew him a family tree.’
‘Didn’t you think that was odd?’
‘Of course. But he seemed eager to make contact with us. He said he had few relatives.’
‘And he talked about his mother?’
‘He said he had a mother living. That’s all I remember.’
‘Do you have any idea why he sent you a postcard from France? It’s expensive.’
‘None at all. Why would I? And I don’t care, either! My husband and I aren’t responsible for some distant relative who sent us a silly postcard!’
‘Just one more question, I promise,’ I said. ‘Why do you think he mentioned the date of your birthday?’
‘I have no idea! He visited us the day after my birthday, his only visit! We served him leftover cake. And no, I don’t remember what kind of cake! Don’t you people have anything else to do than ask me all these questions, over and over again?’
‘Mrs Martin—’ I said.
‘I want you to go now,’ she said. ‘I need to go to work. I open our little library several afternoons a week. And please don’t bother us again!’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Williams, time to leave.’
Williams stuck his paperback in his pocket and followed me to the door, where we bundled up in our heavy coats. Anne removed her apron and stood with her arms crossed, waiting for us to leave.
‘Thank you—’ I began.
‘You’re welcome,’ she interrupted, opening the door for us.
Williams touched his cap and we left the house.
Once in the car, as we crunched down the track towards the road, Williams asked what I thought of the conversation.
‘She makes sense,’ I said, ‘but …’
‘But what?’
‘I sensed that she was defiant, not just irritated. And she was not at all frightened.’
Williams nodded. ‘I agree. I think this matter requires a little more thought.’
Just before we reached the bridge that crossed the little creek, Williams turned off the road to the right, bumping over a sand and crushed oyster shell path into the shelter of the woods that ran down to the inlet. He parked the car in a small clearing across the road from the cottage and near the head of the inlet.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
‘Getting out of sight until Anne leaves.’
A few minutes later we saw Anne peddle by on a bicycle, so bundled up that she looked like a bear riding a tricycle at the circus.
‘Let’s go,’ Williams said.
‘Where?’
‘We’re going to search the house.’
Williams opened the rear door of the Woody and retrieved two torches and a Colt revolver. He handed me a torch, put one in his pocket, and shoved the Colt into a shoulder holster I hadn’t noticed before.
‘If you need to use the torch, shield it as much as possible,’ he said to me.
We hiked down the track to the Martins’ house. Anne had left a light on in the kitchen. I looked back in the direction of the Woody, but couldn’t see it. The thick, low branches of the cypress trees hid it completely.
‘Here’s hoping she left the door open,’ Williams said.
He turned the knob, and the door quietly opened into the foyer. He quickly closed it.
‘I’d like it if you searched the bedrooms and bathroom,’ he said. ‘I think a woman would be more likely to notice anything unusual there. I’ll take the sitting room and the desk.’
I kept my gloves on and mentally reviewed the search techniques I’d learned at the Farm.
The cottage had only one bedroom, occupied by a double brass bed with a side table and a double dresser. I opened every drawer, patting down the contents and sliding my hands between the folds of underwear, sweaters and nightwear.
Pulling out the drawers I felt every surface for documents that might have been taped there.
The top of the dresser appeared to be Leroy’s territory. It held a man’s brush and comb, an ashtray with a few coins, a ring with several keys and a cheap ballpoint pen.
The side table next to the bed was Anne’s. It contained a library book, Mary Roberts Rinehart’s The Wall. I shuffled the book’s pages, looking for notes, before placing it back exactly where it had lain. The other objects on the side table surprised me. One was a lovely crystal carafe with a water glass perched on top of it. I pulled off a glove and tapped it with a finger. It rang out – quality lead crystal. The brush, comb and mirror set were silver, polished until they gleamed.
Next I opened the small drawer in the little table. A leather jewelry case rested on a photograph in a silver frame. I opened the case, and the contents
took my breath away. These were real too, I was sure. A lovely strand of fat pearls with a diamond clasp rested on black velvet. Why would Anne own such things? I wondered if her family in South Africa had been wealthy. It made sense that Anne’s grandmother would have brought only portable valuables from South Africa when they emigrated. I couldn’t imagine that Anne had the opportunity to wear them during her current hardscrabble life.
The faded black and white photograph showed a large whitewashed farmhouse porch in an alien landscape. I had no idea what Africa looked like, but this scene conjured Africa in my imagination. Five people sat on the farmhouse porch in a wicker furniture set, wearing their best clothes for the family portrait. They were clearly a husband, wife and three children: a teenaged boy, a young girl, and an even younger boy. They appeared to be prosperous. The man had a heavy chain hanging from his watch pocket. The woman was wearing a pearl necklace, though I couldn’t tell if it was the one in Anne’s drawer. Ruffles cascaded down the girl’s dress. A lace collar covered her neck and shoulders.
I turned the photograph frame over and read the five names written in ink on the back. Mama, Pappa, Peter, Christiaan, Anne. This had to be Anne’s family. It must have been taken before the war and before her parents died. I wondered about the boys and what had happened to them. For all I know they’d stayed in South Africa. Anne had told me she barely remembered those times, but this photograph and the pearls were mementos. I felt guilty for disturbing her memories. Anne’s unhappy past could have nothing to do with a postcard from her husband’s French cousin.
I slid under the bed, flicked on my torch and examined the underside of the mattress. Nothing. The closet contained both men’s and women’s clothing, all ironed to perfection. A shotgun and a Remington rifle leaned up against the back of the closet.
I finished my search with the tiny bathroom; it was spotless and smelled of bleach. A big cast-iron bathtub, a small sink and a toilet furnished it, with barely enough room for a standard sized human to move around. The medicine cabinet contained toothbrushes, toothpaste, aspirin, witch hazel, an unopened package of Ivory soap and a jar of Vicks VapoRub.
I found Williams in the sitting room, carefully replacing papers in a roll top desk. ‘There is nothing interesting here,’ he said, ‘except what you’d expect. Pay stubs and a ledger. Leroy is an oysterman, but he works for the cannery when he can’t dredge. I’ve been through an envelope of receipts, his checkbook, and a calendar. That’s it. Find anything?’
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