Keeping Secrets

by Suzanne Morris

  “Only one thing that looks significant. The first man Tetzel asked to see when he got back was Emory Cabot, and Cabot was out of the country—I don’t know where—on business. I also ran across his wife in the grocery store, and overheard her indicate she and Cabot haven’t been married very long.”

  “How old a man would you say Cabot is?”

  “Oh, mid-thirties, probably. I wish I’d looked over his papers more carefully when he first came into the bank.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I was busy,” I said, not about to admit I was busy looking at Cabot. “Besides, I attached no particular importance to him at the time.”

  “All right. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Cabot lived near Denver, Colorado, before.”

  “Hm … that’s copper-mining territory.”

  “Oh … I didn’t think of that,” I told him, then described her reticence in talking with Mr. Butler.

  “She might bear some checking out. Can you shadow her? Find out what her name was before. We’ll need a line on her before we can get any further.”

  “Oh, and Mr. Tetzel mentioned Cabot had a man working for him named Hope.”

  “See if you can find an excuse to go by Cabot’s office one day—deliver papers or something. You still on the mails?”

  “As much as I can be. But Tetzel hasn’t asked me lately, and he hasn’t been back very long.” I was beginning to perspire. “Look, couldn’t you just slap a fine on Tetzel for his part in the Huerta thing and let him go? I’m sure he’d never—”

  “Don’t be naïve. One thing you’ve got to learn is that you can’t afford to get off the train until you’ve reached the end of the line, and don’t let kindness fool you. I can probably get some information on Cabot with what I have, but you’ve got to work on his wife and his man.

  “What I really need is a wire in Tetzel’s office now. Did you find a place big enough for a machine?”

  “There’s a storeroom nearby, with one wall backing up to his office. No one ever seems to go in there. It’s full of old office furniture, mostly.”

  “Perfect. Does it lock?”

  “Everything in that bank has a lock on it.”

  “Have a key made for me, and meet me here with it tomorrow. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “All right, except—”

  “What’s bothering you now?”

  “The same thing that has bothered me all along. I just don’t see why Tetzel would be involved in a dirty thing like you suspect. People do things for reasons, and he has nothing to gain in all this. He already has money, so it can’t be that. He has position in society, belongs to all the right clubs, knows influential people. Why risk it all?”

  “That’s something we may never know.”

  I sighed. “It’s very hard for me to … you know … cast the first stone at him.”

  “If we’re wrong, he doesn’t have to know what we suspected, but we’re looking for something bigger than what we’ve uncovered so far. The Germans have fifty million dollars invested in sabotage over here, and it’s beginning to look like Tetzel is in charge of distributing a large share of it.”

  “Well if it turns out all he’s really doing wrong is helping Huerta to get back, what will you do?”

  “Maybe nothing, and remember, all we can do is gather evidence and put it into the right hands. By the way, I haven’t been able to get anything on Stuttgart. How about you?”

  “Nothing,” I said, then looked at his profile. “What do you do in your spare time?”

  “I don’t have much.” He laughed. “See ’ya tomorrow.”

  He walked away and eventually disappeared among the people crowding the sidewalks. I turned around to face a camera display in the shop window, and was reminded I hadn’t taken one picture of the bank staff. I hadn’t even been able to throw all my energies into the crusade because I just couldn’t convince myself Tetzel was as bad as the BNA believed him to be. For Edwin, dealing with me must have been like swimming against a strong current.

  I made up my mind then I was either going to have to give it my all or get out. So far my only concern had been with one man. Now a whole new group of faces and names had been thrown into the can to be shaken up and sorted out. I just couldn’t give up my faith in Mr. Tetzel’s goodness, and never really feared anything worse from him than being fired, should he discover me in an act of sleuthing.

  But Emory Cabot was an unknown quantity, as were his wife and his man Hope. How far would any of them go to save their necks, or to avenge anyone connected with undermining them?

  Suddenly Stobalt’s opening plea—that plots involving Tetzel might well be endangering the lives of innocent American citizens—echoed in my mind. I shoved my hands into my pockets and went back to work. I decided I would go on.

  8

  Setting up a recording machine in Mr. Tetzel’s office proved a nearly impossible task. Difficulty enough arose from the fact the bread-box-size machine had to be concealed in one place, then connected by wire to a sizable receiver in another, several yards away and down a hall. Edwin installed the machine out of sight at the back of the storeroom with relative ease. However, the only place inside Tetzel’s office for the receiver was behind the credenza next to the safe at the rear of his desk. Edwin had to hook it as near to the top as possible while still hiding it from view, and up-end the head in the hope of catching at least part of the conversations carried on there.

  “It might work, but these things don’t have much scope, and a lot will depend upon how loud people are talking,” he said doubtfully. “Does Tetzel have a loud voice?”

  “No, rather low.”

  “Hm … and his back will probably be to the receiver. Well, we’ll have a go at it, anyway.”

  Neither of us realized we had a deceivingly simple problem facing us which would take a long time figuring out. I soon thought the whole scheme pretty fruitless, as Tetzel didn’t make a habit of talking any but banking business on the phone, and in the weeks between his return from Europe and Cabot’s return from what proved to be Mexico no conversations of significance were recorded on the machine. Neither did he place any mail in my hands for delivery to the post office, although I offered to serve as courier several times. I was beginning to think he might suspect me, and was afraid of pressing the point very far.

  Between February and mid-April of 1915 was a long period, during which Edwin was called away several times to the East Coast, where German involvement was proving out in connection with the sudden and mysterious burning of ships in United States harbors, and the incitement of strikes among harbor workers. At the time I was given little detail, and assumed Edwin’s trips had no direct relation with what I was doing.

  During the lull, I took the opportunity of getting to know Keith better. I spent one afternoon with him in March, following a snowfall which left a white blanket one and a half inches thick all over the city. I’d been in real blizzards when we lived up north, so this little snow seemed a mere inconvenience to me. Keith had not seen much snow, however, and his excitement was infectious. He managed to get an old buggy with a poor hag of a horse connected to it from somewhere, and met me at the front door of the bank at lunchtime, red-nosed and red-cheeked underneath his blazing blue eyes.

  Mr. Tetzel happened to walk out at the same time. Noticing I was being picked up in a buggy, he smiled broadly and said, “Children should have a good time. Take the whole afternoon off, Camille.”

  Keith gave the horse a gleeful “giddyap,” and we thrust forward down the icy street toward Alamo Plaza. “Oh, he’s so darned nice,” I said under my breath.

  Keith looked surprised. “You don’t sound too grateful.”

  “Oh, I am, I am,” I told him.

  Through ingratiating snorts by the swayback horse conveying us, we made our way to the plaza, where Keith insisted on starting a snowball fight. Suddenly he disappeared. I looked around and called his name several times. Nothing. Then, from
behind a snow-laden bush off to the right came a whistle, followed by a whizzing white ball. I turned just in time to see Keith’s arm shoot out, before catching the ball square in the face. “Come out of there, I’ll fix you,” I cried, and started gathering ammunition.

  Before I knew it he whammed one into my backside and darted across to another bush, giggling like a baseball player headed for third base. On his way I whacked him a good one, then threw another, missing him, and, now unarmed, took cover behind a frozen shrub. We sparred like youngsters long enough that I really began to laugh and enjoy myself, and to realize how serious I’d become of late. I’d almost lost my sense of fun completely.

  After an hour of battle, we were thoroughly winded, with arms trembling from the motions and backsides aching from numerous slips to the cold ground. We helped each other off the field, arm in arm, and boarded the buggy for a ride through Brackenridge Park right down the old path referred to as lovers’ lane. The route proved to be just as I remembered—overhung with tall skeletal trees and silent as a frozen brook.

  We were at ease with each other, like school buddies. As we rode along I told him about outings with my family during the years we were all together, and he told me of summer picnics under the shade of the big trees in the park. He never made overfamiliar moves toward me. If he had, I’d have been more astonished than insulted or embarrassed, and probably would have burst out laughing. He’d been busy with exams after Christmas and we had not really spent very much time together, so we just enjoyed the laughter and the silences in between.

  Around five o’clock, darkness gathering suddenly, he said, “You know what would be swell? Some Mexican food. I’m chilled to the bone.”

  So off we went to his favorite Mexican-food cafe down on the river. The smell of hot spices met us at the door, increasing my appetite three times over. We sat at a table close by a crackling log fire, overlooking the strange sight of mist above the water.

  “Almost spooky, like a moor in Scotland, isn’t it? Wonder what causes that?” I said.

  “When the warmer water of the river is touched by the cold drizzle coming down, it throws off a steam.”

  “Like a veil. You could almost get lost in it, couldn’t you.”

  “I guess so. I never thought of it that way,” he said.

  Just then the Mexican waiter appeared and Keith ordered food enough for a banquet without batting an eye. Soon there were hot platters before us with chili, tamales, enchiladas, frijoles, refried beans and rice threatening to overrun the edges. All of it was permeated with the smell of onions and cheese, and accompanied by crispy tortillas. Keith bragged as the waiter left. His family knew the owner, and he could testify to the quality of ingredients in the dishes. In one sitting I ate more than I’d eaten in the previous week, and I’m not sure who dug through the delicacies with more vigor, but Keith and I were a good match and afterward sat back groaning happily.

  “That was the best Mexican food, not to mention the best meal I’ve eaten, since I moved out from Mother’s place,” I said.

  “I’m going to take you out more often. You can’t survive on—”

  “I know, I know. Save the lecture, please. Keith, I can’t remember when I’ve had so much fun.”

  “Gosh, me too,” he said. Then he paused and shifted in his chair. “Of course, you’re awfully busy with other guys, I guess.”

  “Who, me?”

  “Well … you don’t seem to stay at home very much.”

  “Oh, have you come by to check on me?”

  “A time or two.”

  “I work late sometimes, and take odd jobs to make ends meet. It costs a lot to live alone.”

  He studied me for a moment, then said, “I’ve never known anyone like you before. Most girls sit around wondering who’s going to marry and support them. I admire you a lot.”

  I told him thanks, and he quickly looked away. “Listen, I’ve got to return this buggy and get back to the store before closing time,” he said. “I’ll take you home now, if it’s all right.”

  “Sure. You may have to carry me to the buggy, though. My feet might give out under my weight.”

  He saw me up to my apartment, our spongy shoes depositing wet tracks all the way up the stairs to the fourth floor, and when I unlocked the door I said, “I was really sincere about today. Thanks again.”

  He propped an arm up high on the door facing, and looked down at me. “You meant it, too, about not seeing a lot of other fellows?”

  “Since I came to San Antonio I haven’t had time to make many friends—boys or girls.”

  He dug his hands deep into his pockets and smiled. “Well, good night. See you soon.”

  I walked out onto the River Avenue balcony and looked down toward the store. The streetlights were like moons encircled with haze. The snow had already begun to melt and a couple of automobiles poked along the street carefully. I watched Keith’s buggy go the length of the block then turn to the left, headed I supposed for the place where he’d picked up the contraption in the first place. Where, I wondered? He’d never said. About the time the horse started cautiously around the corner, an open car full of joy riders, laughing and singing, came barreling down the avenue. The driver blew the horn rudely and, taking the corner much too quickly, almost slid the auto right into Keith and his old buggy, then roared away to the other side of the street and off again. The old horse could have formerly served as an army draft horse for the little upset he showed, and in a moment Keith set him back in forward motion and disappeared around the block.

  I stayed out on the balcony for a while, still wrapped in my overcoat, savoring the day. It was to be the last of its kind for a long time to come.

  Huerta arrived in New York around April 13, just ten days behind von Rintelen, and soon the newspapers were bursting with stories of the ousted Mexican dictator’s return, assuring the public that he was being watched by United States authorities. President Wilson was openly seething over this development, and quickly locked new restrictions on the vague neutrality laws. Huerta had only to make one false move and the authorities would have him in a noose.

  I must say it was a time when I enjoyed being one who was “in the know,” as I read statements in the papers issued by Huerta himself, declaring that only a Mexican would save Mexico, and (so innocently!) that he did not know who it would be. He also defended himself in the death of the revolutionary martyr Madero, announcing to the press he had no part in it, but that he did know who was guilty and that it was a “professional secret.”

  Many people who kept up with the news in Mexico had wondered about the parties to blame in the assassination of Madero in 1913. My only reason for keeping up with events down there was that one of my classes in high school was devoted almost entirely to current events and thus had followed the revolution of 1910, studying its basis, the reforms planned by Francisco Madero, and his aborted attempts at carrying them through. By the time Huerta had betrayed him I was far away from San Antonio and could find little in the local newspapers where we lived.

  I asked Edwin if his guilt had ever been proven.

  “Only by strong circumstantial evidence,” he said, “but personally I have no doubt Huerta did it.”

  “I don’t think the Mexicans do either. Even Pancho Villa and Carranza seem to concur on that. I can see how returning Huerta to power will be like pouring salt on an open sore.”

  “Just what the Germans want.”

  “Do you think von Rintelen will come here to meet with Tetzel?”

  “More likely Tetzel will go there and sit in on the negotiations between Huerta and von Rintelen. However, there may be a rift because Tetzel’s request for delay was shelved. We’re bound to pick up something on the machine or find something in the mail. Be extra curious and try and get something on it. Tetzel’s a dangling end in an otherwise tight operation. As soon as we get enough evidence, we can scuttle plans for Huerta, but the question remains about Tetzel and you’re the only one who can ge
t a clue.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  On the day following the news release of Huerta’s arrival in New York I went into the bank early, eager to get a head start on the day. Soon Mr. Tetzel came in and dictated a batch of bank letters to me, and I went to work on them. He was quiet, but not out of sorts. I was a little nervous at first, and almost jumped out of my shoes when he brought his empty inkwell to me. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir, I know you don’t like—”

  “It’s all right,” he assured me pleasantly, and went back to his desk.

  After a while my nerves settled down and the day began to shape up into normal routine. I told myself it was silly to keep expecting something to happen. But then suddenly the door burst open and in came Emory Cabot, fuming mad.

  “Where’s Tetzel?” he demanded.

  Apparently Tetzel overheard him. He was instantly outside his door, inviting Cabot in with an appeasing tone. When the door was shut, I leaped up and made for the storeroom. I knew something of great consequence was going to be said, and I was determined to have a recording of it. Once I set the wax cylinder revolving, I put the headset on. I couldn’t hear anything. I figured it wasn’t attached properly, and took it off. Then I put my ear to the wall behind the machine. Though the storeroom backed up to one end of Tetzel’s office, I didn’t expect to hear anything through the thick walls. Yet, to my surprise, I was able to hear most of the words. Doubtless the fact both men were in a state of excitement and talking louder as a result made a difference.

  It was obvious Cabot was upset by Huerta’s return. I heard Tetzel say, “I did everything I could to get them to hold on longer, but they can only afford to burn the candle from both ends for just so long. Keeping border trouble stirred up by financing Villa, and keeping any number of other fires ablaze while they await the moment of takeover by a party they can be sure to trust—”

  “You mean, someone bought and paid for with German money.”