Keeping Secrets

by Suzanne Morris

  The failure of the plot was blamed by each German agent on the other. Von Rintelen blamed Boy-Ed and von Papen, whom, he vowed, scuttled the plan from the beginning because they resented his coming over here and meddling in their business. Edwin had called that one correctly, and so had Tetzel.

  Regardless of who was at fault, the BNA agents were shadowing Huerta from the time he first reached New York, and after the matter was concluded a few months later, there was a very interesting conversation between Tetzel and Cabot, which I listened to from the storeroom while the recording machine rolled merrily and futilely along:

  “You see, my friend, I told you Huerta would be taken care of,” Tetzel said. (I could almost see his self-satisfied smile through the wall.) “Von Rintelen will be sent home like a bad boy, one the less thorn in my side. Now, how goes it from the other side of the border?”

  “Propaganda is being circulated; everything is going forward as planned.”

  “Good. Now, with Huerta out of the way I can easily begin stockpiling munitions in Detroit for Barrista.”

  “But we still have to keep Villa on our side for a while. He’s keeping my mines open. I’m going to need some more money to keep him happy. And he needs arms.”

  “All right. We can see to that. The stronger we keep Villa’s forces, the longer it will take the Pan-American countries and the United States to mediate peace; and the busier they are kept working out Mexican problems, the less likely they are to interfere with our plans in Europe. All goes well. Why do you look so glum?”

  “I just don’t want a rock slide to begin on my mountain before I’m well out of the way.”

  12

  One Saturday afternoon at the beginning of summer, I stopped by Butler’s to pick up some groceries. I didn’t really need anything, but I did want to see Keith.

  Because I could never tell him why I was so often unavailable, he’d finally become convinced I had another suitor. The last time I saw him he invited me out for oyster rolls at the Manhattan. I almost accepted, then remembered a meeting scheduled with Edwin, and stumbled over a silly excuse. There was resignation in his reply: “Well, see you sometime.”

  I’d watched him walk away, seething. But I had stupidly expected him to ask me out again, and when he didn’t I tried to convince myself it was just as well if he was spending his time with someone else. After all, he was only a friend. And yet …

  I pulled a pickle from the barrel and drew up to the counter across from him. “How’ve you been?”

  “Busy,” he said, pretending to study a list of specials. “You know how it is, end of the school year, exams and so forth.”

  “Sure … but it’s all over now, isn’t it? I’m free tonight if—”

  “Oh? That’s too bad. I’ve already made plans.”

  I was sure my face was turning as green as the pickle in my hand, so I left a coin on the counter and said meekly, “All right, ’bye.”

  I was nearly to the door when he called, “How about tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” I smiled back, and right then I made up my mind I was going to put Keith in front of the BNA more often. Edwin would just have to suit his schedule to mine for a change.

  Keith arrived the next afternoon in his father’s automobile. We weren’t together five minutes before I was laughing and enjoying myself, and wondering why I hadn’t realized that seeing him made it easier for me to face the daily burdens of BNA work.

  That Sunday we attended a municipal band concert. It was such a hot day that the hint of breeze in the air brought people out of their homes in search of relief, and the crowd was so large at San Pedro Park that we had to leave the auto nearly a quarter of a mile from the bandstand. Keith’s mother had packed a lunch—my inability to put meals together was a fact largely recognized—and after we ate we sat close to each other on the ground and listened to a cornet solo of “Love’s Old Sweet Song” and a good rendition by the whole band of the “Blue Danube Waltz,” one of my favorites, played upon request by someone in the audience. As the sun went down and the crowds began to disperse, Keith and I sat above the creek. He threw pebbles into the water while the descending sun cast dim light on the ripples. The breeze was soft and gentle, soothing as it fondled my hair. Keith looked almost handsome as his strong profile became more and more a well-defined silhouette against the darkening sky.

  “I wish I could see more of you,” he said at last.

  I brushed the hair from my cheeks and looked toward the water. “I know … but you have other girl friends, don’t you?”

  “No one special.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “Then, why—”

  “It isn’t the way you think, Keith,” I interrupted. “I just can’t—settle down yet.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” he said with a shrug, and threw one last pebble into the glassy pool. Then he rose and helped me to my feet, and held on to my elbow for a prolonged moment. He looked as if he might kiss me, then changed his mind and led me toward the car. We rode all the way back to my apartment in silence, and when we reached the door I said, coyly, “I had such a good time today … wonder if there’s another concert next Sunday?”

  He looked half amused and said, “We could plan on taking a drive there just to find out.”

  I closed the door and leaned against it. How nice it was to know someone who really cared, even if he seemed to have a lot of growing up to do. I wished at that moment I could confide in him, tell him everything that I was involved in. I was so alone in this whole mess. Talking to Edwin was not to be confused with confiding. Apart from our work in the BNA, we had nothing in common as far as I knew. We were like two machines designed for exchanging information with nothing built into our parts for expressions of sympathy or comfort. I always had the feeling when this thing was over he’d tip his hat and disappear in a cloud of smoke.

  Mother was of no help either. My last letter from her had arrived in July, and consisted of a lecture on the value of observing “sacrifice week” for the suffragettes. “I know you have few luxuries, dear, but cut expenses wherever you can. Women are giving up everything from trips to the hairdresser, clothes and new shoes and stockings, to using the streetcar and eating dessert. Savings will help to pay the pledged quota of the state association.”

  I’d thumbed my nose at the paragraph when I read it, but the letter did have its effect—every time I started to reach for a box of sweets, I wound up pulling back. At the end of the week I had twenty-five cents to contribute. Mother also mentioned she’d be in New Jersey in October, where V. for W. was to go before the polls. This was especially important because New Jersey was the President’s home state and he was expected to vote in our favor. It was hoped his personal feelings would sway other voters.

  I wrote to tell her of my savings, and wish her luck in New Jersey, then thought, if I didn’t know so much about Emory Cabot I’d be wishing myself into Electra’s shoes … being married to a man who could afford any luxury—no sacrifices necessary.

  As it happened my feelings about the Cabots were altered before the summer was over. I still cannot explain the way I began to feel or why, yet I was faced with one more example of the bitter part of the work I was doing, which often led me to wonder what kind of man or woman could choose to make a career of espionage work. Watching, analyzing, and smoking out the Cabots was for me worse than being a youngster again, standing by helplessly as my older brothers captured a beautiful butterfly and stuck a pin through its body, stilling its majestic wings forever … a death mask mounted on a wall, put there for the purpose of a science project for school.

  One afternoon Mr. Tetzel mentioned he and his wife planned a big celebration in their home for their wedding anniversary. I offered to address the invitations by hand, so that I could have a look at the list. After glancing over it I was convinced I had to be at that party, somehow. Not only would the Cabots be invited, but also the Stuttgarts—who had thus far remained an elusive pair.

 
“My penmanship isn’t much compared to Giddeon Sparks’, but I’ll take care to be extra neat,” I told him.

  He looked puzzled for a moment, then said, “Of course,” and laughed.

  “I could help with table settings, or arrange flowers, too,” I said.

  “No, we’ll have plenty of help with that.”

  “I could serve at table.”

  “That’s already been taken care of. It’s kind of you, Camille, however—”

  “I know! I could be in charge of hats and handbags. That’s always a real problem, and it would free your domestics to do other things. How about it? I can always use the extra money. I need a few things for my apartment, and I want a blouse I saw at—”

  “All right, all right,” he said, throwing up his hands and smiling. “You just can’t keep down an industrious young person.”

  “That’s me, industrious,” I repeated, thinking of the memo he’d sent to R. M. Francke the previous spring informing him of his view that the third party suggested by M.K. lacked “industry.”

  I gave much consideration beforehand to what I must achieve during that party, so that I would be ready to seize every opportunity. I bought a secondhand maid’s uniform, gray with a white organdy apron and matching cap, so I could move about the house a little less obtrusively if I got the chance. I knew this might prove the ideal time to use the vest-pocket camera—I still had no pictures of any of the people under surveillance. But I didn’t feel confident with it, and was afraid I’d lean over and lose it from my apron, or that some other revealing incident would give me away, so I decided not to use it.

  By the night of the party I was practically in a fit of nerves. It had rained all day—an intermittent downpour that was a result of a storm closing in on the upper Gulf Coast. I’d planned to ride the River Avenue streetcar part of the way and walk the balance of the trip out to Laurel Heights, but the rain forced me to order a taxi to pick me up at half-past six. As luck would have it, the Tetzel home was outside the limits of the fixed routes for the five-cent jitneys.

  I paced back and forth by the front windows as the minutes ticked by … six thirty-five … six-forty … six forty-five. Finally I caught sight of the taxi headlights glowing through the splashing water and, grabbing my umbrella, rushed to the door. As I opened it, there stood Keith in his slicker, one hand poised to knock; the other holding a box.

  “Oh, say, I brought you some fresh peaches—hey, where are you …?”

  I whirled past him, calling behind me, “Leave them inside and lock the door, please,” then fled down the stairs. On the second-floor landing I turned and shouted, “Thank you,” but just then a clap of thunder shook the building and obliterated the sound of my voice. I made for the taxi without looking back again.

  When I took on the job of looking after hats and other accessories, I had not counted on the extra array of rain slickers, umbrellas, and rubber boots. At least six couples had already arrived and Mr. Tetzel was looking anxiously out the window for my arrival, while a maid, neglecting other assigned duties, sullenly carried soaked galoshes and other gear into the front parlor where a huge tarpaulin had been laid to protect the floor from the wet garments. Undoubtedly the Tetzels were a great deal better prepared for the occasion of rain than I was.

  The party had been under way a good two hours before I got through grouping hats, gloves, and other apparel, and had a chance to walk into the magnificent ballroom. I’d been told it was the envy of many San Antonio families, and there was no wondering why. I could almost imagine the day Tetzel walked into the lobby of the Menger and told his building contractor, “I want you to duplicate this for my house.”

  I stood against a wall among the other hired helpers for a little while, before my eyes fixed on Electra and Emory Cabot coming out to dance. Little footlights had been placed here and there around the rectangular floor, and although there were many others dancing, the Cabots stood out like royalty among the peasants. My heart was pumping hard. Though I’d always admired them separately, I had never dreamed they’d make such a striking couple. Cabot wore a black evening suit and Electra wore a flowing rose-colored gown with a sheer mantle hung loosely around her throat, setting off her golden hair. Their arms extended for a Strauss waltz and he held her not quite, but almost dangerously, close, and looked right into her eyes. The lights from above played on their faces as they twirled around to the three-quarter waltz time, and when the lights caught them just right I saw his eyebrow raised, his mouth moving as though he whispered words meant only for her. Her radiant face was demure, her lips almost, but not quite, smiling. I was so wrapped up in watching them as they moved, I nearly swayed into a waiter carrying a tray of drinks. That reminded me I was supposed to be spying, not romanticizing.

  Later, Lyla Stuttgart approached and asked, “Have you any cigarettes, love? These parties are a frightful bore, aren’t they.” Before I could answer, her husband, Arnold, came from behind and said, “Come, dear, you must dance with Adolph while I waltz Sophie around the floor. It’s the courteous thing to do.”

  She grimaced and went off with him.

  By the time the evening was at an end, I had seen enough to know the Cabots and Stuttgarts were acquainted, particularly the two women, and I could not wait to tell Edwin this first piece of information about Arnold Stuttgart. Could he have been the “third party”?

  Although I managed to wind up the evening as clumsily as I began, by losing Cabot’s hat temporarily, I felt it was well spent. Mr. Tetzel reimbursed my one-way taxi fare, and offered to drive me home, but then a nice couple who would be passing down River Avenue on their route home insisted upon dropping me off.

  All the way, the storm raged outside the auto window. I could not get the Cabots out of my mind. How handsome they were, commanding the dance floor, seeing nothing except each other … the very air around them seemed to sparkle.…

  Later as I lay in bed, each time I shut my eyes I saw the Cabots. Round and round their images swirled, one-two-three, one-two-three, dancing, dancing, in and out of my mind and through my dreams like china figurines, they waltzed the hours away, the music resounding with as much liveliness as if it had never ceased.…

  In the morning the spell was finally shattered, and I lay awake, sickened by the thought that these same two people could conceivably be separated by the horror of prison walls only months from now. Their beautiful clothing would be replaced by institutional rags. Authorities might cut her hair, shave his beard. The only space left to their command would be a small area in a dingy prison yard. They’d be kept from each other for years, maybe even forever.…

  It was too awful to imagine. Oh Lord, forgive me, I thought, I know they’re probably both rotten from head to toe, but I wish somehow they could be spared the price of guilt.

  13

  When I told Edwin about the party, he was pleased and said, “Make it your business to run into Cabot’s wife when you can.”

  “I’m hardly in a position to—”

  “Watch the house, follow her, ask questions of Nathan Hope. Also, keep your eyes on the mails and get into that safe whenever you can. And hire out to parties—that’s a great idea—anytime you can.”

  Edwin had a way of making difficult feats sound easy. For the next couple of months, however, it seemed I was at another stalemate. Although I did get a chance to have a look in the secret safe compartment, and found a group of invoices which proved Tetzel was still in charge of getting arms across the border, there was a new consignment address in Laredo that stumped me until Edwin was able to check it out: Maxwell Coffin. A new name in the hat, I thought, puzzled, one more strange ingredient in the hobo stew. I contacted Edwin as usual, and thought no more about it.

  Once or twice I got my hands on outgoing mail for Tetzel, but he seemed to be curtailing his communications with the German Foreign Office of late—perhaps because of the botched-up affair with Huerta—and in any case, his messages were so cryptic that I felt the only sure way to l
earn who he so often referred to as the “third party” was to get my hands on the mail coming to him. This I was never able to do. Nothing except bank business ever came to the main mail desk. Though I searched his desk, his cabinets, his briefcase, and everything else I could think of, I found nothing. It was possible he kept mail in his home somewhere, but on the night of the party I had been able to steal into his study for a quick look, and found his desk locked. I checked the key chain he carried, but found no key small enough for a desk lock. The only way to get in, then, was to have a key made for the desk by bringing in a locksmith, and this little bit of dirty work would almost have to be performed when the Tetzels were out of town and the house closed. They never seemed to travel together, and they kept a staff of at least six regular servants apt to pop up anywhere at any time. The desk-key dilemma was one example of the endless frustrations hampering our progress.

  I kept up with my mid-day meetings with Nathan, in hopes of gathering some useful information, yet as the weather cooled off our lunches on the riverbank would have to cease and getting moments alone with him would be more difficult.

  As the evenings grew dark earlier, I began working a little later, then leaving the office and making straight for the little neighborhood headed by the house with the square tower and transversed by King William Street. There were lots of bushes, shrubs, and trees to use as camouflage while I watched for any comings and goings from the Cabot house, and the triangular park was a good vantage point for watching the Stuttgart house.

  One night I reached the edge of the Cabot yard just at dusk, and noticed Electra tugging a basketload of pecans toward her back door. I rushed ahead and offered her a hand.

  “I meant to bring these in earlier, but they were so heavy I decided to leave them for Nathan to carry. Now he’s called to say he’ll have to work late. How lucky you happened by—what brings you down here?”

  “Why … I have some friends a couple of blocks from here.”