Davidian Report

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  “Sure.”

  She’d evidently been briefed to take care of him because she kept her cat eyes on his face, just as if he were revealing something important. If she were expected to make friends with him, he’d make it easy for her. He’d get more from this awkward kid than from Haig Armour. The man’s polish was the real stuff but it didn’t affect the steel beneath.

  “How about you and me and Rube having a bit of dinner later on?”

  For a moment she didn’t answer. Then she breathed, “I’m sorry. Haig’s already asked me.”

  He wasn’t surprised. “He’s too old for you, baby. And I’d say Rube’s a bit too young.” He winked at her, let her think the bourbon was responsible. “Now I’m just about right.” He reached out his hand to pat her velvet knee and watched her shrink back into the corner. He didn’t know whether it was he who scared her or any man with ideas. “How about it?”

  She said, “I can’t.” She wasn’t sorry. “I’ve already accepted his invitation.”

  “In that case,” Steve announced, “I’ll have another drink.” He went first to Reuben’s chair. The soldier was an odd man; he was sitting there quietly as if he were at home in the rich room. Steve put his hand on the khaki shoulder. “How you doing, fella?”

  The grin was ready. “Looks kind of like you’re taking on the drinks and the girl both.”

  Steve nodded portentously. “Just softening her up for you, kid.” He was at the setups when Eldon Moritz appeared at the far archway.

  Elsabeth lifted her voice, you had to lift your voice for it to carry that far. “You’re frightfully late, dear. You’ll have time for just one drink before we dress.”

  He said, “Oh God, what tonight?” He approached with quick, nervous steps.

  “Come meet Feather’s friends. Dinner with Marty before we go to the première of his latest.”

  Moritz was a neat man, almost dapper in his pinstriped suit and discreetly handsome Charvet cravat. He had no resemblance to an artist, rather he was the tired businessman, his dark hair receding to baldness on his long head, his mustache two pencil strokes, dark crayon under his eyes.

  His wife introduced Haig and didn’t remember the other names. Steve presented himself and gestured, “Reuben St. Clair.” Eldon mixed himself a double rye as he acknowledged the introductions. He drank before asking Reuben, “Any relation to Stryker St. Clair?”

  Rube wriggled. “My father, sir.”

  “Thought so. Family resemblance. We were at Princeton together.” He joined his wife and Haig.

  Steve re-estimated the kid fast. Not Sinclair, St. Clair; his old lady and her new boy friend would be stashed up on Park Avenue, not in some cold-water flat; Stryker St. Clair was a Dun and Bradstreet name, an old Blue Book name, a new café society name. It hadn’t been orders to stick with Steve. Just a poor rich boy, a lonesome kid, looking for a friend, not a free ride. You could get too suspicious.

  Steve swerved back to Feather. “Want to change your mind about tonight, baby?”

  She’d been looking long at Haig but she jumped her attention to Steve as he spoke. She tried to turn on a little charm but she wasn’t much good at it. “Why not tomorrow night?”

  “I may not be around tomorrow night.”

  Her pale eyes studied him, looking for the joker in this.

  He expanded, “I’m on a quick job.”

  Her lashes flickered. It could have been admiration; it could have been relief that he wouldn’t be bothering her any longer. Reuben was taking it easy, maybe dreaming he was back home with the folks. Haig and Eldon were being technical about movies, Elsabeth was timing them. Steve leaned to Feather. He was confidential. “You ought to latch onto Rube while you’ve got a chance. Get yourself a dump like Auntie, swimming pools and all the fixings. You heard who your uncle said he was.”

  She was softly indignant. “What makes you think I want these things? Do you consider it fair that Eldon Moritz can spend a hundred thousand dollars on this house while whole families are living in one room?”

  “He works for it, doesn’t he?”

  “It isn’t Eldon,” she returned quickly. “He has a conscience. It’s just the whole capitalist system where such things can happen.” She bit her lip as if she’d spoken out of turn.

  Steve didn’t swallow bait. He undertoned, “I think I’ll have another capitalistic bourbon while it’s free to the peasants. How about you?”

  “I don’t drink.” She was prim.

  “Then you aren’t a hundred-per-cent, red-blooded peasant. We take when the taking’s good from these rich bastards.”

  No one saw how weak he poured it. Elsabeth was demanding, “We must run, Eldon. Marty won’t forgive us if we make him late for his own première.” Eldon didn’t like leaving when the party was centered about his abilities, but he finished his glass. Elsabeth performed a gracious good-by all around, Eldon nodded distractedly to the unknowns and suggested to Haig, “Let’s have lunch. I want to explain my message in that one.” He followed his wife.

  Feather smiled timidly at Haig. “I’d better change too.” She skipped after the others, to report to them too?

  Steve waited only until she was out of sight. “I don’t get her. What’s she scared of?”

  “You.” Haig had an amused eyebrow.

  “Me?”

  “She was quiet as a pond until you arrived.” He was again at the bookshelves. “A real artist, Moritz.” He pulled a book, riffled through it. “Did you read about the excitement at the airport last night?”

  Reuben asked, “You mean the guy found dead of a heart attack?”

  Heart attack, hell. Haig Armour knew better; he wouldn’t be mentioning it if he didn’t know more than what the news vendors were putting out.

  “If either of you had wandered outside when you were looking for your friends, you’d have discovered him.”

  “Yeah.” Steve elongated the word as in admiration of Armour’s imagination. “Too bad we didn’t.” Despite precautions, had the law someway tied Steve up with Albion? Or was Haig fishing? Because Steve Wintress’s name and its implications weren’t unknown to him?

  Haig replaced the book. It made a slight click returning to the shelf. Like a gun cocking. “The man was waiting for our plane.” He said it pleasantly. But he was watching Steve.

  Steve handed him one. “Was he waiting for you?”

  Haig shook his head.

  “Then how do you know about it?” He couldn’t play it innocent like Rube, he wasn’t the type. He had to settle for the wise-guy attitude of the half drunk.

  “One of the attendants at the airport remembered his questions regarding our flight.” Haig was extraordinarily careful with his cigarette ash. It made a soft gray capsule in a translucent jade tray. “The odd thing is that no one from the flight turned up to identify him.”

  This time Steve didn’t hesitate, “You must have had a special interest in this guy the way you’ve been looking into him.”

  Haig didn’t have to respond. Feather’s appearance in the arch was sufficient diversion. She’d changed to a slender black dress and pulled up her hair in an effort for sophistication. It didn’t amount to enough.

  But Haig chose to answer. “I’m always interested in oddities.” He dropped the subject there. “Why don’t you fellows come along to dinner with us?”

  “Now, we wouldn’t want to move in,” Reuben began.

  “Why not?” Steve decided. The way a guy with too many quick ones could be expected to perform. “Why not? Why let Mr. Armour have all the fun?” He gulped the rest of his drink.

  Haig asked, “You don’t mind, Feather?”

  She said, “Oh no,” but she wasn’t quite sure. She did it pretty well. Just as if she and Haig hadn’t planned the whole layout before Wilton delivered Steve and Reuben into their hands. As to what they wanted, Steve still wasn’t too sure.

  2

  As host, Haig Armour took over even as he had the night before. There was no choice of
café; the party arrived at Haig’s hotel. He swept them to a reserved table in the glossy dining room, allowed them to inspect the mammoth menu and exquisite wine list while he ordered. No one opposed. You didn’t oppose a torrent.

  He timed his grenade until they were lulled by luxury. “I understand you boys are from Berlin.” He didn’t bother to explain where he’d picked up the information. “Did you happen to run across a fellow there called Davidian?”

  No one stopped eating.

  Reuben shook his head. “Uh-uh.” He dug into his oyster cocktail.

  Steve made a play at trying to place the name. “Davidian? Don’t think I did. What his racket?”

  Haig smiled. “You might say he’s an artist.”

  You might say that. An engraver could be called an artist, that is, if he were as artistic an engraver as Davidian. He could make money you’d have a hard time telling from the real thing. The Germans had known it; that explained why he didn’t end up a handful of bones or ash. The Russians had found out about him; they’d cleared him with dispatch of any Nazi stain. The Americans had a file on his talents. And another one of his activities.

  “Friend of yours?”

  “No,” Haig answered with the same offhand smile. “But a friend of mine went to Berlin to meet him.”

  Steve asked, “Was he worth it?”

  “He wasn’t there. He’d disappeared.”

  Somehow the word, simple enough in itself, assumed a sinister quality, something foreign to the elegance of dinner in Beverly Hills. Feather’s hands were nervous at the celery dish. Reuben put away his oyster fork. It was he who asked, “Disappeared?”

  Haig studied the boy briefly. He nodded.

  Steve wondered. Could it be Haig didn’t know which one of the two was looking for Davidian?

  “From the American zone?” Rube probed.

  “From the Eastern sector.”

  Steve narrowed his eyes on Haig. “How did your friend expect to find him if he was in the Russian sector? The Reds don’t like Americans poking around in their business.”

  Reuben said, “That’s a fact,” and launched a couple of anecdotes about guys he’d known who had tried to wander over the boundary. He even brought up the old familiar friend of a friend who had vanished on a harmless foray. Haig listened courteously.

  The girl turned her head to Steve with pallid indignation. “We wouldn’t want them poking into our business either.” It was evident that she’d been primed to get him popping off. Her earlier guff about capitalism was part of the same. He let Reuben answer her.

  “But their guys don’t disappear over on our side. We just bounce them back fast.”

  Haig lit a cigarette. “I’m trying to find Davidian.” Was he angling for an informer? Did he hope that Steve would sell out to him; could it be he had heard that Steve worked for hire, not devotion to a cause? The waiters were a stylish drill team, removing plates, making order out of disorder before bringing the steaks.

  Steve hooted. “In Beverly Hills?”

  Haig lifted bold eyes. “Does that surprise you?” He knew it didn’t. He might think Rube was playing a hand in this, but he knew Steve Wintress was in Los Angeles for only one purpose.

  Steve asked innocently, “Why would a man like that turn up here?”

  Haig shrugged. “Possibly to meet a very good friend of his. Janni Zerbec.”

  Somehow the glass in Steve’s hand didn’t splinter. All of them were eying him. If he didn’t brazen it out, Haig would wonder out loud what was bothering him. He brazened, “Is Janni Zerbec here?”

  “Yes, Tim saw her today.” Haig was casual. “You know her?”

  Janni wasn’t one for idle talk, certainly not to the Gestapo. Yet she didn’t know the shape of U.S. officialdom. It wasn’t the ugly iron spikes or hunks of jagged stone she was conditioned to; it was clerks like Timothy or smooth operators like Haig Armour. She wouldn’t know how dangerous they could be. Steve decided to play it dumb. If she’d mentioned his visit to Timothy, he would brand her a liar. Let Haig prove which one lied.

  “Isn’t she the girl who use to dance in those black-market cafés?” If only Feather couldn’t add. If only she’d forgotten the earlier moment of his indulgence in remembering Janni. His question sounded genuinely curious; this Berlin pin-up of earlier G.I.’s shouldn’t be linked with his personal bitterness over a dancer. He grimaced. “The joints out of bounds for us G.I.’s?”

  Feather’s wide eyes widened. “You mean she danced for G.I.’s and lived in the Eastern sector?”

  “Maybe she couldn’t read the signs,” Rube said dryly.

  Haig’s eyes hadn’t moved from Steve. “You were in Berlin with the Army of Occupation?”

  “I was one of the first guys in.”

  Reuben’s smile wrapped Steve up in a new blanket of friendship. The kid would have been in high school when Steve was rolling into Berlin. The old men had been sent home, the high school crowd had taken over. Same job, no modern improvements. There wasn’t even a concept of peace any longer between wars. Nothing but stalemate between Armageddons.

  Steve became garrulous in imitation of old soldiers. “There were plenty of girls entertaining us conquering heroes. But only one Janni Zerbec. Everybody knew Janni.”

  “Off bounds,” Haig commented.

  Something in the way he said it made Steve ask what he didn’t want to ask. “Did you?”

  Haig had been waiting for this. He let his smile grow reminiscent, his dark eyes slumberous. “Yes, I knew her.”

  Steve managed to speak evenly. “You were over there, too, when the war ended?”

  “I was there ahead of the lines.”

  And Haig could have lined her up before Steve found her. It wasn’t true. Steve was sure it wasn’t true. This lie was a part of Haig’s master plan, only that; something labeled Operation Davidian, with Directive A: dissect Steve Wintress; Subdirective: try Stimulus Janni. And watch Steve Wintress bleed. It wasn’t going to work. Haig couldn’t hear his heart thudding: Keep your fine manicured paws off Janni, keep your richness for the Feathers—keep away from Janni! Haig could hear only the question he spoke aloud, “What the hell’s she doing here?”

  Haig said, “Perhaps Davidian will answer that.”

  Davidian shouldn’t have made contact with her; he’d been warned to stay away from anyone out of his past. Steve asked bluntly, “Are you out here to ship them back to Berlin?”

  Haig laughed, “They appear to be here legitimately.” He stopped laughing. “Unless they move into the wrong crowd.” The waiters were again tidying up the table. “Besides it’s not my business. I’m in a different racket now, as you would put it. My doctor advised a quieter job.”

  Like hell. Somehow Steve managed a smile. “So you’re looking for Davidian to ask him about his income tax.”

  Rube told the waiter, “I’ll have chocolate layer cake with my ice cream.”

  “In a way.” Haig continued smoothly, “You might say I’m interested in the amount of money he’s made this year.”

  Did Haig honestly believe that Davidian was opening up his engraving business in Los Angeles? It was the kind of maneuvering the department had found successful before; it might be tough to apprehend a guy for murder or wife-beating or subversive activities, but you could move in fast on income tax irregularities. You could use the threat to bargain for the report.

  Haig was asking, “Do you get out here often?”

  “No.” They couldn’t pin on him the coincidence of Davidian and Janni being in these parts.

  “I find it a particularly interesting community. It has a heterology of its own but it isn’t as easy to be lost in it as it is in New York, for example, or Berlin or London. For a fairly simple reason. It doesn’t have the ancient warrens of those tired old cities. It is difficult to find a hiding place in a meadow or on the plains. Or in the wide sprawling spaces of Los Angeles. There’s too much daylight and not enough shadow.”

  Steve said sardonically, �
��Then you won’t have much trouble in running down this Davidian.”

  “Not much.” Haig was complacent. “This community has another aspect which is both peculiar and helpful. It is neighborly. Unlike New York, or Berlin or London, where there is, you might say, a psychotic revulsion against so much as recognizing a stranger, the good people here open their arms in welcome. Therefore, undue reticence creates conversation; it actually becomes suspect. And conversation ripples like a pebble in a pond, to the milkman and the breadman and the ice cream man, in the supermarket and the laundromat and the P.T.A. meeting. Whenever I see street after street of neat little white houses, or pink or green or yellow houses, I know that even the children playing on the walks will recognize the presence of a deviationist.”

  He had it all tagged so neatly. Yet Davidian had hidden out for months now. Successfully. Perhaps Davidian himself had perceived the pattern, perhaps he was hiding in the open. The danger in this solution was obvious; the kids on the block would be singing about the nice new man instead of the nasty new man. You couldn’t win the way Haig had outlined it. And Haig could be right; he wouldn’t often be wrong.

  An urgency to get back to Janni rode Steve’s nerves. She’d have to tell him where Davidian was; the F.B.I. had come too far. It wasn’t safe for any of them now.

  3

  It wasn’t easy to get away. He didn’t doubt this had been one of the purposes of Haig’s fancy dinner. To keep him from his job. He made his exit on a palpable excuse about business, insurance business, leaving the three of them at the table, still tied up with coffee and dessert and the check. He caught a cab discharging a couple outside the hotel, announced, “The Biltmore,” loudly, in case Haig had a man hanging around. There was no cab waiting to follow and no car took out after him. It was a long ride, not as long as by trolley and bus, and not as time-consuming. But the expense account wouldn’t stand many of these jaunts. He’d have to get hold of a car if he was going to track down Davidian in these wide open spaces. Moreover, a cab was too easy to follow.