Davidian Report

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  He played the game in the Biltmore Hotel. The lobby was full of conversation, businessmen in responsible business suits. He couldn’t spot a tracker. He went to the desk, asked for a guy who had vanished into Siberia a year back, not a name Haig could check quickly. From there he went to the house phone, put through a call to 819. No one was in earshot when he made it brief to the wrong number at the other end. A fancy flight of steps led to the elevator. He took them fast, caught an elevator waiting, before his call could be traced. He rode to five, a middle-aged couple got off ahead of him but they minded their own business, heading to a room, opening the door and closing it after them. After that he wasted no time in the rug-hushed corridor. He was quick to the fire stairs and he descended on foot. He left by the side door of the hotel.

  There weren’t too many people walking around the downtown streets at this hour until he reached Main. Its garish honky-tonks were going full blast. He sauntered along, despite the urgency pressing him. Plenty of movie houses cut their marquee lights and let the cashiers go home before midnight. By sauntering he didn’t make noticeable his examination of the girls remaining on duty.

  She hadn’t been lying about her job. She was in the glass cage at one of the meanest of the dumps, leaning on her elbow looking at nothing. When she saw him, the half-smile was turned off. “What do you want?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.” She made sure he’d know she meant it by glancing over her shoulder for the bouncer. It was the first time Steve had taken notice of the man by the entrance door, a tall, thin punk with sideburns and greasy black curls. Probably considered himself baby’s little protector because she let him walk home with her on nights when she hadn’t anything better to do.

  “I think you have. I’ve been with the F.B.I tonight.”

  She doubted it.

  “They were talking about you.”

  She asked harshly, “Why can’t you leave me alone?” The punk was watchful, ready to step across the miniature lobby and make something of Steve.

  “You know why.”

  She said, “I can’t talk on the job.”

  “What time are you off?”

  “Not until two.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Slim was advancing, one foot at a time, as if he found nothing very interesting in bouncing gents with ideas. Steve shambled off. He didn’t want to hit the punk. It wasn’t the poor guy’s fault.

  There were plenty of saloons on the street but he needed a place where he could keep an eye on her, a place where she’d know he was watching and that she couldn’t pull a sneak. A decent little Italian restaurant was further up the street on the opposite pavement. It didn’t have to hide its business behind curtains. Steve bought the morning paper at the corner and gave it a try. There weren’t half a dozen people inside including the help. He took the front corner table; it didn’t give him much of a view of her cage but it would do. He didn’t want coffee and crullers but they would permit him to hang around. He’d have a long wait; it wasn’t yet midnight.

  Steve glimpsed the headlines in the paper, the four horsemen galloping there as usual, and as he glanced across the way again he almost upset his coffee. She was leaving the cage, the fellow was going to take her place. He waited to see which way she moved, watched her shrug a coat about her shoulders, watched the punk hand her her purse, his hand lingering stickily on hers.

  When she cut across towards the restaurant, Steve relaxed. She wasn’t trying to run out. He picked up his paper, kept at it even when she came into the place. He heard her speak, “Just coffee, Pepe.” He didn’t hear what else she said, she might have been asking Pepe to throw the bum out. Steve kept reading the paper. Until she came to the table, carrying her coffee cup. Until she sat down with him.

  He didn’t get out of his chair. It wasn’t the custom on Main Street. He said, “You’re off early tonight.”

  “I’ll make it up tomorrow night.” She gulped at the coffee just as if it were good, set the cup down and began fishing in her handbag. “Not that it matters to you.”

  “Have one of mine?” Steve handed over his cigarette pack.

  “So you are paying for information now?”

  He didn’t answer, he lit her cigarette. She loosed her red coat, it was bargain basement but it was red, and she wore it with a flair. Her dress was a cheap shiny satin, too shiny. On her it had more style than Feather Talle would have dressed by Adrian.

  “What story did you give that bum?”

  “He is no bum. He is the assistant manager. I explained to him that you were my cousin and that you became ugly when you drank too much. I would have to get you home or there would be trouble.”

  “And he believed it.”

  “He could observe you had been drinking.” She swallowed more of her coffee. “As could I.”

  “Not that much.” He pushed his crullers to her, she’d eat anything. “Did you tell Davidian that I was looking for him?”

  “I do not know where Davidian is.”

  He caught her wrist in pincer fingers. As if she were handling poisoned barbs, she removed them one by one. “You will not touch me.”

  “Sorry.” He wasn’t. He was in a churn of anger. “But you can stop lying. I’m not the only one who knows better.”

  “I do not lie.”

  He tried again. “You know how to get in touch with him.”

  “No.” He was ready to slam her when she added through an airy swirl of smoke, “He knows how to get in touch with me.”

  He hopped on it too eagerly. “You’ve seen him.”

  “No.”

  “Janni!” She must realize that time couldn’t wait on her tricks. “When will you see him?”

  “When he so chooses.”

  Had they been alone, he might have rattled the truth out of her scornful mouth. They weren’t alone. They were in a restaurant where she was Pepe’s friend and Steve was her drunken cousin. Because she was pleased at infuriating him, he tried patience. “If you had to get to him in a hurry—”

  “There is no way.”

  She lied. She was too clever to let Davidian escape her. She was as experienced as he, more experienced, in the sly twists of the underground. What Steve didn’t get was why Davidian had delivered himself into her hands in the first place. The first contact could have been accidental, but why continue it? Davidian knew her record. It wasn’t much different from his own; two guttersnipes out for what they could get. They’d never trusted each other, their only link had been Steve. And then all at once he did know. Davidian needed an address. Someone to pass on his pay to him.

  He said, “The F.B.I. is after him.”

  She was unmoved. “For what reason? He does not work.”

  “One of their men came to see you today.”

  Pellets of rage flecked her words. “You set that goat on me!”

  “Don’t be a fool,” he advised sharply. “The last thing I wanted was for them to know about you. Haig Armour sent him.”

  She spoke unfamiliar syllables. “Haig Armour.” Her English wasn’t proficient enough to take it other than phonetically. “Who is this?”

  “One of your Berlin playmates.” Anger was coming up into his throat again. “You couldn’t forget Haig Armour. He is rich, important, a magnificent man.”

  “No, I could not forget this kind! It is because I have this rich, magnificent protector that I live in a hovel with the old ones and work at nights on lower Main Street.” She thought about it. “I did not know him.”

  “He knew you were here,” he pointed out. “He sent Timothy Leonard to talk to you. What did Leonard want to know?”

  “Where is Davidian? What else would he want? To carry me to his rich—”

  He cut in. “Did he mention me?”

  “Perhaps he just mentions your name. I do not know this Steve Wintress, Stefan.” Her eyes slitted. “What do you tell this man of me?”

  “Nothing.”
/>   “Now it is you who are lying.”

  “Him, nothing. Haig Armour—”

  Her temper was rising and his slow smile helped it. “What do you tell him?”

  “Nothing he doesn’t know. I’ve heard the name Janni Zerbec. Who hasn’t? The babe of Berlin.” His hand was above her wrist but he remembered not to touch her. “The dancer in all the best cafés.”

  She spat. “It was jealousy. I was superior to the café dancers. They were old and spavined. They were afraid to have me be seen. It was for this reason I must dance on the street and in private quarters—”

  He asked, “Did you know Reuben St. Clair?”

  “Who is this?”

  “A G.I. He was in Berlin.”

  She said, “I do not remember. There were so many soldiers. German soldiers, American soldiers, English, French, Russian soldiers. I do not remember their faces or their names, only what they give to me.”

  “You’ve stopped lying,” he said insolently. “What about Haig Armour?”

  She glowered under her ragged dark bangs. “I have told you I do not know this Haig Armour.” Again she gave the name phonetic quality. And he didn’t know which one spoke true, she or Haig. She was peering past the window. “We have quarreled sufficiently. Now I take you home. You will behave as if I take you against your wishes.”

  “Who’ll believe that?” She couldn’t meet his eyes. She hadn’t forgotten, no matter how much she wanted to, no matter how much she wanted him to believe she had. He put on a scowl as she walked him out of the place. The fellow who’d taken over her job could watch them depart.

  They turned west at Third Street. She said, “Here you may leave me.”

  He countered, “I haven’t the faintest intention of leaving you. I am here for information.”

  She flashed, “There is no information I can give you. Or your friends. Tell them that. Tell them to leave me alone. I know nothing. Nothing!”

  “You know one thing, Janni. How to put me in touch with Davidian. Listen to me.” He took her arm, holding it rigid until she ceased resisting. “He is expecting me. We planned this before he left Berlin. It is essential I see him before the others do.” They walked together. “Just why are you holding out on me? Hasn’t he told you he wants to see me?”

  She said savagely, “Maybe he trusts you. I know better.”

  “What’s your percentage?” He flung the insult. “You think you can make a better deal?”

  She was trembling with anger. “I would not touch your deals. I wish only to be a good American.” The anger subsided. “This is what he wishes also, only to be a good American.”

  He ignored the appeal. “Davidian looks out for Davidian.”

  “You do not know him now! He is no longer a man to be beaten, kicked—he is free! I will not turn him over to you to be trapped again in your dirty organization.”

  “Listen,” he demanded. “This hasn’t anything to do with any organization. This is a private matter between Davidian and me.” He stressed it. “No one else figures in it.”

  “You are working for the party.”

  “I work where I get paid.” How much did he dare say? It wasn’t safe to deposit information with anyone. Not on this kind of job. He couldn’t trust her.

  Her voice was a smooth, cold stone. “I do not understand this. That you can work for them, betray your own people. For money!”

  “It’s a good enough reason,” he said callously. “You’re the last one to point the finger. Let’s leave my conscience out of it. And yours. All I want is for you to get word to Davidian that I’m here looking for him. That’s all. Not next week or the day after tomorrow. Now. Let him decide if he’ll see me. You can believe it or not but if I don’t get to him fast, he’s in for trouble.”

  “Where you are, there is always trouble,” she stated.

  He hadn’t realized it but they were at the Fifth Street incline that led to Bunker Hill. Without warning she twisted her arm from his clutch. “Stay away from me. I have enough troubles.” She began to run up the hill.

  He could have followed her. But he didn’t. He’d given her enough to think about. She might not recognize it as truth but he had told her true; he had to see Davidian alone before either side moved in.

  4

  On the long trolley run back to the hotel, he had time to think about Davidian. No matter how much Janni wanted to believe that Davidian had changed, Steve knew better. He was using Janni.

  The man could be yet hiding out in the battered old house where Janni lived. This Steve doubted. It would not have been safe for either of them. Wherever Davidian was, it must be a place where there was sufficient seclusion for him to work on his report. It would be a poor place, the old man’s purse strings wouldn’t pry any wider than small change. But not too isolated, Davidian wasn’t the recluse type; he’d be needing someone to smoke a cigarette with, to argue philosophy and politics and historical accidents with. He’d be needing a woman. Wherever he was, he’d make friends. Not caring that friends could be dangerous. For Davidian, danger was the norm.

  There was some pattern of communication worked out between the two. They wouldn’t risk letters. They would be wary of the telephone. Their good Americanization program would not as yet have erased the deep-rooted suspicion carried with them from Europe. They could meet accidentally, two strangers on a park bench, exchanging the hour; two strangers passing on the street. The solution was so obvious—the all-night movie. Where Janni could be found every night; where Davidian was only another shabby man buying a seat to rest his skinny bones. He could have been inside the grimy theater tonight while she led Steve away by his nose. He cursed her just above his breath. Goddamn little slut.

  If he’d been in a position to offer her a wad of dollars, she’d have sold him a ticket and personally ushered him to a seat beside the man he sought. Haig had the wad; all he needed was to offer her enough to overcome her repugnance at selling out to the police. Once he caught on to that, events would move fast enough Haig’s way. The worst of it was that Steve didn’t dare ask for extraordinary funds from the organization; he had to work cheap. While time closed in inexorably.

  The trolley trundled past the hotel and Steve jabbed the bell. He swung off at the next stop, annoyed at overriding his destination; it meant he was off key and he couldn’t afford that. It hadn’t to do with the physical actuality of Janni; he was through with that. He could touch her wrist, her arm, without his blood remembering.

  He walked back the two blocks. The lobby smoldered in its customary shadow, the nonexistent clerk posed behind the desk, the Philippine boy rode him silently to the fourth floor. He opened the door with his key, saw Reuben leaning against the bath door and then saw the upheaval of the room.

  “What the hell?”

  “Don’t jump me. I just got in.”

  There’d been so little to disturb, he and Rube traveled light. But that little was upside down on the dirty rug. They hadn’t taken his gun; it was a dull high light on the rug. Rube couldn’t help spotting it but he didn’t say a word.

  “The lousy bastards.” It wasn’t his side, they would have searched the place unobtrusively twelve hours ago. Leaving no traces. Nor would the F.B.I. leave a mess. Not unless they chose to. This was Haig Armour’s idea, more psychological unnerving. Steve tossed the gun into his valise. “Sorry.” He began to pick up the rest of the stuff.

  “You’re up to your neck in something, aren’t you?”

  Steve shook his head. “Just a job. Run of the mill.”

  “It’s tied up with Haig Armour.”

  “Believe me, kid, I never saw him before last night. Purely accidental.”

  “He said you’d gone to meet a girl.”

  “Wise guy.” Stripped, he lay on the bed, finishing his nightcap cigarette.

  “She got more on the ball than Feather?”

  “Wouldn’t take much for that.”

  “Feather’s a funny girl. She acts scared.” Rube cut the lamp
but the neon glow from the cocktail bar across the street gave low-key visibility. He’d forgotten to pull the lank curtains across the windows. It was just as well, maybe the sun would wake them. If there was sun in the morning.

  “Scared of men. Except for Uncle Haig. The protective type.” Steve wondered out loud, “What did you do after I left?”

  “We danced. But she had to get home early. She had a lesson or something in the morning, she said.”

  “Who took her home?”

  “Well, I did. In Haig’s car.”

  “And Haig’s chauffeur.” Steve added, “Who subsequently delivered you here.”

  “Right. He doesn’t act much like a chauffeur.” Rube creaked to an elbow. “Haig’s kind of a curious guy.”

  “About what?”

  “You and me. Shacking up here. He kept trying to make out we’d known each other in Berlin. And this girl you two had been talking about.”

  Steve asked it. “You didn’t run into this Janni Zerbec over there?”

  “If I did, she didn’t tell me her right name. The ones I met were all named Greta.”

  Steve wasn’t going to be a curious guy. Any more than Rube was, not one word about the gun. He’d just go on wondering where Reuben fit or if he fit. At least he had the kid at hand, or vice versa as the case might be.

  The room wasn’t much brighter when he woke than when he’d slept. Another fog-bound morning. Winter in California. When he emerged from the shower, Reuben was stirring. “What time?”

  Steve pushed his last clean shirt into his belt. “Almost eleven. I’ve got some business to attend to. Think you can keep out of trouble?”

  Rube grinned. “I kind of thought I’d go down to the broadcasting studios today. Maybe I’ll win us a washing machine.”

  Steve knotted his tie. “If you don’t we better find us a laundry.” He slipped into his jacket, took another look at the sky and grabbed his hat and coat. “See you later.” He rode downstairs, picked up the morning papers at the corner newsstand, and made for the nearest lunch room. While he waited for his ham and eggs, he drank coffee and searched for mention of Albion. There wasn’t any. Albie had moved out of the news as unassumingly as out of existence. No one was interested in him now but the F.B.I.