Davidian Report

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  Steve left the papers with his tip and continued up the boulevard. The sun was beginning to clear away the overcast, pushing small tatters of blue through the dirty gray. He didn’t need his topcoat after all. The giant green tin Christmas trees were picking up a glint, the shiny silver ornaments swinging above were turning to silver.

  He was on Mr. Oriole’s porch exactly at noon, pushing the bell while the hands on his watch met at the top of the dial. Mr. Oriole didn’t open the door; it might have been his wife, might have been his mother. She was heavy-hipped with worn hands and shoulders. Her tongue said brokenly, “Come in.” She pointed to the parlor. “In here.”

  No one was in the parlor. Steve didn’t sit down. He looked out the side window at a straggle of pale little flowers against the neighboring fence.

  Mr. Oriole had slept in the same clothes. He came in complaining feebly, “You’re right on time.” A thin sheaf of papers drooped from his pudgy fingers.

  “I planned it that way.” Steve held out his hand. “You have the information?”

  “I have done the best I could. You did not give me much time.”

  “I don’t have much time.” Steve kept the hand extended. The sharp bell was a rasp across nerve ends. No wonder the woman had looked tired with that racket interrupting her days and nights.

  Oriole said nervously, “That will be Mr. Schmidt.”

  “A conference.” It wasn’t unexpected.

  Schmidt said only, “Good morning,” yet somehow in the two words he conveyed distaste for Oriole’s uncouth appearance and his displeasure that Steve was here first.

  Steve answered the good morning briefly and turned on Oriole. “I told you I have no time to waste. Let’s see what you’ve turned up.” He forestalled Oriole’s move to pass the papers to Schmidt by stepping up and taking them. He returned to the window, teetered on the edge of a straight-backed chair, his shoulder to the other men. He covered the sparse accounts rapidly; reread, pausing where there might be a clue, then slapped the sheaf on the edge of the fern table. The fronds trembled. Schmidt had to cross the room to retrieve the document.

  “So this is all I get.” Steve didn’t hide disgust. “Davidian came to L.A. maybe seven or eight months ago and checked in at a Bunker Hill apartment house, boarding with a girl named Janni Zerbec and an old couple who might be her kin. By the time we got on to this, Davidian was gone. Vanished. Being thorough, Albion called at the apartment, a broken-down, one-room affair. He didn’t see how they could take in a boarder,” Steve grimaced. “Albion must have forgotten his Berlin experience. He found out nothing from the old couple, they don’t speak English, only some obscure Slav dialect. The girl spoke English but persisted in knowing nothing. She admitted Davidian had moved out, she had no idea where. Why did he move? Perhaps because he found a better place, perhaps because he no longer had the money to pay board to them. The girl was in no way cooperative in her responses. She insisted Davidian had been gone from there for six months.”

  Schmidt had retired to the couch. He was following the report by eyeglass as well as by ear. Steve got to his feet and began to pace the mottled carpet as he had yesterday. To focus attention on himself.

  “Albion alerted certain trusted workers to check the obvious places. The missions were investigated, the Skid Row charity joints, the county jail. Davidian wouldn’t be the first bum to take advantage of bed and board on the town. The investigators were hampered by having no firsthand knowledge of Davidian, no photograph, merely Albion’s memory of a man he met maybe once or twice five years ago. The official description’s vague enough, about forty years old, sallow complexion, dark eyes and hair, small hands and feet, height five feet four or five. It fits dozens. And easy enough to change that description in six months with good American food and California sun.” He broke off sharply. “I wasn’t sent here to walk the streets looking for a familiar face under a new disguise. I’m here to pick up the Davidian report. That’s my job. To get the Davidian report.”

  “You knew he had disappeared,” Schmidt said.

  “Davidian was supposed to be located before I got here. Albion was closer than this or he wouldn’t have alerted me to come. He wouldn’t waste my time. Where’s his report?” His hand was all-encompassing scorn of the papers Schmidt clenched. “Hack work. From hack workers. All of it ending in a big round zero. The girl used to walk through Pershing Square at noon. It could have been to feed the pigeons; it could have been that she was aware of a certain face in the line-up of derelicts loafing on the benches. Who knows? She never spoke to anyone, not while our hacks were around.” He said unpleasantly, “So the Square’s been chewed up, maybe I should burrow in the debris and see if Davidian’s hiding under a hunk of dirt? Albion could have given me Davidian. Albion’s dead.”

  “It is unfortunate.”

  He hated Schmidt’s guts, the righteous son of a bitch. “Yeah, unfortunate.”

  Schmidt said stiffly, “I was referring to Albion’s refusal to conform to the imperative of sharing his total information with our committee. It is unfortunate that he was of a secretive nature. He did not report fully to us.”

  Steve menaced, “Are you saying he reported to someone else?”

  “We do not know,” Schmidt said evenly. “We do know he was frequenting the offices of the F.B.I.”

  “No!” They couldn’t believe that. Not even Schmidt could believe that Albion had been ratting to the F.B.I. If Schmidt had had Albion liquidated there was something more behind it, Schmidt’s jealousy of a more important worker, or his rage at being unable to force Albion to rigid conformance. Schmidt would find out how unfortunate it was that Albion was gone. After Steve turned in his report to Berlin. “I don’t believe it.”

  “It is authenticated.”

  A narrow cold man who couldn’t see beyond the dogma on his eyeglasses. Or who used that dogma for his own opportunities. Steve said, “There’s only one thing that interests me at this moment. Why didn’t you get Albion’s information before—he died. I’m back where he started weeks ago. With Davidian and a girl.”

  “You could talk with this girl.” Maybe he knew that Steve had seen Janni, maybe not. Schmidt knew too much.

  “I’ve talked with her,” Steve admitted. “I got just as far as Albion did. Nothing.”

  Mr. Schmidt removed his rimless glasses and peered for a dust mote. “There are ways—”

  This time Steve could turn the anger loose. “Where do you think you are? Germany? Russia? Or in the funny papers? This is the U.S. You don’t go around smashing up women unless you want to pay for it. I don’t.” He stopped short and pointed a fist at Schmidt. “Just in case you get any more screwball ideas, let me tell you this girl was conditioned under both the Nazis and the occupation. You can liquidate her but you can’t squeeze one drop of information out of her. Unless she wants to give it. She wouldn’t be alive today if she were intimidatable.”

  “You know this girl?”

  “Yes, I know her.” He wasn’t certain how much to reveal. Another glance at Schmidt’s impassive face and he made the decision; Janni’s safety might depend on his putting his personal mark on her. “And maybe I can find out a way to get her to talk, she is the one known link. I’m working on it.” He pushed back his hat. “The only trouble is the F.B.I, is hot on her too.”

  “You had dinner with Haig Armour last night.”

  Steve made no attempt to reply until he glared through into the colorless eyes. “Yeah,” he said softly. And then he shot the question, “Why don’t you set your hot-shot spies on finding Davidian instead of checking me? You know,” his smile was unpleasant, “I wouldn’t be surprised if I turned up the Davidian report despite your help.” He swerved to the silent Oriole. “I need a car.”

  Oriole’s eyes faltered to the boss. “This can be arranged?”

  “Never mind about arrangements,” Steve told him. “I want a car. I’m not a fat capitalist who can hire cabs. If I have to hoof this town, I won’t get any fu
rther or faster than your stooges.”

  “You have a car available?” Schmidt asked of Oriole. His distaste of Steve was in his white lips.

  “There is my own car. It is not so good—”

  “If it runs, it’ll do,” Steve said.

  “This report?” Schmidt questioned. He lifted the papers.

  “You know what to do with it.” Steve let out a short laugh. “If you get something with a lead in it, let me know.”

  “Any help we can give you,” Schmidt promised dully. “We have assured our friends in New York that we will cooperate with you to the extent of out faculties.”

  The bastard had checked with New York since the meeting last night. The thorough Mr. Schmidt. New York hadn’t phoned him, such preliminaries had been fulfilled through Albion before Steve left for California.

  Steve said, “You might try thinking up some answers on Albion’s death. For instance, why the F.B.I. should be interested in a heart attack.” It would corroborate Albie’s treachery in Schmidt’s books but it would also let the bastard know that it wasn’t as easy to get rid of a man as he might have thought it would be. “They haven’t tied him up with me yet but they’re worrying it. If they should get too close, I’ll want you to divert them.”

  Schmidt said, “I understand.” It was the kind of routine he could carry out. Planning it would keep him busy for another twenty-four hours.

  Steve said to Oriole, “Where’s your car?”

  “It is in my back yard. I will drive it out for you.”

  “Never mind that.” He trod on Oriole’s heels. He hadn’t expected to get a look at the ground floor layout this early. Behind the portieres was what should have been the back parlor. Obviously Mr. Oriole used it not only for his private office but also as a lunch counter and for naps. A ragged quilt of faded rose and blue was lumped on a scabrous leather couch. The roll-top desk was littered with papers, the stale scraps of a bun, a cup with a scum of yellowed milk over cold dregs, and a plate smeared with what might have been cherry pie. The anachronism was the austerity of green steel filing cabinets. The room smelled unclean, the smell of Oriole. There was a telephone on the desk, a personal line, no coin box.

  Mr. Oriole half apologized. “My wife, she has not cleaned in here today, it seems.” It was automatic, a little joke he would make whenever anyone viewed his squalid quarters. He divided old-style sliding wooden doors at the right; Steve hadn’t seen their like since he was a kid visiting a widowed aunt in upper Manhattan. The dining room was small and drab but neat. In the kitchen the tired woman was scrubbing a wooden sink drain. An electric icebox was the one touch of the twentieth century here.

  Steve followed through to the back porch, a clutter of broken relics, a bird cage, a washboard, a child’s wicker doll buggy. Mr. Oriole knew the path through the junk; for all his bulk he disturbed not one useless object. Latticework masked the porch from the neighbors. The four splintered steps down into the back yard were unmasked.

  The yard was overgrown with weeds and dried grasses. The car stood in the open; it wasn’t much, a plain black sedan of too old a vintage. Mr. Oriole took two keys, tied together with soiled twine, from his pocket. He said tenderly, “It runs pretty good. Most the time.”

  “I’ll take good care of it.” Steve opened the car door.

  Mr. Oriole was pressing over Steve’s shoulder. “The lights are here.” He pointed a dirty forefinger. “The starter is this one.” It wasn’t what Mr. Oriole wanted to say. It wasn’t why the man’s soiled breath was against Steve’s neck nor why his back was hunched to hide Steve from anyone looking out the window. Nor was it that Steve might be unable to locate the windshield wiper. The words came fearfully in a whisper, “I could tell you something.”

  “Yes?”

  Mr. Oriole pointed to another button but he didn’t label it. He was more afraid, having spoken this much.

  Steve followed Oriole’s lead, pantomiming an examination of the dashboard. He said impatiently, “For Christ sake, go on.” He expected it to be about Albion, he went so far as to expect a hint that Schmidt had decreed the same end for Steve Wintress.

  “This man came to my house asking for you.”

  “Which man?”

  “The one you call Davidian.”

  This out of a clear sky. Steve didn’t turn on him, he knew the risk Mr. Oriole was taking in confiding the information. “When?”

  “It was—” He pondered, his breath heavy. “It was on Monday night.”

  “Why didn’t you—”

  “I did not know of you. Mr. Schmidt did not tell me until Wednesday that you were expected. He does not confide in me.”

  “You knew of Davidian.”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “I did not recognize him. I had not been told of his appearance.” He shrugged. “And if I had, there are so many men like him.” He tried for a pathetic joke, patting his own big stomach. “He has not become rich and fat in this land of dollars.”

  He couldn’t keep Oriole here too long, Schmidt would become suspicious. Steve slid over in the seat. “Get at the wheel. Start showing me how to start the car, as if it had tricks.”

  Oriole moved fast for a man of his weight.

  “Now give it to me.”

  “It was early evening. He stood on the porch. I did not invite him in, I did not know him, how could I guess? He asked for you by name. Stefan Winterich. But I had not been told Stefan Winterich was coming to us.” He wouldn’t soon forget this grievance. “I thought perhaps he had the wrong house number. Or perhaps a trap. We must be so careful always of a police trap.”

  “Sure,” Steve agreed. “Was he on foot or wheels?”

  “On foot.” Oriole caused the car to give little huffing noises.

  “Positive?”

  “Of this I am certain.” He would have stood peering from behind the lace curtains after the man. “There was no car on the street before he came or after he left. He was a poor man.”

  This put Davidian in a new location, Hollywood. A far cry from Skid Row. He could have ridden the trolley, the same as Steve. But how had he got on to Mr. Oriole’s place unless he’d been sniffing around the Hollywood hangouts?

  Mr. Oriole was insistent. “I did not guess, you understand this? How can a man be expected to guess that a stranger … I said nothing just now—” His small eyes turned to the house. “I am afraid Mr. Schmidt would not understand this. But he had not told me your name or that you were coming.” He was sweating, his shirt smelled.

  “Don’t tell Schmidt,” Steve advised. It was what Oriole wanted to hear. He’d made a mistake and mistakes were not allowed. He’d confessed to it, either because he was afraid he’d be found out or in a sincere effort to be of help. As to whom he should make confession, he’d had to choose between Steve and Schmidt. He’d chosen Steve. He would hope he was backing the right man, he couldn’t know. Top men came and went fast in the organization. It would have been a hard decision for Oriole to make; Schmidt was his bread and butter. But Steve might be the marmalade; he was higher up, he must be to have been sent from Berlin to New York to Los Angeles. Unless this whole business was a trap dreamed up by Schmidt and Oriole to put Steve in a spot. You could never be sure of anything.

  Steve knew what the answer would be before he asked. “He left no message, nowhere to look for him?”

  “Nothing.” Mr. Oriole was clambering out of the car. His chins quavered. “You understand why I said nothing?”

  Steve said, “As long as you keep on saying nothing you’re safe. If Davidian comes back, find out where he lives. If you have to follow him yourself.”

  “Oh yes. Yes, I will do that.”

  He slammed the door, stepped on the starter. “If Schmidt wants to know what took you so long, tell him I’m an idiot about machinery.”

  He backed and filled, got the car into the driveway, and noted the hand holding aside the lace curtains as he rolled past the side parlor window. Mr. Schmidt would not have overlooked the delay. Yet
somehow Steve was certain that Mr. Oriole would cover well, that he was long accustomed to protecting his own interests.

  III

  STEVE DROVE DIRECTLY TO Janni’s. Near two o’clock. She should be just about getting up. She’d been in early last night. He knew no short cuts but he knew the direction of town. He had no trouble until he reached the downtown section. It was cut up into a maze, he went in and around tunnels, one-way streets, dead-end streets, long blocks without intersections, before he found the trick of reaching Bunker Hill. He’d have a hard time finding it again. The town was on a building spree; despite government controls, white concrete towers were rising above the scaly old tenements. Steve parked in front of Janni’s apartment. He saw no forbidding signs.

  The street was as empty of life as it had been previously. He climbed up the old steps to the creaking porch, entered the scabrous hallway and began his longer climb up to her room. There wasn’t as much noise through the walls as yesterday, now it was rustles and whispers, but the smell of age and dust and bad cooking was unchanged.

  She wouldn’t be surprised that he had returned. She knew he didn’t give up easily. The old woman’s hostile face answered his decisive knock.

  He pushed in. “I’m here to see Janni.” He didn’t care if she understood.

  She let loose her unintelligible imprecations. She was probably telling him that Janni wasn’t here. She wasn’t. Her cot was made up, an old army blanket smoothed over it. The old man sat by the window making fine stitches on a white glacé glove. Not half enough light sifted in but he didn’t need light. After centuries of glove-making, he would sew out of his unconscious. And the dream of a proud and ancient day when he was glove-maker to dukes and queens. He was too old to understand the new order. He didn’t raise his dim eyes from his work; an altercation between the old woman and a visitor was too usual, or he was stone-deaf.

  Steve demanded, “Where is she?” He pointed to the cot. “Janni?” The old lady started off again but he shouted at her, “You can drop that stuff. You can talk the language enough to tell me.”