his own.
Spaulding wondered for a moment whether Pace had a point. Was he trying to
find Leslie for reasons quite apart from his suspicions? The lies, the
search.... It was possible. Why not? But a two- to three-hour drive to west
Jersey and back would bring him no closer to either objective,
investigatory or Freudian. If she wasn't there.
He asked the Montgomery switchboard to get him the number of the Jenner
residence in Bernardsville, New Jersey. Not to place the call, just get the
telephone number. And the address. Then he called Aaron Mandel.
He had postponed it for as long as he could; Aaron would be filled with
tears and questions and offers of anything under the Manhattan sun and
moon. Ed Pace told him he had interviewed the old" concert manager four
years ago before approaching David for Lisbon; that would mean he could
reasonably avoid any
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lengthy discussions about his work.
And Aaron might be able to help him, should he need the old man's
particular kind of assistance. Mandel's New York contacts were damn near
inexhaustible. David would know more after he reached Bernardsville; and it
would be less awkward to have made his duty call to Aaron before asking
favors.
At first Spaulding thought the old man would have a coronary over the
telephone. Aaron's voice choked, conveying his shock, his concern ... and
his love. The questions came faster than David could answer them; his
mother, his father, his own wellbeing.
Mandel did not ask him about his work, but neither would he be satisfied
that David was as healthy as he claimed. Aaron insisted on a meeting, if
not this evening then certainly tomorrow.
David agreed. In the morning, late morning. They would have a drink
together, perhaps a light lunch; welcome the New Year together.
'God be praised. You are well. You'll come around tomorrowT
11 promise,' David said.
'And you've never broken a promise to me.'
'I won't. Tomorrow. And Aaron . .
'Yes?'
'It's possible I may need to find someone tonight. I'm not sure where to
look but probably among the Social Register crowd. How are your Park Avenue
connectionsT
The old man chuckled in the quiet, good-humored, slightly arrogant way
David remembered so well. 'I'm the only Jew with a Torah stand in St. John
the Divine. Everybody wants an artist - for nothing, of course. Red Cross,
green cross; debutantes for war bandages, dances for fancy-sounding French
medal winners. You name it, Mandel's on the hook for it. I got three
coloraturas, two pianists and five Broadway baritones making appearances
for "our boys" tonight. All on the Upper East Side.'
'I may call you in a little while. Will you still be at the office?'
'Where else? For soldiers and concert managers, when are the holidaysT
'You haven't changed.'
'The main thing is that you're well. . .
No sooner had David hung up the phone than it rang.
'I have the telephone number and the address of your party in
Bernardsville, Mr. Spaulding.'
179
'May I have them, please?'
The operator gave him the information and he wrote it down on the
ever-present stationery next to the phone.
'Shall I put the call through, sir?'
David hesitated, then said, 'Yes, please. I'll stay on the line. Ask for a
Mrs. Hawkwood, please.'
.Mrs. Hawkwood. Very well, sir. But I can call you back when I have the
party.'
'I'd rather stay on an open circuit. . . .' David caught himself, but not
in time. The blunder was minor but confirmed by the operator. She replied
in a knowing voice.
'Of course, Mr. Spaulding. I assume if someone other than Mrs. Hawkwood
answers, you'll wish to terminate the call?'
'I'll let you know.'
The operator, now part of some sexual conspiracy, acted her role with firm
efficiency. She dialed the outsideoperator and in moments a phone could be
heard ringing in Bernardsville, New Jersey. A woman answered; it was not
Leslie.
'Mrs. Hawkwood, please.'
'Mrs .... ' The voice on the Bernardsville line seemed hesitant.
'Mrs. Hawkwood, please. Long distance cafling,9 said the Montgomery
operator, as if she were from the telephone company, expediting a
person-to-person call.
'Mrs. Hawkwood isn't here, operator.'
'Can you tell me what time she's expected, please?'
'What time? Good heavens, she's not expected. At least, I didn't think she
was. . . .'
Not fazed, the Montgomery employee continued, interrupting politely. 'Do
you have a number where Mrs. Hawkwood can be reached, please?'
'Well . . .' The voice in Bernardsville was now bewildered. 'I suppose in
California. . . .'
David knew it was time to intercede. 'I'll speak to the party on the line~
operator.'
'Very well, sir.' There was a ther-ump sound indicating the switchboard's
disengagement from the circuit.
'Mrs. Jenner?'
'Yes, this is Mrs. Jenner,' answered Bernardsville, obviously relieved with
the more familiar name.
'My name is David Spaulding, I'm a friend of Leslie's and
.' Jesus! He'd forgotten the husband's first name. Captain
180
Hawkwood's. I was given this number. . . .'
'Well, David Spaulding! How are you, dear? This is Madge Jenner, you silly
boy! Good heavens, it must be eight, ten years ago. How's your father and
mother? I hear they're living in London. So very brave!'
Christl thought Spaulding, it never occurred to him that Leslie's mother
would remember two East Hampton months almost a decade ago. 'Oh, Mrs.
Jenner.... They're fine. I'm sorry to disturb you. . . .'
'You could never disturb us, you dear boy. We're just, a couple of old
stablehands out here. James has doubled our colors; no one wants to keep
horses anymore.... You thought Leslie was hereT
'Yes, that's what I was told.'
'I'm sorry to say she's not. To be quite frank, we rarely hear from her.
She moved to California, you know.'
'Yes, with her aunt.'
'Only half-aunt, dear. My stepsister; we've not gotten along too well, I'm
afraid. She married a Jew. He calls himself Goldsmith - hardly a disguise
for Goldberg or Goldstein, is it? We're convinced he's in the black market
and all that profiteering, if you know what I mean.'
'Oh? Yes, I see.... Then Leslie didn't come East to visit you for
ChristmasT
'Good heavens, no I She barely managed to send us a card . . .
He was tempted to call Ed Pace in Fairfax; inform the Intelligence head
that California G-2 had come up with a Bernardsville zero. But there was no
point. Leslie Jenner Hawkwood was in New York.
He had to find out why.
He called Mandel back and gave him two names: Leslie's and Cindy Tottle
Bonner, widow of Paul Bonner, hero. Without saying so, David indicated that
his curiosity might well be more professional than personal. Mandel did not
question; he went to work.
Spaulding realized that he could easily phone Cindy Bonn
er, apologize and
ask to see her. But he couldn't risk her turning him down; which she
probably would do in light of the crude telephone call he had placed two
nights ago. There simply wasn't the time. He'd have to see her, trust the
personal contact.
181
And even then she might not be able to tell him anything. Yet there were
certain instincts one developed and came to recognize. Inverted,
convoluted, irrational.... Atavistic.
Twenty minutes passed; it was quarter to three. His telephone rang.
'David?'
'Aaron.'
'This Hawkwood lady, there's absolutely nothing. Everyone says she moved to
California and nobody's heard a word.... Mrs. Paul Bonner: there's a
private party tonight, on Sixtysecond Street, name of Warfield. Number
212.'
:Thanks. I'll wait outside and crash it with my best manners.'
No need for that. You have an invitation. Personal from the lady of the
house. Her name's Andrea and she's delighted to entertain the soldier son
of the famous you-know-who. She also wants a soprano in February, but
that's my problem.'
182
19
DECEMBER 31, 1943 NEW YORK CITY
The dinner clientele from the Gallery could have moved intact to the
Warfield brownstone on Sixty-second Street. David mixed easily. The little
gold emblem in his lapel served its purpose; he was accepted more readily,
he was also more available. The drinks and buffet were generous, the small
Negro jazz combo better than good.
And he found Cindy Bonner in a comer, waiting for her escortan army
lieutenant -to come back from the bar. She was petite, with reddish hair
and very light, almost pale skin. Her, posture was Vogue, her body slender,
supporting very expensive, very subdued clothes. There was a pensive look
about her; not sad, however. Not the vision of a hero's widow, not heroic
at all. A rich little girl.
'I have a sincere apology to make,' he told her. 'I hope you'll accept it.'
'I can't imagine what for. I don't think we've met.' She smiled but not
completely, as if his presence triggered a memory she could not define.
Spaulding saw the look and understood. It was his voice. The voice that
once had made him a good deal of money.
'My name is Spaulding. David . .
'You telephoned the other night,' interrupted the girl, her eyes angry.
'Tbe Christmas gifts for Paul. Leslie . . .'
'Thafs why I'm apologizing. It was all a terrible misunder-
183
standing. Please forgive me. It's not the sort of joke I'd enter into
willingly; I was as angry as you were.' He spoke calmly, holding her eyes
with his own. It was sufficient; she blinked, trying to understand, her
anger fading. She looked briefly at the tiny brass eagle in his lapel, the
small insignia that could mean just about anything.
'I think I believe you.'
'You should. It was sick; I'm not sick.'
The army lieutenant returned carrying two glasses. He was drunk and
hostile. Cindy made a short introduction; the lieutenant barely
acknowledged the civilian in front of him. He wanted to dance; Cindy did
not. The situation - abruptly created - was about to deteriorate.
David spoke with a trace of melancholy. 'I served with Mrs. Bonner's
husband. I'd like to speak with her for just a few minutes. I'll have to
leave shortly, my wife's waiting for me uptown.'
The combination of facts - reassurances - bewildered the drunken lieutenant
as well as mollified him. His gallantry was called; he bowed tipsily and
walked back toward the bar.
'Nicely done,' Cindy said. 'If there is a Mrs. Spaulding uptown, it
wouldn't surprise me. You said you were out with Leslie -that's par for her
course!
David looked at the girl. Trust the developed instincts, he thought to
himself. 'There is no Mrs. Spaulding. But there was a Mrs. Hawkwood the
other night. I gather you're not very fond of her.'
'She and my husband were what is politely referred to as "an item." A
long-standing one. There are some people who say I forced her to move to
California.'
6 Then I'll ask the obvious question. Under the circumstances, I wonder why
she used your name? And then disappeared. She'd know I'd try to reach you.'
'I think you used the term sick. She's sick.'
'Or else she was trying to tell me something!
David left the Warfields' shortly before the New Year arrived. He reached
the comer of Lexington Avenue and turned south. There was nothing to do but
walk, think, try to piece together what he had learned; find a pattern that
made sense.
He couldn't. Cindy Bonner was a bitter widow; her husband's
184
death on the battlefield robbed her of any chance to strike back at Leslie.
She wanted, according to her, simply to forget. But the hurt had been major.
IA*Iie and Paul Bonner had been more than an 'item'. They had reached -
again, according to Cindy - the stage where the Bormers had mutually sued
for divorce. A confrontation between the two women, however, did not confirm
Paul Bonner's story; Leslie Jenner Hawkwood had no Intention of divorcing
her husband.
It was all a messy, disagreeable Social Register foul-up; Ed Pace's
'musical beds.'
Why, then, would Leslie use Cindy's name? It was not only provocative and
tasteless, it was senseless.
Midnight arrived as he crossed Fifty-second Street. A few homs blared from
passing automobiles. In the distance could be heard tower bells and
whistles; from inside bars came the shrill bleats of noisemakers and a
cacophony of shouting. Three sailors, their uniforms filthy, were singing
loudly off key to the amusement of pedestrians.
He walked west toward the string of cafes between Madison and Fifth. He
considered stopping in at Shor's or 21 ... in ten minutes or so. Enough
time for the celebrations to have somewhat subsided.
'Happy New Year, Colonel Spaulding.'
The voice was sharp and came from a darkened doorway.
'WhatT David stopped and looked into the shadows. A tall man in a light
grey overcoat, his face obscured by the brim of his hat, stood immobile.
'What did you sayT
'I wished you a Happy New Year,' said the man. 'Needless to say, I've been
following you. I overtook you several minutes ago.,
I The voice was lined with an accent, but David couldn't place it. The
English was British tutored, the origin somewhere in Middle Europe. Perhaps
the Balkans.
'I find that a very unusual statement and ... needless to say . . . quite
disturbing.' Spaulding held his place; he had no weapon and wondered if the
man recessed in the doorway was, conversely, armed. He couldn't tell. 'What
do you wantT
'To welcome you home, to begin with. You've been away a long time.'
'Thank you.... Now, if you don't mind
'I mind I Don't move, colonel! Just stand there as if you were
185
talking with an old friend. Don't back away; I'm holding a .45 leveled at
your chest.' '
Several passersby walked around David on the curb s
ide. A couple came out
of an apartment entrance ten yards to the right of the shadowed doorway;
they were in a hurry and crossed rapidly between Spaulding and the tall man
with the unseen gun. David was first tempted to use them, but two
considerations prevented him. The first was the grave danger to the couple,
the second, the fact that the man with the gun had something to say. If
he'd wanted to kill him, he would have done so by now.
'I won't move.... What is iff
'Take two steps forward. Just two. No more.'
David did so. He could see the face better now, but not clearly. It was a
thin face, gaunt and lined. The eyes were deepset with hollows underneath.
Tired eyes. The dull finish of the pistol's barrel was the clearest object
David could distinguish. The man kept shifting his eyes to his left, behind
Spaulding. He was looking for someone. Waiting.
'All right. Two steps. Now no one can walk between us. ... Are you
expecting someoneT
'I'd heard that the main agent in Lisbon was very controlled. You bear that
out. Yes, I'm waiting; I'll be picked up shortly.'
'Am I to go with you?'
'It won't be necessary. I'm delivering a message, that is all. ... The
incident at Laies. It is to be regretted, the work of zealots.
Nevertheless, accept it as a warning. We can't always control deep angers;
surely you must know that. Fairfax should know it. Fairfax will know it
before this first day of the New Year is over. Perhaps by now.... There is
my car. Move to my right, your left.'David did so as the man edged toward
the sidewalk, hiding the pistol under the cloth of his coat. 'Heed us,
colonel. There are to be no negotiations with Franz Altmfiller. They
arefinished!'
'Wait a minute! I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know any
AltmiUler!'
'Finished! Heed the lesson of Fairfax!'
A dark brown sedan with bright headlights pulled up to the curb. It
stopped, the rear door was thrown open, and the tall man raced across the
sidewalk between the pedestrians and climbed in. The car sped away.
David rushed to the curb. The least he could do was get the vehicle's
license number.
186
There was none. The rear license plate was missing.
Instead, above the trunk in the oblong rear window, a face looked back at
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