The photo was dated: 1/19/42. Just a few days ago . . .
Typed papers clipped to the photo suggested the Feds believed she was an enemy to America.
That was impossible.
Kyoko was no traitor, whatever melodramatic name they’d assigned to her. And there was worse—the documents outlined a plan for her assassination, scheduled for this night at the Pike in Long Beach.
Czernicek’s killing would keep.
Sumida grabbed the detective’s wallet—he’d need money for a cab and might be able to put the police ID to some use. Then he raced from the room, locking the door behind him, and descended the five flights down the stairway. He lowered his hat over his eyes, knowing the eight o’clock curfew complicated his movements. But he wasn’t going to let that stop him. When he got to the lobby, he slipped unseen past the clerk and into the blacked-out LA streets. In such darkness, who’d even be able to pick him out as Japanese?
He wondered: what would a working amusement park be like with most of its lights dimmed or shut off altogether? All shadows and noise. It would provide just the cover he needed, he thought.
Excerpt from chapter twelve of The Orchid and the Secret Agent, a novel by William Thorne
Metropolitan Modern Mysteries, Inc., New York, N.Y., 1945
. . . On Saturday nights, the Pike amusement park was lively and crowded, even with ninety percent of the lights turned off in accordance with black-out measures. This precaution was mandated nightly for coastal businesses and residences, as a glowing coastline could silhouette Navy ships and make them vulnerable to submarine attack. Most inland areas enacted full black-out procedures only when alerted by air-raid sirens. Now, Mr. Barratt pulled the Cadillac to the curb on Ocean Avenue near the entrance, which Jimmy knew from previous recreational visits featured a glorious string of electric bulbs, known as the Walk of a Thousand Lights, that led down the boardwalk to the midway. Tonight, there was no such electric marvel. Still, the sound of calliope music and the roar and swoosh of the big, wooden roller coaster, the Cyclone Racer, were audible inside Mr. Barratt’s Cadillac, even with the windows rolled up. Having visited the Pike many times as a child, Jimmy had warm memories of the place. He suspected tonight would resemble those carefree days in no way whatsoever.
“Naturally, you’ll recognize the Orchid, if and when you see her,” Mr. Barratt said, shifting the car into park. “Judging from her recent murder spree, she doesn’t shy away from flamboyance. And even if she tried to conceal her identity . . . well, that streak of white in her hair is an easily identifiable detail.”
“She might have dyed it, sir.”
Mr. Barratt shook his head. “She wants you to recognize her because she wants you to join her. She’s proud of all the killing she’s done. That’s why I don’t think she’ll disguise her identity for a meeting with you. Not after providing you with such vivid and bloody clues to her location.”
“But why would she want to recruit me, Mr. Barratt? I’m not a Jap.”
“Perhaps she knows about your association with us and sees you as a perfect double agent.”
“But why would she believe I’d betray you? I’m an American through and through. And even if that weren’t enough, you know what the Japs did to my homeland.”
“Yes, I know,” Mr. Barratt said, looking away as if painfully considering the Jap atrocities practiced for years on the Korean peninsula. He turned back to his agent. “I honestly don’t know how she thinks she’ll turn you to her side, Jimmy. But she must have her reasons, deluded as they may be.”
Jimmy said nothing.
“Threats maybe, or enticements . . .” Mr. Barratt started.
“Mean nothing to me,” Jimmy interrupted.
“Good,” Mr. Barratt said. “Then you won’t hesitate. Just put one between her eyes.”
Jimmy nodded. They’d been over it before.
“And there’s one other thing I wanted to mention before you go, Jimmy.”
“Okay,” Jimmy said, though he wasn’t sure he really wanted to hear more. The phrase of Mr. Barratt’s that resonated in Jimmy’s head, spoken for the first time moments before, was “right between her eyes . . .” Jimmy was an experienced undercover detective and an international operative, but assassination still did not sit easily with him. So he reminded himself of the heinous crimes the Orchid had committed in just the last twenty-four hours—the bloody slaughter of three innocent men just because their names, taken together, formed a message she wanted to convey. And her personal violence was the least of it, according to Mr. Barratt. She was also the treacherous brains behind the entire West Coast Jap spy ring, whose mission was to weaken American defenses for an impending invasion of the homeland. No ordinary dame . . . Still, Jimmy had never killed a woman. Sensing the hesitation, Mr. Barratt had suggested he think of her less as a woman and more as a female cobra, poised to strike. “Do we allow gentlemanly considerations to interfere with our dispatching of threatening, poisonous snakes?” he’d asked. “Even female ones?” The rationale had made sense to Jimmy. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear more from Mr. Barratt. Rather, he just wanted to get out of the car and get on with his mission.
“It’s about the Orchid’s bodyguard, this Fantomu, or Phantom,” Mr. Barratt said.
Talk of the Phantom had been noticeably absent until now.
“I’ve discussed the matter with my most trusted team of analysts,” Mr. Barratt continued.
Jimmy was struck by the strange juxtaposition of talking about killers while, outside, the cheerful background sounds of calliope music and young people’s happy cries of excitement on the darkened Cyclone Racer echoed through the night.
“Are you listening to me, Jimmy?” Mr. Barratt inquired, moving his hand from the steering wheel to rest companionably on Jimmy’s shoulder.
Jimmy nodded. He was not distracted by the sounds of the Pike. Rather, he was entering into a state of mind he’d come to trust—one of hypersensitivity, not only to his external surroundings but also to the thoughts that fluttered through his mind. In this state, he could take in far more than he did in his ordinary, walking-around frame of mind. He had practiced no Oriental discipline to develop the state but just seemed to have been born with it. When thus engaged, almost nothing could get past him. The sensitivity had saved his life many times. And the familiar frame of mind was arriving now, right on time. “Please continue, sir.”
Mr. Barratt removed his hand from Jimmy’s shoulder. “As yet, there have been no sightings of this ‘Phantom;’ nonetheless, we doubt he has ever abandoned his post as the Orchid’s bodyguard. The fact of his seeming absence suggests that he exhibits none of the flamboyant appearance of his dark lady, but, likely, looks perfectly ordinary, altogether unthreatening, thereby achieving a kind of invisibility while in plain sight. Unfortunately, we can offer you no further intelligence regarding identifying marks of this dangerous creature. Only this final reminder for you to assume always that he is someplace close.”
“But he will be Japanese, right?” Jimmy inquired.
Mr. Barratt nodded. “Unfortunately, however, the dimmed lights on the Pike will make it difficult to pick out the particulars of anyone’s face. I don’t know why the Army allows them to keep the place open at all, blacked-out or not. Public morale, I suppose. But what it leaves us with tonight are little more than shadows. And any one of them might be the Phantom.”
Jimmy thought he could pretty well rule out the babies in perambulators. “I’ll stay aware,” he said.
“Of course, the chaotic darkness is probably why the Orchid chose this place as a rendezvous point,” Mr. Barratt said, handing a tiny flashlight to Jimmy.
Jimmy turned on the flashlight. “This barely gives off as much light as a candle.”
“Well, that’s what everybody at the Pike’ll be carrying. It’s how you keep a coastal amusement park open during a war.”
Jimmy nodded. “Must be high times for pickpockets.”
“Pickpockets are
n’t our problem,” Mr. Barratt said, offering his hand to shake.
Jimmy shook it.
Both men’s palms were as dry as the Sahara.
Jimmy climbed out of the car, closing the door after him.
Mr. Barratt pulled away, disappearing around the first corner.
Jimmy watched him go. Now he was alone.
After a moment, he checked the handgun holstered beneath his coat and then crossed the street toward the boardwalk. Music and voices, rather than glimmering strings of powerful bulbs, indicated the way through the entrance and to the midway, which featured long-remembered concessions, barely distinguishable now in the dim light, but still operational. There was nothing like American tenacity in the face of a threat. Hundreds of weak flashlight spots (hardly beams) fluttered from instruments barely larger than a fountain pen, those wielded by children hovering like fireflies at waist level. He used his candle-power light to navigate past Sea Side Souvenir Photography, McGruder Salt Water Taffy, the Plunge bathhouse (closed now, but a crowd favorite in summer), pitch and skill games of such wide variety that their only common trait was their deceptive simplicity (“Three balls for a nickel, a child could do it!”). All lit by barely more than a lantern power’s worth of electricity. But the place remained lively and noisy. Sound made no difference to Jap bombers. So the Cyclone Racer, the big wooden coaster, provided a continual railroad rattle of wooden ties and choruses of screaming riders, the combination of which Jimmy thought could be useful if he needed to conceal the sounds of violence.
But being Oriental himself, he occasionally encountered hard looks from passersby whose flashlight beams happened upon his face. He hardly blamed them. In the push and jangle of the crowd, how could they know he was Korean, rather than a Jap? Being the object of derisive looks and comments didn’t make his job any easier. He bought a tall cotton candy that he held in front of his face as he proceeded. Among all the shadowed figures, it seemed to work as concealment.
Of course, the Orchid was expecting him, regardless of precautions.
This was no stealth operation.
Rather, it was a perverse business appointment (feigned) that would end with his killing his negotiating partner. Yes, killing her in the very midst of her lair . . . Likely surrounded by her underlings, or at least by the Fantomu . . .
In short, a suicide mission.
But that’s what he’d signed on for. And considering the thousands of lives in the balance, his personal sacrifice seemed a worthwhile exchange. And if he were going to die he wouldn’t mind dying here, where he’d been happy as a child. The Fun House, the Skooter (the indoor bumper cars), the Crazie Maze (a house of mirrors), the Super Trooper Umbrella Ride, the Sky Wheel . . .
On second thought, what a ridiculous place to die.
He turned and started up the pier, which was likewise lined with dimly lit attractions, food stalls, and concessions. He stopped in front of the Gypsy fortune-teller’s establishment, a small, enclosed structure that bore the appearance of a Bohemian shack. A window box, displaying an electric candle, allowed no glimpse inside. A sign above the wooden door read: “Madame Belinsky—Authentic Gypsy Fortune-Teller.”
This was the place.
He looked around him. All the passersby appeared ordinary. At least in so much as he could see them. But then whom did he expect to be looming on the crowded pier, Dr. Fu Manchu?
He took a deep breath and stepped to the door. There was no “Open” sign. No “Come In.” Was he to knock? What if the fortune-teller had an ordinary customer inside, hearing right now about his or her golden future? But Jimmy didn’t hesitate. He turned the knob and the door opened.
He walked in.
Excerpt from a letter April 2, 1943:
. . . as one acquainted with loss. (Yes, my dear husband’s body has been recovered and soon I’ll be placing a gold star in the window of my apartment.) So I can relate to the pain you are feeling, Takumi. Of course, your girlfriend is not deceased, but, in some ways, having your heart rejected may sometimes be as painful as losing a loved one to a noble death. Who can weigh and compare feeling? Still, I must remind you that her recent letter to you should not be taken too personally, odd as that may sound at first. She is young and your being away in Manzanar these past thirteen months with no end in sight cannot help but be discouraging for her. And adding to the difficulty, of course, is that she is Caucasian and so all along (even in your happy times together, before the internment) she’s had to keep your adventurous love a secret, an especially lonely situation for her. I say these things not to attempt to dismiss the pain you are feeling but to temper it with the certain knowledge that her breakup is not based on any shortcoming you possess or any neglectful behavior on your part. There are simply circumstances beyond our control and we must acknowledge them and, to the best of our ability, attempt to move forward even with our broken hearts.
For me, work is the best balm. Naturally, I have grief-ridden, terrible nights. I loved my man. But I find that coming in to work every day enables me to escape, at least for a few hours, the dark cloud of loss that otherwise hovers about the whole world these days. I don’t know that it will be the same for you, but I am quite certain that doing nothing with yourself, succumbing to the depression that accompanies loss, is no answer. Knowing you as I do now, I believe that work will be a balm to you too. Your book’s rapidly approaching deadline may actually be a blessing if it aids you in focusing your attention on your talents, your responsibilities, and your future.
I have found that if we can no longer put our passion into loving our sweethearts, then we must find other places to put it, otherwise we become broken people. That is not what I want for you, dear boy. Put your passion into your work. I thought your most recent submission (at the darkened amusement park) was among your best. I made virtually no marks with my blue pencil. I understand that you wrote it before receiving this recent, discouraging correspondence from your girl. But that needn’t interfere with your future. So just keep going. Ah, isn’t that the catchphrase of our times?
Your biggest fan,
Maxine
THE REVISED—CHAPTER EIGHT
What do we truly look for in the face of our beloved if not, above all else, redemption? And, frankly, what a forlorn enterprise is that?
—Greta Garbo in Silver Screen Magazine
It was half past nine when Sumida paid the hack and climbed out onto Ocean Avenue, across the street from the Pike. The cabbie, who had brought Sumida here after curfew only after Sumida flashed Czernicek’s police badge and told the driver he was on official business, pulled away from the curb. Watching the big Checker cab disappear into the gloom, he reached back to touch the .38 Special he had slipped into the waistband of his trousers. Then he turned toward the darkened seaside amusement park, where, according to the police report that Czernicek had stolen a few hours before, the Orchid was to be found in a fortune-telling concession. The sound of calliope music, the roar and swoosh of the big, wooden roller coaster, the Cyclone Racer, and the happy exclamations of Saturday night revelers filled the night air. Sam had fond memories of this place, having grown up only a few miles away. He recalled that along the Walk of a Thousand Lights, which led to the midway, you’d find Sea Side Souvenir Photography, McGruder Salt Water Taffy, the Plunge bathhouse, and dozens of pitch and skill games of such wide variety that their only common trait was their deceptive simplicity. But this was no time for nostalgia. Besides, this wasn’t the same place with the Walk of a Thousand Lights shut off, along with the lights on the Ferris wheel, the roller coaster, the midway, the pier, and all the other rides and attractions. In all, the Pike gave off little more light than a scattering of tiny campfires around which hovered a thousand fireflies—useless to any Japanese planes approaching the mainland at ten thousand feet.
He started across the street.
Excerpt from chapter thirteen of The Orchid and the Secret Agent, a novel by William Thorne
Metropolitan Modern Myst
eries, Inc., New York, N.Y., 1945
. . . Jimmy closed the door to Madame Belinsky’s tiny, one-room establishment, shutting out much, but not all, of the racket of the crowded pier outside. Now, the only light came from the center of the shack, where a pair of candles flickered atop a round café table that was covered by a dark velvet cloth. Seated at the table, watching him, her appearance a play of shadows, was Madame Belinsky. Weathered and dark complexioned, her face looked like that of a real Gypsy, as did her lavishly layered clothing, headdress, and bejeweled neck and forearms.
“Will it be tarot cards or a palm reading?” she asked.
Her accent sounded Eastern European (though Jimmy’s linguistic expertise did not extend to Slavic languages). Then again, the whole presentation might as easily be described as quintessentially “carny” as “authentic Gypsy mystic”—Jimmy wondered if there was any difference between the two anyway?
One thing was clear: she was not the Orchid.
“Tarot or palmistry?” she repeated.
Jimmy didn’t answer but silently took in the room. The lavish decor suggested Madame Belinsky might have obtained her furnishings from props left over from the old silent movie, The Sheik.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said.
She seemed to miss his irony. “We Gypsies have had more than a millennium to develop a true sense of style.”
“You’re Madame Belinsky?”
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