by Ed Ruggero
“I will do my best,” Novikov said.
Sechin turned, and Novikov watched his wide back amble away, cigarette smoke trailing him like the plume from a train.
Novikov turned and motioned to Gorodetsky, who waited on the nearby sidewalk out of earshot.
“You look spooked,” Novikov said to the secretary as the young man approached.
“Colonel, I do not mind telling you, that man frightens me.”
“I suspect that is part of his job, and he is good at it,” Novikov said. “He wants people to be afraid of him.”
Gorodetsky hardly looked reassured.
“You have something to hide, Lieutenant?” Novikov asked.
Gorodetsky turned to him quickly. “No sir! Not at all.”
“Relax, Vladimir. I’m teasing you.”
Gorodetsky licked his lips, put his hands in the pockets of his coat, then took them out.
“You know he has people watching us, don’t you, Colonel?”
“To live as a Soviet citizen is to be under scrutiny always,” Novikov said. It wasn’t a dangerous statement to make, but it skirted the edge of being counter-revolutionary, and for that reason it did not reassure Gorodetsky.
“Of course the NKVD keeps tabs on what all embassy people are doing,” Novikov said. “It is their job to make sure none of us has been so corrupted by our western friends that we become a danger to the state.”
“Every time you meet with one of your American or British counterparts, I get called down to the basement for questioning,” Gorodetsky said. “Sometimes I wonder if I will be allowed to leave.”
“You have nothing to worry about, Vladimir,” Novikov said, clapping the young man on the shoulder. “I will not do anything to put you at risk.”
It was a lie, but Gorodetsky seemed momentarily relieved.
“Come, let us walk back and talk about your request for transfer. If you really think you’re better off at the front than in the basement with Sechin’s thugs.”
7
20 April 1944
1900 hours
When Eddie Harkins got back to OSS headquarters on Grosvenor Street, Tom Wickman was waiting. The captain stepped out into the hallway when he saw Harkins, then closed his office door.
“What did you say to Major Sinnott?” Wickman asked in a stage whisper.
“What are you talking about?”
“He was angry, said something about you holding back information.”
Harkins hedged. “I’m keeping him updated on everything that’s pertinent. I’m not sharing every thought I have.”
A man in civilian clothes squeezed past them in the hall, cradling a huge, long-haired cat.
“Rats in the basement,” he said when Harkins and Wickman stared.
When the man had passed, Harkins looked up at Wickman again. “Look,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Sinnott is doing his best to keep CID away from this, and that’s gonna bite us in the ass at some point. Until then, far as I’m concerned, I own this. Sinnott thinks we have our man just because Cushing was in the pub with Batcheller. But that’s not enough to court-martial the guy; Cushing is just a suspect at this point. I’ve got to keep looking.”
“Major Sinnott sure thinks he’s guilty, and, as he pointed out, he’s got more experience than both of us put together.”
“He’s got experience as a spy, or Resistance fighter, or secret agent, or whatever the hell he was before he got canned,” Harkins said. “I don’t want them sending a man to face a capital charge unless I’m convinced he’s our guy. Getting that story right will be hard to do if I’m running to brief Sinnott a couple of times a day. Hell, he showed up at the Disciplinary Barracks with some lawyer who was ready to find a hanging tree.”
“Captain Gefner,” Wickman said. “That little prig Eighth Air Force sent over. I’ve been asking around, and I found out that Cushing is not well-loved with the brass over there.”
“Why?”
“Cushing has been critical of the bombing campaigns. Apparently when he drinks—and he definitely has a drinking problem—he mouths off about how the bombing is a waste of men’s lives with little to show for it.”
“Hardly seems enough to want to railroad him,” Harkins said. “Every GI I’ve ever met has something to say about idiotic army plans.”
Wickman pulled himself up to his full height. The top of Harkins’ head only came to the captain’s chin.
“Let me help you,” he said.
Harkins paused; Wickman was so eager it was hard to turn him down. “I don’t think so.”
“It’ll be another set of eyes. Maybe I’ll see something you missed.”
“I prefer to work alone,” Harkins said.
“I understand that. But I suspect Sinnott thinks that resolving this quickly will put him in good with the brass, maybe get him out of the doghouse. He might pull you from the investigation and let Gefner have his way, just so he can say it’s solved. I can run interference, keep Sinnott happy, or at least keep him off your back.”
“How?”
“Sinnott trusts me,” Wickman said. “He already has doubts about you, but if I tell him what we’re up to, he’s more likely to buy it. Plus, he can’t really get rid of me, which gives us some cover.”
“What makes you think he can’t get rid of you?” Harkins asked.
Wickman opened the door to his office, stepped to his left so Harkins could see inside without entering. There were neat stacks of money on the desk: American greenbacks, colorful British pounds, French francs. Thousands of dollars, maybe tens of thousands. All cash.
“What’s all this for?” Harkins asked.
“We send it to our agents in the field,” Wickman said. “They make requests and we stick the money in their supply bundles, drop it all in by parachute. But until I got here, nobody had control. No one knew how much we had on hand, how much was going out, to whom or for what. It’s like OSS had a license to just leave money lying around. I’m on top of that now, and since it’s more efficient, there’s actually more money available for that pet project of Sinnott’s.”
“Which is?”
“He hasn’t told me. Right now, I just turn the cash over to him. But I do know he doesn’t want the tap turned off.”
Harkins stood in silence.
“I don’t want to spend the war doing this,” Wickman said.
Harkins was about to say that was Wickman’s problem, not his. But if it turned out that all the cash sloshing around the OSS had something to do with Batcheller’s murder—and money and murder frequently went together—it might help to have someone with Wickman’s skills take a look.
Harkins pulled the door shut and looked up at the captain. “He’s never going to let you out of this office as long as you’re the goose that’s laying the golden eggs.”
“Which is exactly why I need to plot my own course.”
“He’s going to want you to keep tabs on me. Spy on me.”
“I can just feed him enough information—whatever you want—to keep him happy and off our case.”
It was a risk, Harkins knew. Wickman might get in the way, might already be a spy for Sinnott. On the other hand, if he didn’t toss Sinnott a bone now and then, the major might just shut him down completely.
“Please.”
“Okay, we’ll try it,” Harkins said.
“Great,” Wickman said, brightening. “What do we do first?”
Harkins, a bit leery of Wickman’s enthusiasm, looked at his watch. “I want to look around Batcheller’s place, maybe talk to her roommate, the one Sinnott notified this morning.”
Wickman went into his tiny office, put the cash in cloth bank bags and shoved them in his safe. He came out with his hat and a folded piece of paper.
“I thought you’d want to talk to Batcheller’s roommate, so I have her name and the address of the rented space.”
“Okay, that’s good. Thanks.”
The two men walked downstairs and onto Grosvenor Str
eet. It was still daylight, and Lowell leaned against the staff car reading a newspaper. She tucked it under her arm and saluted when the officers approached.
“Where to, sir?” she asked Harkins.
Wickman handed Lowell the address. “You know where this is?”
“Yes, sir. East End, or close to the East End,” she said.
Harkins, lower-ranking, climbed in ahead of Wickman, as military courtesy dictated. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go see what we can find at Batcheller’s place.”
* * *
Lowell drove them toward the Thames, then headed east, navigating around the worst bomb-damaged areas. Harkins was on the side of the car away from the river, but could still see boat and barge traffic. It had been another gray day, but still no rain to speak of. The drought, it seemed, continued. Soon he could see the dome of Saint Paul’s.
“Was the cathedral damaged during the Blitz?” Harkins asked Lowell.
“The Jerries dropped a bomb through the roof,” she said. “Destroyed the main altar, but other than that it came through in good shape. They attacked landmarks in other cities, though. Cathedrals, if you can believe that. Norwich, Exeter, Canterbury, and even the York Minster. I’m forgetting one.”
“Bath,” Harkins said. “Murrow talked about it in his broadcast.”
“The Germans are animals,” Lowell said. “They deserve everything they get and more.”
Lowell turned left off East India Dock Road onto a small side street that wound mostly north and up a slight hill. One entire block had been razed, twenty or thirty homes turned into piles of broken brick, but on the next block north both sides of the street were lined with intact narrow-front homes, each two stories with a single gable.
“Here we are, gentlemen,” Lowell said. She got out of the car and opened the rear door. Wickman didn’t climb out as much as unfold himself, and still he banged his head on the doorjamb. “Number seventeen should be that one, with the dead flowers in the window box,” Lowell said.
Harkins climbed the stoop to the front door, was about to knock when Wickman bumped into him. The big man had squeezed onto the same small step, so tall he could see right over Harkins’ head.
“Do you mind?” Harkins said.
“Oh, sorry, sorry. I’m just a bit caught up, that’s all.”
Harkins knocked on the door and soon heard the shuffling of approaching slippers. The door opened and a white-haired woman, small as a bird, looked up at him, then craned her head to see Wickman.
“Ma’am,” Harkins said, holding his cap. “Sorry to disturb you this evening. I’m Lieutenant Harkins, and this is Captain Wickman. We’re investigating the murder of an American woman named Helen Batcheller. We understand she lived here. Is that right?”
“Yes, poor Helen,” the woman said. “I heard all about it this morning when those nice Yank officers came ’round.”
“Was one of them a Major Sinnott?” Harkins asked.
“That sounds right,” the woman said. “I didn’t hear the other man’s name, but I think he was from your air forces.”
“What made you think that?” Harkins asked.
“His hat. All the Yank airmen smash their hats down. Very dashing. Like our RAF boys.”
Harkins looked at Wickman. It sounded like Gefner had been with Sinnott since the morning, a very rapid reaction to the murder.
“I’m Mrs. Peabody. Gail Peabody.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Harkins said. “What did these two officers do here?”
“They asked to see Helen’s room. I told them Annie was probably in there, getting ready for work. Helen and Annie shared the front bedroom. It’s the largest in the house. I shared it with my husband until he passed. Now I’m happy to lend it to the war effort. We all must do our part, right?”
“Absolutely,” Harkins said. “Annie, that’s her roommate. Miss Stowe. Is that correct?”
“Yes, Annie Stowe. She works at the embassy, too, I think. With Helen.”
“Did the two officers speak to Miss Stowe?”
“The major was the one who had to tell her about Helen, I’m afraid, though I think he went into too much detail about the crime, which was brutal.”
Peabody had been eavesdropping.
“But after a few minutes, Annie got up, thanked the men for coming, and went to work. Very English, that girl.”
“What do you mean?” Harkins asked.
“It’s a very English trait to keep one’s emotions in check. None of this public blubbering or wailing that one sees in … some people.”
She paused, weighing her next words. Harkins wondered if she’d been preparing to say “Americans.”
“No melodrama is all I’m saying.”
“How long have they been roommates?” Harkins asked.
“Seven months. They socialized, mostly at embassy functions. Oh, it was so lovely to have young people around. And Americans, they certainly brightened things up.”
The old woman sniffled, pulled a pink handkerchief from the cuff of her housedress and dabbed at her tiny nose.
“Did they have guests here?” Harkins asked. “Entertain anyone?”
“No, Helen and Annie often left together of an evening or weekend, but no one called for them here.”
“So no men came around?”
Peabody was not amused. “I’m not running a bordello, Lieutenant,” she said. “I only ever allow nice girls to rent these rooms.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Harkins said. “I didn’t mean to imply anything. Did the two officers who came this morning go through Helen’s things?”
“No,” Peabody said. “Annie was still getting ready when they came, and they left just ahead of her.”
“May we see the room?”
“If you promise not to touch anything on Annie’s side.”
“Certainly,” Harkins said. “Of course.”
Mrs. Peabody walked them up a back staircase to a hallway that was poorly lit by a single bulb in an elaborate sconce. At the front of the house she led Harkins and Wickman into a bedroom with a couple of windows that looked out on the street. Wickman had to duck in the doorframe.
There were two single beds, close together, both of them neatly made.
“They always keep it this clean?” Harkins asked.
“They’re lovely girls,” Peabody said. “The bed on the left is Annie’s, as well as that wardrobe. Please respect her privacy. I’ll wait in the back parlor.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Harkins said.
When he could hear Mrs. Peabody going down the stairs, Harkins pointed to Batcheller’s bed and nightstand and said to Wickman, “You take Batcheller’s side. I’ll take Stowe’s.”
“I was afraid you were going to do that,” Wickman said. He stood still just inside the doorway.
“You want to investigate?” Harkins asked. “Then you’ve got to snoop a bit.”
Wickman still didn’t move, and Harkins was about to ask him to wait in the car when the captain nodded and said, “Okay, okay, what are we looking for?”
“Anything that tells us why Batcheller was meeting with a pilot who was not her boyfriend, or something that tells us what she was working on.”
“Not a chance either of these women has anything work-related here,” Wickman said. “OSS people are sticklers about that stuff.”
“Yeah,” Harkins said. “But people are always doing surprising things, aren’t they?”
“Yeah. Me doing this, for instance.”
There was a small armoire next to the foot of Annie Stowe’s bed. Harkins opened it and started at the top, where three sweaters lay neatly folded, along with two small, threadbare bath towels. A mesh bag held a brush and comb, a small bottle of something called “Toneglints,” which looked to be a British-brand shampoo, a toothbrush and tooth powder. Nothing remotely interesting.
Harkins checked the hanging clothes for inside pockets. In a drawer below, mixed in with undergarments, were a dozen or so letters bundled with string. The wri
ting on each looked to be by the same hand, with return addresses all from the same house in Atlanta. Curiously there were no V-mail letters, the system the government had adopted to shrink letters to microfilm, thus saving precious cargo space on transatlantic shipping. Harkins wondered if embassy employees and OSS were exempt from that requirement.
Harkins looked through a couple of the letters. They were from Stowe’s mother, written on lovely stationery and full of small news from home. Unlike the letters Harkins received from his sisters, there was no mention of siblings or a father or other family, no USO dances or neighborhood gossip or birth announcements; just a recitation of Atlanta society events: cotillions, debutante balls, and garden parties, all things Stowe’s mother might have copied verbatim from the newspaper. The most recent one was dated December 1943; six months ago.
“Find anything interesting?”
Harkins looked up to see a young woman in the doorway; American, judging by the accent. Eyes a bit red, maybe from crying.
“Miss Stowe?” he asked.
“Oh, gosh, since you’ve already been through my underwear, I think we’re close enough for you to call me Annie, don’t you?” She was not smiling.
“I’m sorry, Miss Stowe. I’m investigating Helen Batcheller’s death; I’m sure you can appreciate that I want to find out as much as I can about her time here. That includes the people close to her.”
“And you are?”
“Lieutenant Eddie Harkins. This is Captain Wickman.”
Wickman, embarrassed, looked like he was trying to shrink himself. An impossible task.
“Well, I feel so privileged, having my privacy trashed by high-ranking officers.” Her mild southern accent was all moonlight, magnolia, and dripping sarcasm. “I presume you two are with the provost marshal.”
“We’re OSS, Miss Stowe,” Wickman said.
“Well, that’s unusual, isn’t it?” she said. “Although hardly anything surprises me anymore about Wild Bill’s gang. Mind if I come in?”
Since it was her bedroom, Harkins gestured with his open palm and said, “Sure.”