To Catch a Spy, page 15
She turned and went back into the house, leaving the front door open. Gunther and I went in and I closed the door.
“Shall I accompany you?” Gunther asked.
“No, thanks,” I said. “This won’t take long. I’ll talk to you in the morning. Thanks Gunther.”
We shook hands, and he gave me that almost nonexistent smile that showed he was reasonably content. As he moved up the stairs, I went into the parlor where Mrs. Plaut had thrown her New Year’s Party.
The two FBI men who had stopped me at Carroll College were sitting on chairs a few feet from each other with their hats on their laps. They were looking up at me.
“Want some coffee?” I asked.
“No, thanks,” said the shorter one, Louis D’Argentero.
“No,” said the other, taller agent.
I considered sitting, but decided I might get this over with faster if I stood.
“You messed up, Peters,” said D’Argentero.
“I didn’t get your name,” I said to the shorter one.
“Cantwell,” said the slightly shorter one.
I nodded.
“You messed up,” Cantwell said, repeating his partner’s words.
I didn’t answer.
“We’ve been watching that cell for months,” said Cantwell. “They had no idea. We were trying to get someone inside the organization. We wanted to find out who was heading it.”
“Then I messed up,” I said.
“You did,” said D’Argentero.
“Two men who were members of that cell have been murdered in the last two days, Volkman and Cookinham,” Cantwell went on without emotion. “You were found with Volkman’s body, and someone said a beat-up Crosley was parked a block from Cookinham’s house just before the police got a tip that he was dead.”
“Your Crosley,” D’Argentero said.
“Is that a question?” I asked.
“No,” said Cantwell. “You asked for two days. You have anything?”
“Like …?”
“Any lead on whoever runs that Nazi cell,” said D’Argentero.
“Or why Volkman and Cookinham were murdered,” said Cantwell.
They clearly expected me to say “no.” I decided to surprise them, wake them from their single-tone interrogation, which had me falling asleep on my feet.
“I think Volkman and Cookinham were blackmailing whoever heads the cell,” I said. “They had some kind of proof.”
“What kind of proof? Proof about what?” Cantwell asked, leaning forward.
“Not sure,” I said.
I decided not to mention the recordings for two reasons. First, I wasn’t sure. Second, I wanted to hold back something I could work on. I was being paid by Cary Grant. I wanted to give him his money’s worth if I could.
“Minding your own business from now on would be a very good idea,” Cantwell said, standing up. D’Argentero did the same.
“The police told me James Cagney wasn’t at Caroll College tonight,” I said.
The two agents looked at me without expression.
“And,” I went on, “neither was Joan Crawford, Alice Faye, Paul Muni, or Cary Grant.”
“Get some sleep, Peters,” Cantwell said, putting on his hat. “You look like a dead horse.”
“So none of them was there?” I asked, ignoring the compliment as the two walked past me.
“None of them,” said D’Argentero. “Neither was Jimmy Foxx.”
“Jimmy Foxx?”
“You a baseball fan?” D’Argentero asked.
“Average,” I said.
“Jimmy Foxx quit baseball in 1942,” D’Argentero said. “He’s thirty-six now, a salesman for a leather goods company. Draft board just called him up. He wasn’t in that roundup tonight.”
“He’s serving his country,” Cantwell said. “So are the other people you mentioned.”
I got the hint and shut up. The two of them left, and I locked the door behind them as Mrs. Plaut had asked. Her door opened and she stood there, now in a pink robe with a broad pink sash that tried not to slip down past her nonexistent hips.
“What was so much in need of fumigation that they had to come at this hour?” she asked. “They frightened Stillwell.”
“Stillwell?”
“That is the new name of my bird,” she said. “He likes variety. Pistolero did not suit him. It carried suggestions of Mexican bandits of doubtful character. What about those two fumigators?”
“They’re after a very dangerous nest of Nazi weevils.”
“Never heard of any such,” she said eyeing me suspiciously.
“Very dangerous, hard to root out,” I said. “Come from Germany.”
“Are they in California?” she asked.
“Some,” I said. “Like Japanese beetles.”
“My aunt Rose’s husband, Lucas, had a brother with an infestation of some small ugly bugs, thousands of them.”
“Fascinating,” I said.
“Lucas worked in the Armour Packinghouse in Chicago, the stockyards. He knocked cows and sheep senseless with a sledge hammer and someone else cut their throats.”
“Even more fascinating,” I said.
“It was his brother’s house not far from the stockyards that had the bugs,” she said.
“How did they get rid of them?” I asked.
“I told you,” she said with exasperation. “Lucas hit them with a sledge hammer.”
“I mean his brother’s bugs.”
“Oh, they had to burn the house down. There was no help for it. You may have to burn down the house where these Hun bugs are.”
“I may at that,” I said. “Now, I’ve got to get some sleep.”
“Breakfast at eight,” she said, turning back toward the open door of her room.
I had made it up three stairs when she called behind me, “I am thinking very seriously of getting a dog.”
“That’s nice,” I said.
“A fat, slow, ugly dog that looks like Winston Churchill. One I won’t have to chase. One with a placid disposition.”
“Sounds great,” I said.
“Oh, I nearly forgot,” she said. “The man from the circus called, Mr. Leash.”
“Leach,” I said.
“They are one and the same,” she explained. “He said you should call him in the A.M.”
“I’ll do that,” I said.
She went through her door and closed it behind her. I went up the stairs. In my room, I took off my clothes carefully while Dash, who resembled a curled orange pillow, watched. I wanted my clothes in reasonable condition so I could wear them in the morning.
When I was completely undressed, I took more Doc Parry pills and aspirin and wrapped a big towel around my waist. The towel, one of dozens Mrs. Plaut had stockpiled, was white with the words “Dirty Mike’s Rooms & Bar” in large red letters across it.
Before I headed for the shower, I pulled out my mattress and laid it on the floor. Then I poured some milk into a bowl for Dash and some Kellogg’s Pep into a bowl for me. Dash watched but didn’t move.
When I got back from my shower, Dash was on the mattress near my pillow, curled in the same ball he had turned himself into on the sofa.
My Beech-Nut Gum clock said it was almost midnight. I draped the “Dirty Mike” towel over one of the wooden chairs by the table near the window, put on a fresh pair of white boxer shorts, ate a handful of Kellogg’s Pep, turned out the light, and got in bed.
If I had dreams, I don’t remember them.
We had Trout Plaut for breakfast. It consisted of two filleted slices of brook trout fried in garlic and butter and more than a hint of vanilla. The fish was covered with a thin layer of peanut butter.
“You can’t get enough peanut butter,” Mrs. Plaut announced as we dug in.
I thought it tasted pretty good, but I saw less than enthusiasm from Emma Simcox, who took a few bites and tried to spread the rest around like a kid hoping to hide her hated vegetables. Ben Bidwell was a salesman of some talent and tact. He shook his head and said with a smile, “Exceptional.”
“And nutritious. Peanut butter improves everything,” Mrs. Plaut said, eating her trout.
“I don’t see any peanut butter on your fish,” I said.
“I cannot abide the taste of peanut butter,” she said. “That detracts nothing from its value. It speaks only to my experiences as a child, about which I have written in my family history and of which you are well aware, Mr. Peelers.”
I didn’t remember anything in her family history about peanut butter. She had either never written it and thought she had, or I had simply forgotten or jumped over it. Both and much more were distinct possibilities.
“Got to get going,” Bidwell said, standing and wiping his mouth.
“You haven’t finished,” Mrs. Plaut said.
“Indigestion,” Bidwell said, putting his one hand on his chest.
“I’ll save the rest for you for tonight,” Mrs. Plaut said.
“You are very thoughtful,” Bidwell said and made his escape.
I ate all of my fish and so did Gunther. Emma Simcox sat trying to calculate how much she could leave on her plate without drawing the sharp eyes of her aunt.
“Mr. Peelers,” Mrs. Plaut said. “Please stop at Ralph’s and pick up the items on this list.”
She handed me a sheet of paper, along with three one-dollar bills. I looked at the list.
Sirloin steak—two pounds at 49 cents a pound
One pound of oleo—29 cents
One 24-ounce jar of peanut butter—29 cents
Four pounds of potatoes—25 cents
Mott’s apple jelly—12 ounce jar—13 cents
I put the three dollars and the list carefully into the pocket of my jacket.
“Going after those Hun bugs?” Mrs. Plaut asked as I rose.
“Got to stop them before they take over the world,” I said.
“Bugs are part of God’s great circle of life,” she said, looking up at me. “But I hate the filthy little things. That’s what bug juice was invented for.”
“Amen,” I said and left, Gunther at my side.
“What would you have me do today?” Gunther asked.
I wanted to say “nothing” but I was afraid I’d hurt his feelings. I said, instead, “How about doing research on Caroll College, make phone calls, talk to friends, see what you come up with, particularly about the School of Performance.”
Gunther nodded.
“I shall do what I can,” he said.
Fifteen minutes later, I had my car parked at No-Neck Arnie’s. He was too busy with a big dark Buick to talk, so I walked to the Farraday and up the stairs, which was easier on my neck and shoulder than the jolts when the elevator came to each floor.
Jeremy was on the third floor with his mop.
“Thanks for last night,” I said.
“You are welcome,” he said. “We are having a wake tomorrow night if you can come. Eight o’clock.”
“Who died?”
“Ida M. Tarbell,” he said. “In Easton, Connecticut. She was eighty-six.”
“Ida M. Tarbell?”
“The Story of Standard Oil. She was the first to write a book attacking the business practices of a large corporation. She was an inspiration. I’m going to write a poem in her honor. I’ve asked others to do the same. We’ll read them at the wake. Alice and I may publish them in a small folio.”
“Put me down for one,” I said, starting up. to the sixth floor.
“You’ll write a poem about Ida Tarbell?”
“No, I’ll buy a copy of the book,” I said, resuming my trudge upward.
“Come if you can,” he said.
“I will,” I lied.
When I opened the door to the offices of Minck and Peters, Violet greeted me from behind her tiny desk.
“Eddie Booker beat Paul Hartnek on a TKO in the sixth.”
I took a five-dollar bill out of my wallet and handed it to her.
“No more bets,” I said. “Ever.”
She tucked the five into the pocket of her dress with a slightly hurt look.
“Anything else?”
“Jeanne Crain, the actress, 1942 ‘Camera Girl,’ was bitten five times by a wirehaired terrier.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I said.
“She’ll be all right,” Violet said with concern. “But her dog, another terrier, was also bitten trying to help her.”
I didn’t know what to say to that so I reached for the inner door to Sheldon’s office.
“He’s waiting for you,” she said.
“Shelly?”
“No, the good-looking guy who looks like Cary Grant. Is he Grant’s double or stand-in or stuntman or something?”
“Something,” I said.
“Can he get me an autographed picture?” she asked.
“For Rocky?”
“For me,” she said.
“I’ll ask.”
I went in and found myself facing Shelly. There was no one in the chair.
“I heard you come in,” he said, removing the cigar from his mouth.
There were ash stains on his dingy once-white smock, and his office was beginning to show the first small signs of returning to chaos.
“Right,” I said, taking a few steps toward my door.
“Why are you angry with me?” he asked, looking genuinely hurt.
“I’m not.”
“Jeremy told me about last night. You were there. He was there. Gunther was there, even my favorite patient, Mountain, was there. I could have helped, Toby.”
“I’m sure you could have,” I said. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“You know I can be very useful,” he said.
“I know.”
“And you’re sorry you didn’t call me?”
“Very.”
“You know I don’t have all that much to do outside of my work here,” he said, looking around the room. “Not since Mildred.…”
“I’m sorry. I’ll call you next time.”
“As it happens,” he said. “I was busy last night. Mountain has agreed to appear in ads for me with a signed testimonial. I’ll get wrestlers, wrestling fans, all kinds of patients. I was working on the ad.”
“Sounds good.”
“Want to know the motto I plan to put in the ad?”
“Can’t wait.”
Shelly spread his hands flat in front of him and slowly swept them out as if he were putting up a banner.
“Dr. Sheldon Minck can’t come to the mountain, but the Mountain came to Dr. Minck. Like it?”
“Perfect.”
“And under that will be a picture of Mountain, smiling, with a quote signed by him reading, “Dr. Sheldon Minck saved my mouth. He can do the same for you.”
“You’ll be turning patients away,” I said.
“Think so?”
“Can’t miss,” I said.
“The guy with the great teeth is in your office,” he said.
“Violet told me,” I said.
“She tell you I lost five dollars to her on some boxing match?”
“No, but it doesn’t surprise me. You want some advice, Shel? Don’t bet against Violet on any sport, and don’t even think about putting a hand on her. Rocky will come back some day and maybe not in the very distant future.”
Shelly nodded glumly.
“Do we really need a receptionist?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” I said.
“Then how about you kicking in a few dollars for her salary? She takes messages for both of us.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “How about a dollar a month?”
“Well …”
“Seventy-five cents?”
“A dollar,” he said.
I went into my office while he pushed his glasses back on his nose and thought about his imaginary giant ad.
Cary Grant was standing at the window with his hands in his pockets. He turned when I came in.
“Who are those people down there?” he asked.
He had been looking down at the rubble of the small empty lot behind the Farraday with its two decaying automobile wrecks and a little cardboard shack.
“Winos, a few crazies once in a while, people just down on their luck,” I said.
“What must it be like?” he asked.
“I try not to think about it very much,” I said, standing across from him.
“Does it work? Not thinking about it?”
“Most of the time,” I said.
Grant let out a deep sigh and said, “Look, I’m sorry about last night, walking out on you. Believe me, I had to. I made some calls and got you and the others out.”
“And the Nazis, don’t forget them,” I said.
“I’m not. They were let go so they could be watched.”
“To lead them to the big trout,” I said.
“Big trout?”
“Figure of speech,” I said. “The head man.”
“Right. But it probably won’t work. They’ll all be too careful. Besides, there wasn’t enough evidence of anything to hold them. The FBI is checking their fingerprints now, but I doubt if they’ll come up with anything.”
“So?”
He circled around the desk, his head down, thinking.
“He’ll probably try to run,” Grant said. “Get out of the country, make his way to South America or Canada and then maybe back to Germany. The people I’m working with have good reasons for thinking he has some important information, possibly that list of names Volkman was trying to sell me, perhaps even more names.”
“You mean British Intelligence?” I said, sitting in the chair closest to my Dalí painting.
“They do have fewer constraints than your FBI,” he agreed.
“Meaning they’d kill our man if they found him?”
“Possibly,” Grant said, scratching his ear and not facing me. “Possibly.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“We flush him out,” Grant said.
“With what?”
“The transcriptions,” he said. “The ones Volkman and Cookinham made.”
“We’re not sure …”
“We don’t have to be,” Grant said. “He has to think they exist and that we have them, or rather he has to think you have them. He wouldn’t believe I’d try to blackmail him.”
