Keeping Secrets (41 page)

15

Though I couldn't see it then, even from my informed position, the minutes were ticking off faster and faster toward the inevitable explosion of forces. Since the relucant but nonetheless official recognition of the Carranza government in Mexico, the United States had been gradually shifting focus to the war in Europe as it affected our shipping, reacting with indignation both to British and German violations of the neutrality laws, veering dangerously close to the precipice of war yet managing to stay behind a point of safety.

Though I probably will never know for certain, any more than others, whether the speculation by Edwin and other BNA people that the Germans were responsible for the turning of the tide in January of 1916, it certainly seems plausible they backed Pancho Villa when he massacred the mining engineers near Chihuahua City. It did eventually bring on our intervention down there, keeping us busier than ever just when we had supposed ourselves done with Mexican troubles. And of course Villa was getting money and weapons from somewhere for his gradually diminishing troop force. However, there was no proof that Adolph Tetzel was dealing with it.

Through all the months that I had worked for him, though I had found invoices in his safe and copied vaguely worded memos, never had I picked up a check voucher or check, bill of lading, or any other incriminating document that actually carried his signature, and after the Chihuahua City incident the evidence I was able to glean became even more disturbingly scarce by comparison.

He may have become more careful than ever. One particle of proof that he had anything to do with the increasingly futile and expensive chase of Pancho Villa deep into the mountains and out again, up and across the border of Mexico, and there would have been no further hesitation by the U. S. Government to pick him up, thereby breaking what was probably one of the best-kept espionage rings ever dreamed up by the Germans.

I believe up to that time the BNA and its ever-growing network of agents in the States had been largely responsible for holding U.S. authorities from beginning their own investigation. Yet suddenly there was nothing in his desk anymore, not even invoices, to link him with Pancho Villa and his gang of raiders. I wondered from time to time whether all of it had been my imagination in the first place. If he made any contact with the German Foreign Office during those early months of 1916, he certainly did so without my knowledge. In short, he effectively absolved himself of any danger of immediate capture. Even his involvement with Cabot and Barrista could not be proved. All he had done, according to documented evidence, was to lend money to Cabot.

Soon after the tragic incident in Mexico, Cabot came by to talk with Tetzel, and from my side of the storeroom wall, it seemed the conversation on Tetzel's side of the desk was unusually guarded.

Cabot was reporting he feared Ralph Jones, his mining engineer, had been among the men executed near Chihuahua City. He was obviously much relieved the man was safe. Yet, the next thing we knew, Jones had been killed and Cabot was off to El Paso to claim his body. The day he left, Tetzel made many telephone calls behind closed doors, and though I strained hard to hear him through the wall—the headset again was useless—I couldn't make out anything except that he was trying hard to locate a mining engineer to replace Jones. He spoke in vague terms about someone who would be suitable to take over, and whether he could handle such things as “additional duties,” and so forth, never detailing the specific things he wanted. I gathered Jones had known little or nothing of the ultimate destination of copper from the Cabot mines.

That evening he left a little early, and said he had to stop off at Cabot's home to leave some information for him. I offered to stop by for him and he seemed to consider it for a moment, then said, “It's only a note, but I can take care of it.” I paused momentarily and looked through the door. In a short time, he'd circled back again, catching me cold. “Your thoughts are many miles from here,” he remarked pleasantly, then took his homburg from the rack and walked out again. I made sure he could hear the loud tapping of the typewriter keys before he was out of earshot down the hall. I chastised myself for slipping. Usually I thought of the homburg and went chasing down the hall with it. What must he be thinking …?

Several days later, when Cabot got back into town, he met with Tetzel again and talked of his sad duty of relaying Jones' body to his home state of Michigan. Cabot seemed very depressed about the matter, and when Tetzel asked if Electra had given him the name he'd passed to her, Cabot said, “Yes, I've contacted the man. I guess he'll do. Hell, at this point I don't really give a damn anymore. Everything seems to be coming apart in my hands.”

Tetzel counseled patience, and managed to talk him into borrowing another ten thousand dollars from the bank. “It's very hard now on the mines down there. When this is all over, paying back will be small change.”

“Well go ahead and transfer it, but I'm still working on a buyer for my properties here. If I could just hold back that goddamn prohibition campaign for long enough—ah, well.…”

“One cannot control everything, sadly.”

“Yep.”

“You heard Huerta has died in prison.”

“Bladder cancer, so I heard.”

“According to reports.”

There was a long pause, then Cabot said, “Were the reports of his illness true, or—”

“My friend, one can believe only half of what the papers say, so who knows? In any case, he is better out of the way for good, eh?”

“You can bet your ass on that.”

16

Through the early months of 1916, it seemed the obstacles were endless. Though I checked the secret compartment in Tetzel's safe time and time again, I found nothing except his gilt-framed picture. And, from all evidence, he continued to be out of touch with his contact in New York, R. M. Francke.

Cabot came by a time or two—his eyes bloodshot, his voice a bit slurred—and spent most of his visit with Tetzel denouncing the proposed 50 per cent increase in income tax on people worth a million dollars or more. I had not realized his wealth amounted to so much, and made a mental note to tell Edwin. He had not yet found where most of Cabot's financial strength in San Antonio lay. He owned no bottling companies or wholesale liquor houses, or if he did, they were not in his name.

Through all of Cabot's raving, Tetzel remained calm and amiable. His demeanor of inward contentment when so much was at hand no doubt puzzled Cabot as much as it did me.

Even Edwin did a lot of head shaking during our meetings. Finally one night he said, “Since we can't find out anything from listening to Tetzel right now, maybe we could find out something from listening to Cabot talk behind Tetzel's back—to Electra, or his man Hope. We've got to find out what goes on in that house of theirs.” He'd already ascertained the design of Cabot's cramped office would make wiring it impossible, and anyhow, he seldom seemed to be in it. Dangerous visits during the wee morning hours on three occasions had not turned up anything on paper we didn't already know. The last time Edwin tried to steal in—around two in the morning—he almost came face to face with Nathan, still at work. “Have you noticed anything unusual about their house lately—any changes?” he asked.

I thought for a moment. “At night—when I'm able to get by—the car is often gone from the garage, but the lights are on upstairs. And once or twice I've seen Electra looking out the window—I suppose from their bedroom. I've never been in any of the rooms except the kitchen.”

“Wonder if they have a basement, where I could conceal a machine.”

“Probably. Many of those houses have an underground floor.”

“Find a reason to go by there and have a look.”

“I'll try. I owe Electra a favor. She sent me a tin of fresh pecans last fall. Maybe I could take her a quart of strawberries from Keith's store. They ought to be coming out soon, and she likes them.”

“Good. Flatter her about her house. Ask her to let you look around.”

“Couldn't you get into trouble for wiring a private home?”

“I won't tell if you won't.”

He started to walk away, then said, “Oh yes, we had that Stuttgart lead checked out.”

“Oh? That was quick.”

“Yes. It turns out Stuttgart's wife has expensive taste in clothes. She'd ordered several little creations—worth about two grand—from a fashion house outside of Paris—perfectly legitimate.”

I laughed, and Edwin added, “At times like these, it helps to have something to laugh about … but if I had a wife like Stuttgart, I'd wring her neck.”

Typically, he'd departed before I had a chance to ask a further question, and I stood there wondering whether he had a wife, or any other family.

The following Saturday I walked down to Beauregard Street, a bucket of strawberries in hand. Actually I followed Electra home from a visit to the British gentleman's house. I held back until she had time to get inside and settled, then I knocked on the door.

I was surprised to see her face very drawn, her eyes worried. She seemed greatly changed from the last time I had visited with her. But she managed a smile and invited me in for tea.

Soon she told me she was concerned about her friend. “Woody's quite old, and his only close relative has joined the British Army. He's worried about him, and I'm afraid the strain might affect his health.”

“He's lucky to have a friend like you to look in on him.”

“I'm not much help; it's frustrating—not being able to do anything to stop this madness. Emory accuses me of taking the whole war too personally, but then he doesn't know Woody. He's a kind old fellow.” Then she brightened and said, “Well, it does me good to see your face. You always make me feel good and lively.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” I said, though the remark surprised me.

“I do so admire you for making your way in the world. I don't know how many times I've told Emory. It is so hard on a woman, yet you strike out and manage a greater degree of self-reliance than any woman I know.”

“It's odd you should say that. I must admit I've wished myself in your shoes a few times.”

“Mine? Oh, my dear, you don't know what you're saying. Not that I haven't had a good life here in San Antonio, but whereas I'm totally dependent on … circumstances, you've learned to take care of yourself. You're three strides ahead of most women. I just don't know why Nathan doesn't …” her voice trailed off.

“What?”

“Don't tell Emory I said so, but I think you two make the nicest pair. Yet Nathan won't take any girl seriously. It's a shame, I think. He just isn't interested.”

“I've noticed that. And lately something seems to be really bothering him.”

“It's the Army. He's scared to death of being called to duty. I don't know why. Emory taunts him about it—I think he considers Nathan's attitude unmanly. But I think Nathan deserves more compassion than that. Men seldom give much understanding to each other in friendship, do they?”

I was so thrown by her talkativeness, her change in demeanor, that I all but forgot my errand and was forced to bring up the subject of her house as though it suddenly popped into my head. “I've always admired your home. I'd love to see how you have it decorated. If you could see my little apartment, you would understand my fascination about all the houses down here. Yours is one of the nicest.”

“Why, thank you. I'll show you around.”

I made light chatter as we went, in order not to be terribly obvious: “Do you know Mrs. Steves down on King William? Her house has the natatorium, and its own artesian well to water her pecan grove. It's one of my favorite houses.”

“I don't know her well, though I met her once, at a coffee Hatch, I believe. My only close acquaintance since we moved here besides Woody is Lyla Stuttgart. Do you know her?”

“Not personally, but her husband is a bank customer. I met her briefly that night at the Tetzel party. She's very attractive.”

“Yes, though I don't think she realizes how lucky she is. Travel and education—finer things of all kinds—have been handed to her freely. Yet she seems bored most of the time, and doesn't like to be with her children very much. She could stand reminding what blessings they are. Why, I'd give anything if—” she began, then abruptly stopped.

Eager to bridge the awkward pause, and even more anxious to learn the answer to the question she had brought to my mind, I said, “From what Nathan told me, you and Mr. Cabot haven't been married very long … maybe in time—”

She cut me off so quickly I was sure she was offended by my nosy remark. “That isn't what I meant. I was about to say I wish I'd had Lyla's material advantages. I've learned everything I know on my own, just about. And I can thank Woody for my acquaintance with art and music, such as it is.”

This surprised me. I assumed she'd been wealthy and involved in cultural activities for years, probably a former socialite in Denver. I'd have to tell Edwin. Suddenly she said, “Emory and I were very poor growing up. He's worked so hard, and put up with so much pressure and strain, to amount to something. I admire him.”

“I didn't realize you two were children together.”

“Yes. Emory was the champion of my youth, you see, and I never quite forgot him. It's too bad he had to miss your visit tonight. He's out on … business.”

From the picture I'd gotten lately—his symptoms of heavy drinking, his conversations with Tetzel—I could see she was defending him as much to herself as to me, and I was sorry for her.

Before leaving I had established there was a basement with a fair-sized storage closet, where Edwin could hook up his equipment and run his wire upstairs from the outside. It wasn't easy. I had to lure her down there to show me all the fresh fruits and vegetables she'd put up in jars, and couldn't get away without gifts of pickled okra, pear preserves, and spiced peaches from her shelves. Because of this spontaneous generosity on her part, and the fact she was so open about her feelings with me, I left her home hating myself for intruding. Edwin should feel the evening was well spent, I thought bitterly, walking home. Now he could hook up his machine, and duck into the basement window to listen, whenever he dared.