Louise's War (21 page)

‘Did you see that?’ Charles asked.

‘I did, what set them off?’

‘Danielson made a comment about Austine’s fiancée – about how he must prefer dark meat. She’s colored, did you know that?’

‘Barely. She’s lovely.’

‘I’m sure she is. They can’t live in this country, though.’

‘I’m sure they don’t care to.’

‘It’s politics, too. When Bob died and Don got his spot, Roger and Guy realized that Don’s a brown-noser and will go whichever way he thinks Donovan is already leaning. That will leave Guy and Roger both without much influence. At least Holman used to listen to both of them. But what do I know. I just catalog maps.’

Lieutenant-Colonel Huntington slid onto the chair and dropped a stack of folders onto the table. He realized that FBI Assistant Director Tolson had been waiting for some time, since his ashtray contained two cigarettes smoked down to their filters.

‘I apologize for being late,’ Huntington said. ‘The traffic.’

‘I understand,’ Tolson said. He dug a handful of papers out of his briefcase and stacked them opposite Huntington’s pile.

They met alone in a small stifling room on the third floor of the Post Office, off Pennsylvania Avenue. Neutral territory. Neither agency would consent to meet at the other’s offices.

‘So,’ Tolson said, ‘what have you got?’

‘We can exclude some of our suspects,’ Huntington said. ‘Mrs Louise Pearlie left the building before the coroner estimates Mr Holman died. Private Cooper, the front-door guard, saw her leave.’

Tolson put a check mark next to her name on a list.

‘Also Joan Adams, General Donovan’s secretary. She came down the back stairs and left immediately through the side door.’

‘Are you sure?’ Tolson asked. ‘The guard at the side door can’t see directly into the building.’

‘He heard her. She walked right down the stairs and out the door.’

Tolson checked off Adams’s name.

‘Danielson, Murray, Austine and Dora Bertrand were together in a meeting that didn’t break up until Mrs Holman’s wife started screaming,’ Huntington said.

Tolson looked up, smirking.

‘But Miss Bertrand did leave once. To use the ladies’ room down the hall in Mrs Pearlie’s office. Which was after Mrs Pearlie left. She would have the time and opportunity to slip into Holman’s office and kill him.’

Huntington rolled his eyes. ‘Just barely,’ he said, ‘I know she’s a favorite suspect of Director Hoover’s.’

‘Charles Burns saw her too. He was delivering maps around the building.’

‘To Holman,’ Huntington said.

‘Among others. At any rate, Holman was alive when Burns saw him. And then Miss Bertrand passed Burns in the hall.’

‘All the more reason to eliminate Miss Bertrand as a suspect.’

‘Why?’

‘Do you really think Miss Bertrand would murder Bob Holman during OSS business hours, immediately after being seen in the vicinity of his office? It’s absurd.’

‘These socialists are fanatics.’

Sometimes Huntington wondered if the FBI understood that the country was at war with Nazi Germany, not left-wing Americans.

‘Look,’ Huntington said. ‘Charles Burns and Holman’s wife had the same opportunity that Bertrand had. Private Cooper said that Mrs Holman didn’t scream for some minutes after she entered Holman’s office.’

‘She was in shock. And why would Charles Burns kill Holman? His background is flawless. He’s from an old American family, good schools.’

Huntington let that one go by without comment.

‘Look, I have no evidence that any OSS staffer killed Holman. A person’s politics and sexual orientation don’t constitute evidence. We have to start all over, sift through the facts,’ Huntington said.

Tolson shrugged. ‘If you insist.’

‘Holman’s window was wide open. Anyone could have gotten into his office. I suggest that we widen our investigation to include the soldiers bivouacked outside and other OSS staff who left the building from other exits. And talk to the Negro messengers who came into the building shortly before the end of the day. Someone may have seen something we’ve missed.’

‘Then you risk word getting out that Holman was murdered. Do you want all of Washington to know how inept OSS security is? Does General Donovan want the President to learn that one of his men was killed in his own office?’

‘General Donovan wants to find Holman’s killer.’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Just a dab,’ Ada said.

I consented to two drops of Evening in Paris, one behind each ear.

‘You should be wearing shorts,’ she said. ‘Or a playsuit.’

‘We’re having dinner before the concert, and besides I’m too old to expose my thighs,’ I said. My petticoat skirt and embroidered blouse were clearly pre-war so no one would begrudge me the fabric.

‘You’d look so much prettier with a little more make-up,’ Ada said.

‘I think I look nice.’

Ada threw up her hands in resignation, and I went downstairs to meet Joe. Joe, the bearded refugee with a foreign accent, little money and plenty of secrets. Who made my heart pound and blood rise into my cheeks. I didn’t understand my attraction to him. Here I’d blown off Don, a real catch according to the girls in my office, only to be drawn to a man of mystery, like a heroine in a Gothic novel. Perhaps I liked him because he was such poor marriage material, because liking him was an adventure, an adventure that wouldn’t leave me tied to him for the rest of my life.

My family would be shocked at the way my mind worked these days.

Joe met me at the foot of the stairs, looking less threadbare than usual in pressed slacks and a crisp sports shirt. He dangled a set of keys in his right hand.

‘Mrs Knox insisted we take her automobile. I’ve not driven on the right side of the road, ever, want to navigate?’

‘Sure.’

Joe backed cautiously out of Phoebe’s garage, turned onto New Hampshire and headed west toward the Potomac River.

‘You’re doing fine,’ I said.

‘Thanks,’ Joe said.

‘You’ve never driven anywhere else other than in England?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve lived most of my life there, but when I was a child I spent holidays with my grandparents outside Prague.’

I managed to contain my curiosity and didn’t ask him any more questions.

‘Whoa,’ I said, ‘that’s the exit!’

Joe stopped turning into the wrong end of a one-way driveway and went on into the entrance, parking in the tiny lot of a restaurant close enough to the Potomac that I could catch a whiff of river air. Inside the restaurant was quiet and cool. White tablecloths and napkins dressed the eight tables, most of which were already occupied.

The owner greeted Joe in a Slavic language heavy with gutturals. Joe introduced us. The owner’s first name was Karel, but I didn’t catch his surname. Karel led us to an empty table in the back of the dining room, removed the ‘reserved’ sign from it and seated us. The table, set with heavy silver and a cut-crystal vase containing a single flower, overlooked a tiny back garden.

‘I hope you like this place,’ Joe said. ‘It’s the only restaurant around where you can get Czech food. Although they make their living from Hungarian goulash.’

‘It’s lovely,’ I said. ‘It feels a thousand miles away from Washington.’

‘That’s the idea,’ he said.

‘I have no idea what any of these dishes are.’

‘If you don’t mind, let me order,’ he said.

When the waiter came Joe ordered in Czech, at least I assumed it was Czech, then translated for me. ‘Garlic soup, veal roast with wine sauce, potato dumplings and beer.’

The waiter brought us tall steins of Pilsner, so cool and refreshing I drank mine halfway down immediately. It was mealy, tart and golden, unlike any American beer I’d tasted.

‘This is wonderful,’ I said.

‘Pilsner is the national beer of Czechoslovakia. It’s aged in oak barrels. Karel saves what he has for his Czech customers. He won’t be able to import more until after the war.’

The waiter set bowls of steaming garlic soup before us. Garlic was a new experience for me. Stoically I sipped some from my spoon. I followed with a slurp.

‘This is delicious. What’s in it?’

‘I used to watch my grandmother make it. You crush salt and garlic together in a mortar and pestle and boil it with the potatoes and spices. I remember having it poured over fried bread in the bottom of a soup bowl for supper.’

I tilted my bowl to scoop up the dregs.

The veal roast with wine and potato dumplings and more beer followed.

‘Dessert?’ Joe asked.

‘I couldn’t possibly,’ I said.

‘How about if we walk to the Water Gate and back? We can leave the car here. Maybe we’ll have room for dessert when we get back.’

Joe took my hand as we walked along the Potomac to the concert site. I felt content and happy, although mental warnings about Joe, like little cartoon balloons hovering over my head, kept popping up, reminding me the man was a stranger. Where I grew up, everyone knew everyone else’s business, and I was used to feeling secure. I had to remind myself to be cautious.

‘Louise,’ Joe said, ‘I need to tell you something.’

My heart rate surged.

‘Okay.’

‘I hope that the word “deceive” is a bit strong for what I’ve done. I’ve encouraged you and everyone else at the boarding house to think I’m a poor refugee college instructor.’

I didn’t answer him.

‘I’m not. Well, I am poor, but I’ve got a British passport. I have dual British and Czech citizenship. But I’m not a language teacher.’

‘And?’

‘You don’t seem surprised.’

I shrugged. ‘It’s wartime. Half the people in this town are undercover.’

He chuckled. ‘Undercover. I guess that is as good a word for it as any.’

We walked along silently for a bit.

‘At least you haven’t walked off in a huff,’ he said.

‘Why should I? But can you tell me what it is you do?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘but I swear, it’s nothing subversive, or even dangerous, certainly not in opposition to your country. I work for a humanitarian organization, not a government.’

‘You’re not a spy?’

He laughed. ‘Absolutely not. I have changed my appearance a bit, in case I run into someone I’d rather not know I’m here. I’ve grown a beard, wear European clothes and carry that briefcase filled with Czech literature. I still have family in Czechoslovakia, and they don’t have British passports.’

Wearing glasses with clear lenses qualifies for more than ‘a bit’, I thought. I called that a disguise.

‘Do you mind if I ask if you’re Jewish?’

‘Not at all. I am. But I’m not religious.’

What an interesting idea. Where I came from no one could call himself a Baptist without attending church. And not just on Sunday morning either. It was almost another full-time job – Sunday School before services, Tuesday evening supper and choir practice, women’s service group lunch and sewing for our soldiers on Wednesday, men’s breakfast and Bible study Thursday morning, the youth group on Friday night – some people I knew in Wilmington spent part of every day at church. I hadn’t been to church once since arriving in Washington, and I didn’t miss it one bit.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘How can you be Jewish without being religious?’

‘It’s more like being a member of a tribe,’ he said. ‘Like the Apache Indians, or a Scottish clan.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘How do you bear it?’

‘What?’

‘Everything that’s happened to your country, to England.’

‘I can’t afford to worry about anything I can’t do something about. I’m focused on what I can do.’

I still didn’t know what that was, or even if what he told me was the truth.

As we walked along Rock Creek Parkway and down Riverside, we joined a throng of people moving in the same direction. It was a happy crowd, dressed in gaily-colored shorts, polo shirts, play clothes and even some swimming suits, ready to start their holiday weekend.

The wide stone steps of the Water Gate that led down to the Potomac River formed a kind of amphitheater. For years the National Symphony Orchestra’s barge, which carried an orchestra shell, moored there for summer concerts. The lucky ones, like us, had tickets and could sit on the stone steps directly in front of the barge. The rest had to set up lawn chairs on the greenway.

We threaded our way through a crowd so dense that at one point I walked directly behind Joe, clinging to his shirt, as he elbowed his way towards the stone stairs and our seats.

As dusk fell a squadron of canoes, emerging from under the arches of the Arlington Bridge, glided down the river to float near the barge. A lantern gleamed from every bow. They looked like fireflies hovering over the water.

‘So,’ I said, ‘what are we hearing tonight?’

‘Jerome Kern and Victor Herbert, directed by a guest conductor, Charles O’Connell. He supervises the symphony’s recordings for RCA Victor.’

‘I thought they wrote musicals and operettas.’

‘The Kern selection is an instrumental arrangement – “Scenario for Orchestra: Themes from Show Boat”. The Herbert is his “Cello Concerto No. 2”. But I wouldn’t be surprised if we heard some show tunes.’

‘I hope one of them is “The Last Time I Saw Paris”. Did you see
Lady Be Good
?’

‘No, I don’t go to the movies. I think I should, though. Moving pictures seem to be so important to Americans.’

Then I surprised myself.

‘Let me choose one and we’ll go soon,’ I said.

‘I’d like that,’ Joe said. ‘Maybe next weekend?’

I’d asked a man out on a date. Ada would be proud. If I wasn’t arrested tomorrow breaking into the French embassy. My insides clenched at the thought and bile rose into my throat, before I remembered that I’d be safe with Lionel.