The Rhinemann Exchange (25 page)

David agreed. In the morning, late morning. They would have a drink together, perhaps a light lunch; welcome the New Year together.

“God be praised. You are well. You’ll come around tomorrow?”

“I promise,” David said.

“And you’ve never broken a promise to me.”

“I won’t. Tomorrow. And Aaron …”

“Yes?”

“It’s possible I may need to find someone tonight. I’m not sure where to look but probably among the Social Register crowd. How are your Park Avenue connections?”

The old man chuckled in the quiet, good-humored, slightly arrogant way David remembered so well. “I’m the only Jew with a Torah stand in St. John the Divine. Everybody wants an artist—for nothing, of course. Red Cross, green cross; debutantes for war bandages, dances for fancy-sounding French medal winners. You name it, Mandel’s on the hook for it. I got three coloraturas, two pianists and five Broadway baritones making appearances for ‘our boys’ tonight. All on the Upper East Side.”

“I may call you in a little while. Will you still be at the office?”

“Where else? For soldiers and concert managers, when are the holidays?”

“You haven’t changed.”

“The main thing is that vou’re well.…”

No sooner had David hung up the phone than it rang.

“I have the telephone number and the address of your party in Bernardsville. Mr. Spaulding.”

“May I have them, please?”

The operator gave him the information and he wrote it down on the ever-present stationery next to the phone.

“Shall I put the call through, sir?”

David hesitated, then said, “Yes, please. I’ll stay on the line. Ask for a Mrs. Hawkwood, please.”

“Mrs. Hawkwood. Very well, sir. But I can call you back when I have the party.”

“I’d rather stay on an open circuit.…” David caught himself, but not in time. The blunder was minor but confirmed by the operator. She replied in a knowing voice.

“Of course, Mr. Spaulding. I assume if someone other than Mrs. Hawkwood answers, you’ll wish to terminate the call?”

“I’ll let you know.”

The operator, now part of some sexual conspiracy, acted her role with firm efficiency. She dialed the outside operator and in moments a phone could be heard ringing in Bernardsville, New Jersey. A woman answered; it was not Leslie.

“Mrs. Hawkwood, please.”

“Mrs.…” The voice on the Bernardsville line seemed hesitant.

“Mrs. Hawkwood, please. Long distance calling,” said the Montgomery operator, as if she were from the telephone company, expediting a person-to-person call.

“Mrs. Hawkwood isn’t here, operator.”

“Can you tell me what time she’s expected, please?”

“What time? Good heavens, she’s not expected. At least, I didn’t think she was.…”

Not fazed, the Montgomery employee continued, interrupting politely. “Do you have a number where Mrs. Hawkwood can be reached, please?”

“Well …” The voice in Bernardsville was now bewildered. “I suppose in California.…”

David knew it was time to intercede. “I’ll speak to the party on the line, operator.”

“Very well, sir.” There was a
ther-ump
sound indicating the switchboard’s disengagement from the circuit.

“Mrs. Jenner?”

“Yes, this is Mrs. Jenner,” answered Bernardsville, obviously relieved with the more familiar name.

“My name is David Spaulding, I’m a friend of Leslie’s and …”
Jesus!
He’d forgotten the husband’s first name. “… Captain Hawkwood’s. I was given this number.…”

“Well,
David Spaulding!
How are you, dear? This is Madge Jenner, you silly boy! Good heavens, it must be eight, ten years ago. How’s your father and mother? I hear they’re living in London. So very brave!”

Christ! thought Spaulding, it never occurred to him that Leslie’s mother would remember two East Hampton months almost a decade ago. “Oh, Mrs. Jenner.… They’re fine. I’m sorry to disturb you.…”

“You could never disturb us, you dear boy. We’re just a couple of old stablehands out here. James has doubled our colors; no one wants to keep horses anymore.… You thought Leslie was here?”

“Yes, that’s what I was told.”

“I’m sorry to say she’s not. To be quite frank, we rarely hear from her. She moved to California, you know.”

“Yes, with her aunt.”

“Only half-aunt, dear. My stepsister; we’ve not gotten along too well, I’m afraid. She married a Jew. He calls himself Goldsmith—hardly a disguise for Goldberg or Goldstein, is it? We’re convinced he’s in the black market and all that profiteering, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh? Yes, I see.… Then Leslie didn’t come East to visit you for Christmas?”

“Good heavens, no! She barely managed to send us a card.…”

He was tempted to call Ed Pace in Fairfax; inform the Intelligence head that California G-2 had come up with a Bernardsville zero. But there was no point. Leslie Jenner Hawkwood was in New York.

He had to find out why.

He called Mandel back and gave him two names: Leslie’s and Cindy Tottle Bonner, widow of Paul Bonner, hero. Without saying so, David indicated that his curiosity might well be more professional than personal. Mandel did not question; he went to work.

Spaulding realized that he could easily phone Cindy Bonner, apologize and ask to see her. But he couldn’t risk her turning him down; which she probably would do in light of the crude telephone call he had placed two nights ago. There simply wasn’t the time. He’d have to see her, trust the personal contact.

And even then she might not be able to tell him anything. Yet there were certain instincts one developed and came to recognize. Inverted, convoluted, irrational.… Atavistic.

Twenty minutes passed; it was quarter to three. His telephone rang.

“David? Aaron. This Hawkwood lady, there’s absolutely nothing. Everyone says she moved to California and nobody’s heard a word.… Mrs. Paul Bonner: there’s a private party tonight, on Sixty-second Street, name of Warfield. Number 212.”

“Thanks. I’ll wait outside and crash it with my best manners.”

“No need for that. You have an invitation. Personal from the lady of the house. Her name’s Andrea and she’s delighted to entertain the soldier son of the famous you-know-who. She also wants a soprano in February, but that’s my problem.”

The dinner clientele from the Gallery could have moved intact to the Warfield brownstone on Sixty-second Street. David mixed easily. The little gold emblem in his lapel served its purpose; he was accepted more readily, he was also more available. The drinks and buffet were generous, the small Negro jazz combo better than good.

And he found Cindy Bonner in a corner, waiting for her escort—an army lieutenant—to come back from the bar. She was petite, with reddish hair and very light, almost pale skin. Her posture was Vogue, her body slender, supporting very expensive, very subdued clothes. There was a pensive look about her; not sad, however. Not the vision of a hero’s widow, not heroic at all. A rich little girl.

“I have a sincere apology to make,” he told her. “I hope you’ll accept it.”

“I can’t imagine what for. I don’t think we’ve met.” She smiled but not completely, as if his presence triggered a memory she could not define. Spaulding saw the look and understood. It was his voice. The voice that once had made him a good deal of money.

“My name is Spaulding. David …”

“You telephoned the other night,” interrupted the girl, her eyes angry. “The Christmas gifts for Paul. Leslie …”

“That’s why I’m apologizing. It was all a terrible misunderstanding. Please forgive me. It’s not the sort of joke I’d enter into willingly; I was as angry as you were.” He spoke calmly, holding her eyes with his own. It was sufficient; she blinked, trying to understand, her anger fading. She looked briefly at the tiny brass eagle in his lapel, the small insignia that could mean just about anything.

“I think I believe you.”

“You should. It was sick; I’m not sick.”

The army lieutenant returned carrying two glasses. He was drunk and hostile. Cindy made a short introduction; the lieutenant barely acknowledged the civilian in front of him. He wanted to dance; Cindy did not. The situation—abruptly created—was about to deteriorate.

David spoke with a trace of melancholy. “I served with Mrs. Bonner’s husband. I’d like to speak with her for just a few minutes. I’ll have to leave shortly, my wife’s waiting for me uptown.”

The combination of facts—reassurances—bewildered the drunken lieutenant as well as mollified him. His gallantry was called; he bowed tipsily and walked back toward the bar.

“Nicely done,” Cindy said. “If there
is
a Mrs. Spaulding uptown, it wouldn’t surprise me. You said you were out with Leslie; that’s par for her course.”

David looked at the girl.
Trust the developed instincts
, he thought to himself. “There is no Mrs. Spaulding. But there was a Mrs. Hawkwood the other night. I gather you’re not very fond of her.”

“She and my husband were what is politely referred to as ‘an item.’ A long-standing one. There are some people who say I forced her to move to California.”

“Then I’ll ask the obvious question. Under the circumstances, I wonder why she used your name? And then disappeared. She’d know I’d try to reach you.”

“I think you used the term
sick.
She’s sick.”

“Or else she was trying to tell me something.”

David left the Warfields’ shortly before the New Year arrived. He reached the corner of Lexington Avenue and turned south. There was nothing to do but walk, think, try to piece together what he had learned; find a pattern that made sense.

He couldn’t. Cindy Bonner was a bitter widow; her husband’s death on the battlefield robbed her of any chance to strike back at Leslie. She wanted, according to her, simply to forget. But the hurt had been major. Leslie and Paul Bonner had been more than an “item.” They had reached—again, according to Cindy—the stage where the Bonners had mutually sued for divorce. A confrontation between
the two women, however, did not confirm Paul Bonner’s story; Leslie Jenner Hawkwood had no
intention
of divorcing
her
husband.

It was all a messy, disagreeable Social Register foul-up; Ed Pace’s “musical beds.”

Why, then, would Leslie use Cindy’s name? It was not only provocative and tasteless, it was senseless.

Midnight arrived as he crossed Fifty-second Street. A few horns blared from passing automobiles. In the distance could be heard tower bells and whistles; from inside bars came the shrill bleats of noisemakers and a cacophony of shouting. Three sailors, their uniforms filthy, were singing loudly off key to the amusement of pedestrians.

He walked west toward the string of cafes between Madison and Fifth. He considered stopping in at Shor’s or 21 … in ten minutes or so. Enough time for the celebrations to have somewhat subsided.

“Happy New Year, Colonel Spaulding.”

The voice was sharp and came from a darkened doorway.

“What?” David stopped and looked into the shadows. A tall man in a light grey overcoat, his face obscured by the brim of his hat, stood immobile. “What did you say?”

“I wished you a Happy New Year,” said the man. “Needless to say, I’ve been following you. I overtook you several minutes ago.”

The voice was lined with an accent, but David couldn’t place it. The English was British tutored, the origin somewhere in Middle Europe. Perhaps the Balkans.

“I find that a very unusual statement and … needless to say … quite disturbing.” Spaulding held his place; he had no weapon and wondered if the man recessed in the doorway was, conversely, armed. He couldn’t tell. “What do you want?”

“Welcome you home, to begin with. You’ve been away a long time.”

“Thank you.… Now, if you don’t mind …”

“I mind! Don’t move, colonel! Just stand there as if you were talking with an old friend. Don’t back away; I’m holding a .45 leveled at your chest.”

Several passersby walked around David on the curb side. A couple came out of an apartment entrance ten yards to the right of the shadowed doorway; they were in a hurry
and crossed rapidly between Spaulding and the tall man with the unseen gun. David was first tempted to use them, but two considerations prevented him. The first was the grave danger to the couple; the second, the fact that the man with the gun had something to say. If he’d wanted to kill him, he would have done so by now.

“I won’t move.… What is it?”

“Take two steps forward. Just
two.
No more.”

David did so. He could see the face better now, but not clearly. It was a thin face, gaunt and lined. The eyes were deepset with hollows underneath. Tired eyes. The dull finish of the pistol’s barrel was the clearest object David could distinguish. The man kept shifting his eyes to his left, behind Spaulding. He was looking for someone. Waiting.

“All right. Two steps. Now no one can walk between us.… Are you expecting someone?”

“I’d heard that the main agent in Lisbon was very controlled. You bear that out. Yes, I’m waiting; I’ll be picked up shortly.”

“Am I to go with you?”

“It won’t be necessary. I’m delivering a message, that is all.… The incident at Lajes. It is to be regretted, the work of zealots. Nevertheless, accept it as a warning. We can’t always control deep angers; surely you must know that. Fairfax should know it. Fairfax
will
know it before this first day of the New Year is over. Perhaps by now.… There is my car. Move to my right, your
left.
” David did so as the man edged toward the curb, hiding the pistol under the cloth of his coat. “Heed us, colonel. There are to be no negotiations with Franz Altmüller. They are finished!”

“Wait a minute! I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t
know
any Altmüller!”

“
Finished!
Heed the lesson of Fairfax!”

A dark brown sedan with bright headlights pulled up to the curb. It stopped, the rear door was thrown open, and the tall man raced across the sidewalk between the pedestrians and climbed in. The car sped away.

David rushed to the curb. The least he could do was get the vehicle’s license number.