‘Okay. I’ve got to make another call. You stay put.’
She laughed, since they both knew she wasn’t going anywhere. As he stood up to go to the kitchen, Isabel said, ‘Is this a good guy or a bad guy?’
Guttman’s smile was bittersweet. ‘He’s a guy who got mixed up in something he didn’t understand, and it’s come back to haunt him.’
This time a man answered the phone. But the voice was unfamiliar. ‘Is Roger Sedgwick there?’ asked Guttman.
‘Who is that?’ the voice asked bluntly.
‘Harry Guttman.’
‘Are you a friend of Mr Sedgwick, sir?’
The ‘sir’ worried him. ‘Not really.’
‘Was he expecting your call?’
‘I called before, but his wife said he was busy.’
‘What’s your relation to Mr Sedgwick, Mr Guttman?’
Enough was enough. ‘I’m an Assistant Director with the FBI.’
There was a pause. ‘Sir, this is Sergeant Duval of the Brewster Police. There’s been an accident.’
‘What’s happened, officer?’
‘Roger Sedgwick’s dead. He shot himself.’
‘Jesus Christ. When did he do that?’
‘About an hour ago.’
Guttman thought of his second phone call, the sound of the phone ringing, unavailingly, like a siren summoning help too late. Guttman would need to tread carefully; the last thing he needed was for this to reach the ears of other members of the Bureau. ‘What happened exactly?’ he asked.
Duval said, ‘His wife says he left the house earlier this evening to post a letter. There’s a mailbox three or four blocks down the street which has an evening pick-up. She was making supper and he said he’d be right back. When he hadn’t returned after half an hour, she went out looking for him. She found him slumped on a bench halfway down the block with a bullet in his head. The gun was on the ground by the bench.’
‘Any note?’
‘Nope. Not by the body and not in his study. We haven’t been through the rest of the house yet.’
‘What kind of gun was it?’
‘Some foreign model. One of my men said it must have come from Europe.’
‘Why’d he think that?’
‘His dad fought in the last war and brought back some pistols from overseas. My guy said Sedgwick’s gun looked like one in his father’s collection.’
‘Can you try to confirm the make of weapon, please?’
‘Sure.’
‘Did Sedgwick say anything at all before he went out?’
‘Just that he was going to mail this letter. If the wife calms down I’ll try to have another word. The doctor’s with her now.’
‘Let me give you my number. If she has anything to say about why he did this I’d like to know. Her husband was assisting me with an investigation.’
‘Could that have anything to do with this?’
‘Don’t think so. He was just providing information about some bank transactions.’ The last thing Guttman wanted was local cops asking him questions instead of the other way round. ‘Listen, could you do something for me? Can you check the mailbox? You know, for the letter he went out to send.’
‘I thought of that already,’ said the sergeant, sounding proud of his astuteness. ‘But they’d already collected from that box.’
‘What about at the post office? Any chance of catching up to them there?’
‘We may be a small town, Mr Guttman, but there’s more than one mailbox here.’
‘Of course,’ said Guttman. There was no point trying to bully the sergeant – if the cop resisted, Guttman would have to get a court order to search the mail, and given Hoover’s proscription this was the last thing he was about to do. ‘Is there any chance you could have a word with the postmaster – you know, informal-like, and see if someone could have a look? Maybe Sedgwick put a return address on the envelope.’
‘I guess I could ask,’ the cop said hesitantly. ‘If it’s that important.’
‘It is,’ said Guttman firmly, though he didn’t have any idea himself. Sedgwick might have been writing farewell to his mistress for all he knew, or cancelling his membership at the country club. On the other hand, he might have been writing to his controller at the Russian Mission. It seemed worth the trouble to try to find out.
23
THE RAIN HAD stopped and the sun was out in the morning, though its light seemed weaker now, autumnal, casting a honey-coloured glow on the trees as he crossed the bridge and drove through Georgetown. He was feeling foolish since he had a small square of toilet paper pasted to the shaving cut on his chin. By the time he parked at the Justice Department Building the blood would have dried, and if he were careful peeling the little tab of paper off he’d have only a small scab left where he’d done a dipsy doodle with his razor. If he weren’t careful he’d start bleeding again, until he took the elevators up to the fourth floor, where he could get more toilet paper from the men’s room and start the process all over again.
He hadn’t heard from Duval and he wondered if the cop knew what he was doing. It sounded like a suicide all right, but sometimes policemen jumped to that judgement too easily – Palmer’s death hadn’t looked like a suicide at all, but that was how it had been treated, and why it had been forgotten.
When he came into the office Marie was already there. She wore a green blouse that set off her bright red hair.
‘Coffee?’ she asked brightly and he nodded. Then she pointed to his chin. He had forgotten all about the razor cut. By the time Marie came through with his coffee he had got the bit of paper off without disaster, and he asked her to put a call through to Yale University.
‘You going back to school?’ she said.
‘Nah. They want me to go teach there.’ This shut her up. She went out looking unsure of what to believe.
Moments later, Guttman waited with the phone to his ear until he heard the authentic voice of New England say hello. He replied, ‘Mr Vail, It’s Harry Guttman of the FBI.’
‘Call me Franklin. How can I help this time, Agent Guttman?’
‘You remember Thornton Palmer?’
‘How could I forget him? Did those names I gave you prove of any help?’
‘They were very helpful. I wanted another favour, though, if it’s not too much to ask.’
‘Fire away,’ said Vail cheerfully.
‘One of Palmer’s associates said he had a cousin in Hollywood. Palmer visited him one summer and that seemed to be instrumental in making him a radical. But this associate didn’t know who this cousin was.’
‘You want me to try and find out?’
‘If it’s not too much trouble.’
‘Happy to help.’
There was no longer any pretence it was a club, though the butler named Jason still opened the door, dressed in a white jacket and wearing white cotton gloves. He led Guttman into the main sitting room, where four men were sitting at the back around a chestnut table stacked with files. They glanced idly at Guttman as he sat down in one of the deep leather armchairs, then resumed their conversation. He could only hear snippets – Lend Lease isn’t so popular out West and one of the Labour ministers may be coming over – as he found the softness of their English accents made them hard to understand.
‘Mr Guttman.’
He looked up into the face of the pretty young woman. ‘Katie,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here? Has your uncle had you transferred from New York?’
She gave a small giggle. ‘Goodness no. He brought me down on the train so he could work during the trip – he had a lot of dictation.’ Guttman stood up, assuming she would take him upstairs, where Stephenson had a little office room of his own.
Katie frowned. ‘I’m sorry, but Uncle Bill’s not here. He asked me to send his apologies. He’s been called to the White House. He asked if there was any chance he could meet you later on – he suggested six o’clock. He said he can’t be sure he’ll be free until then.’
Guttman wondered what he was going to tell Mrs Davis. But this was important. Stephenson had called Marie twice to make sure Guttman would have time to see him on his flying visit to the capital.
‘Okay,’ he said. They were out in the hallway now. Jason was nowhere to be seen, but Guttman figured he could manage the door himself. He was about to say goodbye when Katie whispered, ‘My uncle also asked if he could meet you somewhere else.’
‘Oh,’ said Guttman, equally hushed.
‘It gets a little crowded here later on,’ Katie explained.
He sensed that wasn’t the real reason. ‘Why doesn’t he meet me at my club? Let me give you directions; your uncle will need them.’
When he got back to his office it was already 4.30. Never helpful at the best of times, Mrs Davis had lately been downright cranky, and he dreaded her reaction now if he called. He thought for a minute, then picked up the phone and dialled another number.
Pray God Mrs Jupiter didn’t pick up the phone. When it suited her she was deaf as a post, but when the phone rang she liked to get there first. Fortunately, Annie answered.
‘It’s Harry,’ he said, then stopped, uncertain how to ask his favour. ‘I was worried I’d get Mrs Jupiter.’
Annie laughed. ‘I try to beat her to it. Otherwise after three or four “I can’t hear you’s” people hang up. But is there a problem at home, Harry? I can go over there.’
‘No, Isabel’s fine. It’s later on I’m worried about. I’ve been called to a meeting at the end of the day. Mrs Davis has been taking a tough line lately, and I wondered—’
‘I’ll go over at five-thirty. Don’t worry – Mrs Davis can leave at her normal time.’
‘Thank you, Annie –’ he started to say.
‘I think we should put this on a regular basis.’
‘Of course,’ he said, a little taken aback. ‘What’s the going rate for this kind of thing?’
‘I don’t mean money, Harry,’ Annie said sharply. ‘I’m happy to help. I just think it might smooth things with Mrs Davis if she knew I was coming on certain days.’
‘I couldn’t ask you to do that, Annie. Not without paying you, anyway.’
‘We can settle that later. I give Mrs Jupiter her dinner very early – she likes to eat at five o’clock. After that I’m free. Though there’s one condition.’
‘Okay,’ he said, hoping he was right to agree to it in advance.
‘That Jeff can play in your backyard. Mrs Jupiter hasn’t really got one, and if he throws the ball against the shed she complains about the noise. That lady hears exactly what she wants to hear.’
The nickel-sized wart on the man behind the bar at Steamer’s had grown, thought Guttman as he ordered a bottle of beer and sat down to wait. The owner’s blonde wife was heating oil in the fryer to fry fish for the evening customers, and a couple of hamburgers sizzled on the grill. But Guttman resisted temptation. He’d eat when he got home and tried to remember what there was in the icebox that he could fix for Isabel and himself.
The door to the shack swung open, giving a glimpse of the Potomac a hundred yards away, choppy today in the wind, its waves a succession of grey shark fins. A short, trim man walked in and stood tentatively, his eyes adjusting to the gloom of the room. Guttman gave a little wave and Stephenson came towards him.
‘It’s not quite as ritzy as your club,’ said Guttman, ‘but you asked for discreet. I don’t think you’ll get many diplomats crossing the threshold.’
The man with the wart waddled over behind the bar and Stephenson pointed at Guttman’s bottle of Gunther. ‘I’ll have one of those.’
When the man came back with the beer, Guttman got down from his stool. ‘There’s a garden in the back. Why don’t we talk out there?’
It wasn’t really a garden, more a small yard with concrete paving near the building and unmown grass behind that. A solitary picnic table sat halfway back and Guttman led the way, walking across fallen leaves, which crunched underfoot like peanut shells in a ball park’s bleachers.
He went and sat at the far end of the picnic table, facing the rear door of the bar. Stephenson looked around before he joined him. He was elegantly dressed in a sage-coloured wool jacket and grey flannels, and he seemed subdued, his face pinched. ‘I’m sorry about this afternoon,’ Stephenson said.
‘Katie explained you were at the White House.’
‘I had to deliver a letter to Mr Roosevelt, but I was really there to see Harry Hopkins. We’re hoping he’ll come over after Christmas and see how things are for himself.’
‘And how are things?’
‘Better than you might imagine,’ said Stephenson, though he looked exhausted. ‘The bombing’s been every bit as bad as reports say. But morale’s held up astonishingly well. It helps that we’re hitting them back. We bombed Berlin, you know, which Goering said we couldn’t do.’
‘What do you think the Germans are planning next?’
‘Well, Hitler’s given up on the idea of invading Britain, for now at least. If you ask me, he had his chance the summer before last and missed it.’
‘What happens if Moscow falls?’
‘It won’t help, that’s for sure. But it may not happen; the snow’s already starting and the Germans aren’t prepared. Talk about hubris: Hitler never thought his soldiers would need winter clothes. The telltale will be if Stalin flees Moscow – if he stays there’s every chance the Russians will hold the city.’
Guttman took a long pull of his beer, then put the bottle down on the table. ‘I didn’t get to meet Popov.’
‘That’s why I wanted to see you. Do you know what happened? I only have Popov’s side of things and even that’s second hand. Masterman has been running him directly.’
‘Hoover saw him in New York. The Director spends a lot of time there.’
‘So I gather,’ said Stephenson dryly. ‘Winchell has your boss in his column at least once a month.’
‘The problem was that Popov’s reputation preceded him, and Hoover’s a Puritan about that sort of thing. He also felt Popov was trying to take us for a ride. Popov asked him for money.’
Stephenson nodded. ‘Popov’s been under a great deal of pressure. Since Hoover doesn’t want to use him, we have to decide whether to move him to Latin America and work him there, or send him back to Lisbon.’
‘What would he do in Lisbon?’
‘What he did before. The Nazis think he’s running an extensive ring of spies in Britain – it’s an entirely fictitious network we helped him “set up”, but the Germans believe it’s real. Popov travels back and forth between London and Lisbon – he meets with the Germans there because it’s neutral.’
‘That sounds more useful than sending him to Latin America.’
‘It is, but it’s a lot riskier too. The Germans know he’s not made much progress here and they’re not happy. I don’t know how Popov’s going to feel about walking back into the lion’s den. Until he met with Hoover I think he thought he’d spend the war years here, living high on the hog. He even planned to visit Hawaii.’
Guttman couldn’t help but look startled.
‘What did I say, Harry?’
Guttman said, ‘I’ve just had Nessheim telling me he needs to go to Hawaii too. One of his informants is missing – and Nessheim thinks he might be hiding out there. He said this informant may know why the Russians sent that money to a Jap bank in LA. But why did Popov want to go there? Native girls?’
Stephenson smiled. ‘For a change, no. The Germans were sending him to see the Japanese. I don’t know why they were meeting in Hawaii, but Popov said his German masters attached great importance to it. It’s not going to happen now though, unless …’ He looked around them, but there was no one else in the yard and the back door hadn’t opened since they’d come out.
‘Unless what?’ asked Guttman.
Stephenson stared at his bottle of beer. ‘Unless Popov suggested to the Germans that he send someone else. It will be happening pretty late –
Popov was supposed to get to the Islands in August. Still, I like his idea: it may tell us more about the Japs’ plans. Though without help from Hoover we haven’t got anyone to send.’
Stephenson kept his gaze firmly on his beer while Guttman took this in. Then Guttman asked tentatively, ‘You’d need a German speaker?’
‘Not necessarily, as long as he was a German sympathiser – or able to pose as one.’ Stephenson’s face was expressionless.
‘Ah,’ said Guttman as a knowing smile spread across his face. ‘That sounds familiar.’
Stephenson gave a short laugh. ‘I thought I was being wily.’
‘James Rossbach, former member of the German-American Bund. We used that identity before to good effect. Maybe it could be resurrected.’
‘Same actor in the role?’ asked Stephenson and Guttman nodded. Stephenson said, ‘Would he be willing? It could be bloody dangerous. We don’t even know what we’re hoping to learn from the Japanese.’
Guttman grunted. ‘I can get our guy to Hawaii legitimately and he can have a look around for his missing informant. But after that you’d have to help me to arrange the rendezvous with the Japs Popov was supposed to see.’
‘That won’t be a problem,’ said Stephenson. ‘Back in a minute,’ he added and went into the bar.
When Stephenson returned he was carrying two more bottles of beer. ‘You look a million miles away, Harry.’
‘I was thinking about our last conversation. The banker who Palmer told me about went and shot himself. At least it looks that way. It happened after I pressed him about the money he wired for the Russians.’
He explained about Nessheim’s discovery of the discrepancy in LA.
Stephenson shook his head. ‘It doesn’t sound like a clerical error to me.’
‘Not for that much money.’ Harry scratched the bristles on his jaw with the flat of his hand; this late in the day, they were rough as filings. ‘Anyway, it’s not as if we haven’t got more pressing things to worry about with the Nazis and the Japanese.’
It was Stephenson’s turn to look worried.
The Little Tokyo Informant Page 21
