Reading this over, Poppy knew it was useless to say that if there was no trace of the Living Spectres in Bratislava, or that Blessing would go north, toward Brno, looking for any sign of them; for most of their readers, Bratislava might as well be the far side of the moon. She decided not to mention this, in case Blessing should change his plans as he went along, or that Sherman Pearse would be displeased at Poppy revealing so much about the investigation. Doing her best to shut out the noise around her, Poppy attempted to come up with some way to imbue this rather colorless announcement with a bit of excitement nothing came to mind, so she put that story aside and began to compose an article about Hurricane Sylvia and how it had plowed through the Caribbean and along the southern coast of the US. This was going a bit better when she heard Lowenthal shout for her from his office. “Coming boss,” she yelled back, trusting he would hear her as she picked up her purse and left her desk.
“Come in,” Lowenthal bellowed as Poppy reached his door. “Sit down.”
“I will,” said Poppy, and did.
Lowenthal leaned forward as if to impart something private to her, but his voice was still loud enough to command naval maneuvers. “I had a note from—never mind. He’s associated with the Department of State.”
“Ye gods! Is this about GAD Pearse?” Poppy asked, surprised. “What’s happening? Has he been locat—”
“No. This is your other case. This guy’s one of those on the South American desks at State,” he declared. “Your cousin may have been spotted in Venezuela, but that’s not certain. They have a photograph. I thought you might want to get on it before the rest of the city room is through writing up the Napier robbery arrest story; you don’t want the others chiming in on your territory. You’ll be ahead of most of this paper, and most of the rest of the press in Philadelphia, for that matter. They’re all caught up in the Napier story.”
“Do you think other papers will be chasing this story about Stacy? Isn’t the Napier story more important now?” she asked, thinking that it was like Lowenthal to shift her from her second- chair position on the Napier case just when it was finally heating up; she swallowed her indignation and listened to what he had to say. “Do you think one photograph will fire up the investigation again?”
“If the Venezuelan photograph turns out to be a solid lead, you bet I do,” Lowenthal said. “And more than anyone on this rag, you’re the one who’s earned the chance to get there first.”
Poppy thought this through, and asked, “Am I supposed to talk to this person you know in the Department of State?”
“No, not yet. He won’t be taking an active role in the investigation—yet. If this ends up looking worth a follow-up, then I’ll make the call for you to vouch for you. For now, there’s a person you can call there—never mind the cost, I’ll authorize it—and he should be able to tell you the basics. I’ve let him know someone from the Clarion would call that number in the next half hour. If it does turn out that this is a lead worth following, this’ll get the ball rolling.”
It took Poppy a short while to work out how to respond. “Do you want me to do this because it’s my cousin, and I want to see him caught, or because I can identify him?”
“A little of both,” Lowenthal admitted. “I’ll bet you a lunch at the Blind Pig Grill that this could be the break in the case you’ve been looking for.”
“If it’s that kind of break, I’ll buy you lunch at the Blind Pig Grill, boss,” Poppy promised him.
“No, no. Wouldn’t do for one of my reporters to host me there. Nope, I’ll take you if it all turns out, and no nonsense about it.” He began to twirl his forelock around his fingers, as he did when he was thinking. “Come up with as much as you can from the Department of State, and let me see your notes, and then you can get to work on up to four inches for Monday’s paper. How does that sound to you?” It was clear to Poppy that Lowenthal wanted her on this, no matter how slim a lead it might be; he confirmed this by adding, “You have a real advantage on this, Poppy. You can make a difference.”
“Challenging,” Poppy replied at once. “I’ll get right on it.”
“Good.” He handed a file-card to her across his desk. “That’s the number and the extension for the fellow you should talk to. Tell him you’re with the Philadelphia Clarion, and then tell him what this is all about. He should have your name on his calendar by now, and you should be able to get everything current on the sighting.”
“If it is a sighting,” Poppy added, being careful.
“Yeah. If it is.” Lowenthal coughed. “Well, get on with it. Chop-chop.”
Poppy rose, saying, “I’m going, boss,” then paused. “How did my aunt’s sidebar go for you?”
“Very good. Nothing too high-brow in tone, and explained in language that most of our readers can understand. I was afraid we’d have to tone it down some, but she came through with a sensible piece. I’d use her again, if the need arose.” He stopped, then continued. “You can tell her I said so, if you like.”
“It would be better coming from you,” said Poppy, and hoped she had not gone too far with Lowenthal. “But I’ll mention it if you prefer.”
“I’ll send her a note later today,” said Lowenthal, an amazing concession, coming from him.
Poppy looked at the number on the card Lowenthal had given her. Potomac 7-435, ext. 39. She would have to have the outside operator connect her, it being a long distance call. At her desk, she hesitated, as much because of the continuing noise around her as any doubts she might have about how to approach the fellow on the other end: Lowenthal had scrawled Chambers Mobray under the phone number. “Where does the Department of State find the men with such names?” she wondered; “do they have a special committee for searching them out?” Satisfied to leave her question unanswered, she picked up the receiver and signaled for an outside operator. Once she had given the number and the city of its destination, she got out her notebook and pencil and prepared to write.
“Chambers Mobray,” said a slightly nasal voice with a distinct New England accent to it; there was a moment of static on the line, and then he added, “Good morning.”
“Mister Mobray,” Poppy said at once. “This is P. M. Thornton, of the Philadelphia Clarion, and I have been assigned to the Dritchner and Derrington investigation. My editor, Cornelius Lowenthal, has instructed me to contact you about a possible sighting in Maracaibo, Venezuela of Eus—”
“I know who you are, Miss Thornton, and that you have a family connection to Eustace Dritchner,” Mobray said crisply. “I am more than willing to assist you in any way I can, but I hope that you will, in return, assist me.”
There was a shout from three of the reporters as the AP wire began to chatter.
Mobray’s remark brought Poppy up with a start. “I assist you? How?” She took a deep breath and went on in her most professional voice, “Of course I’d be happy to, in any way I can.”
“Very good,” said Mobray. “I have in hand a report from our embassy in Caracas; I received it two days ago, and I am now beginning the next step of our investigation. I will arrange for a messenger to deliver it to you the day after tomorrow. It is from…one of our field operators in Maracaibo,” he told her, studiously avoiding mentioning the man’s name, “and it purports to be a photograph of Eustace Dritchner at a restaurant there. It was taken last week, and was not considered important until a man in the embassy made a tentative identification of Dritchner, at which time we ordered our man in Maracaibo to keep watch on the man in the photograph, to get his name, if possible, and to wire us who he is, or claims to be.” The static returned, and then faded. “What we need now is the confirmation of this identification, which I hope you will be able to provide. We spoke briefly to his mother earlier this morning, and she refused to have anything to do with us.” He cleared his throat. “She made it very clear that she will not cooperate with us in any way if it could be damaging to her son—if the man in the photograph is her son.”
“Oh, dea
r,” said Poppy, not at all surprised by Aunt Jo’s intransigence. “I’d apologize on her behalf but—”
“We understand he is her son, Miss Thornton. Such ties rarely break.” There was a speculative note in this observation.
“Don’t worry Mister Mobray. I have no reason to shield my cousin from the consequences of his activities.”
“So I’ve been informed; Arnold Schultz told me that you are one of those who will be testifying at his trial for the prosecution, when and if he is apprehended. With Mister Schultz vouching for you, I am willing to include you in our work, reporter though you may be, since you have an interest in the outcome that marches with our own; I hope I have not misjudged you Miss Thornton,” said Mobray at his most unctuous.
“I want to see my cousin punished probably more than you do, Mister Mobray.”
“That is my understanding and it is why we are having this conversation: you have nothing to gain in refusing to assist us. If I thought that you might also want to protect Dritchner…Well, I would not have agreed to discuss this with you.”
“I appreciate that,” said Poppy.
“My one reservation is that I caution you against gossip,” Mobray warned.
“Hey!” Gafney shouted, holding up his finished report. “Above the fold Lowenthal! You promised. It damned well better be there!”
Poppy felt her ears grow warm, and knew she was blushing in anger at Mobray—gossip, indeed; she would have liked to upbraid Mobray for his highhandedness, but she knew that would not serve her purpose in any way. She held her tongue just long enough to be certain she would not shout at him. “I’ll do what I can for you, Mister Mobray, and I won’t talk publicly outside of my editor’s office. I will not publish anything without checking with you first.” As she said that, she knew she was not being honest—she would be sharing whatever she found out with Inspector Loring, and probably Aunt Esther as well.
Mobray coughed quietly. “So I suppose I don’t have to ask you to keep what I tell you to yourself?”
Poppy cupped her hand to her ear to keep out the noise of the city room. “Excuse the ruckus, Mister Mobray; we have a breaking story here.” She did not wait for his reaction. “For now, yes, I understand. But I can’t pledge to do it forever, since I must answer to my editor and it is our job to report the news,” Poppy came back quickly. “Please keep in mind that I work for the Clarion, and I am assigned to report on this case, and have been for several months. My editor will expect something from me about this potential discovery, and it’s my job to see that he has it. It’s the nature of our business.”
“I’m aware of that,” said Mobray. “Shall we say that you will not publish anything until you have an opportunity to examine the information I will be sending you? We can discuss your next step after you’ve seen what we have on the man we suspect is your cousin, Eustace Dritchner. Will that satisfy you?”
“I think that I can live with it,” said Poppy. “Can you at least tell me what I’m about to receive?”
“Certainly,” said Mobray, a hint of relief in his manner. “The package you receive will contain the field agent’s report on the sighting, the evaluation and recommendation of our office here, as much information as the person in the photograph provides us, and a copy of the photograph that was taken. The sooner you can provide your opinion on the man in the photograph, the sooner we can act on his presence, if such action is called for, and the sooner I can release you to write about what you’ve seen.” Mobray gave a careful cough. “If you have doubts, do not hesitate to voice them. We would far rather have an uncertain response than one that is emphatic, but in error.” He changed his tone. “What more may I tell you about the sighting, Miss Thornton?”
Poppy was ready for his offer. “You said something about a field agent? The one who took the photograph? Can you tell me anything about what a field agent of his sort does, and why he took his photo of the man who might be my cousin?”
Mobray took a few seconds to answer. “This is not for public dissemination, but I will tell you that we have men associated with the Department of State whose duty it is to observe and report on the activities of Americans abroad, particularly those who may be involved in…questionable enterprises, as we suspect is the case with Eustace Dritchner. You must understand that it is essential that we do not make the identities of such men public.”
“Probably with excellent cause,” said Poppy. “In regard to Stacy—he has been into some very shady dealings, it turns out.”
“It is unfortunate,” Mobray said by way of agreement with her. “The work these agents do is of a clandestine nature, and I cannot reveal anything more than what I have told you.”
“I accept that.” Poppy looked at the notes she had taken, and decided to tear them up as soon as she was off the phone, as a gesture of compliance. “As to what I know, it is probably less than you do: Stacy seems to have been part of a smuggling operation, and a participant in the forging of antiquities, as well as Customs documents. I don’t know what else he may have done.” That, too, was less than the truth, but Poppy knew better than to mention what she had learned through Holte.
“You know the facts as we have them. There are some other possibilities, but they are still matters of speculation, not certainty.” Mobray clicked his tongue.
“My business is filled with uncertainties,” Poppy told Mobray, and was rewarded with a burst of static. “But we in the newspaper business don’t have to do more than confirm what we say from two sources, nothing as demanding as what is required in court.” Listening to herself, Poppy thought she sounded like an obsequious boob, but hoped that would reassure Mobray.
“In this case, you will have to be very diligent.” Mobray cleared his throat for emphasis. “Even when you are permitted to write about our conversation, the function of the agents may not be included in your story. Is that clear?”
“It is clear,” said Poppy. She watched Gafney take a cigar from his desk drawer and prepare to light it. As if the cigarette smoke isn’t enough to deal with, she thought, and missed what Mobray said. “Pardon me, Mister Mobray, but would you repeat that? I don’t think I heard you clearly. The city room is—”
“I said: if you mention anything about the agents, you could be open to federal charges. We cannot afford to compromise any of our men in the field.”
“Oh.” Poppy put a line of exclamation points in her notebook. “I’ll keep that in mind while I work.”
“Good.” Mobray spoke over the static on the line. “I’ll expect to hear from you no later than two p. m. on Tuesday. Is that acceptable to you?”
“So long as I don’t have to be out of the office on another story I’m following, yes, it is. If I am not here, I will return your call as soon as I return.”
“Very good. Thank you, Miss Thornton,” Mobray said, and hung up before Poppy could say anything.
Poppy sat still, caught up in everything she had heard from Mobray. What if it turned out that the man in the photograph actually was Stacy? What then? Should she tell Aunt Jo, or would it be better to say nothing? And what if he was not Stacy? Which did she want it to be? If it was Stacy, what was he doing in Venezuela, in Maracaibo? The card with Brazilian stamps confused her: Aunt Esther had said that Aunt Jo had told her that Stacy’s post card had Brazilian stamps on it, and that was a long way from the north coast of Venezuela. Was the card meant to throw Stacy’s pursuers off the track, or had he some other use for having it posted in Brazil? She picked up her notebook and tore out the two pages of notes she had made and then ripped them into small strips before dropping them into the wastebasket that she shared with Gordon Steenbroek, who covered public works for the paper, and who was presently attending a meeting on the need for new, wider roads in the city. Steenbroek, unlike Gafney, would not go through the wastebasket to look for tidbits, as he called them. Pleased with her destruction, she put the card with Mobray’s name and number on it in her purse and prepared a single sheet of bond on which to mak
e her notes; she would tell Lowenthal to destroy it when she gave it to him before leaving for Aunt Esther’s house and a quiet afternoon.
THIRTY-THREE
AS POPPY GOT INTO HER HUDSON AT TEN MINUTES TO ONE, SHE HEARD Chesterton Holte speak from the passenger side of the front seat. “When would you like me to have a look around Maracaibo?”
Pulling her door closed, Poppy said, “So it was you on the line,” she said as she settled herself behind the steering wheel.
“I thought you must have realized that,” Holte said, becoming more like a shadow than a flaw in the windshield. “Would you like me to make a short jaunt to South America?”
“Not yet.” She studied the traffic in the alley.
“But you were aware that I was listening in,” he persisted.
“I wasn’t at first. There was so much other noise…” She started the engine, adjusted the choke, and waited the recommended two minutes for warm up before rolling down the window to signal that she was pulling out of her parking space.
“The Napier news. That’s going to be around for a couple of days, at least, which gives you a bit more time to look into the sighting, if it is a sighting.” He was silent for a short while. “Do you think they’ll catch the missing member of the gang?” He looked around. “You can pull out now.”
“Thanks,” said Poppy, a bit more brusquely than she intended. “Sorry. I’m preoccupied.” She released the brake, put the car in gear, and eased into the alley.
“Small wonder.” Holte watched her. “You could do with a nap.”
“I’m not so paltry as that,” Poppy informed him. “I can hear troubling news without having a fit of the vapors.”
“I know that,” Holte said patiently, and stopped talking until she had made the turn at the corner and was headed toward her aunt’s house. “I’ll be off shortly. I want to find Knott and bring him up to date on events.”
Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery Page 38
