by R. R. Irvine
Traveler knew better than to answer a question of theology.
Norma closed her eyes. “It seems a long time to pay for a mistake.”
After a pause Traveler said, “Do you know anything about Karl Falke?”
Her eyes opened but looked unfocused. “The war years were the best I ever had. Before then, the best I could do was a part-time job. Do you know what they paid back then? Twenty-five cents an hour. Utah had thirty-six percent unemployment at the time. It was old Governor Herbert Maw who did something about it. He fought to get war plants built here. One of those was the Ogden Arsenal, where I got my job. The men were away at war, so they needed us women. They started us at seventy cents an hour, and we worked forty-eight hours a week. After the war was over, they fired us, saying it wasn’t ladylike to work. After what we’d gone through, too, working on guns and tanks salvaged from the battlefields, cleaning off the blood, skin, and hair.”
She took a folded piece of yellowing paper from the pocket of her apron. “I dug this out of one of my scrapbooks after I met you yesterday, Mr. Traveler. It’s from the church’s Relief Society Magazine dated 1944. Women had no business working, they said. We should stay home where we belong and have babies. Listen to this part. ‘Have the eyes of some in this day been so full of greediness that mothers have put in jeopardy the very souls of their children?’ ”
Her breath leaked away in a sigh. “Otto never let me work after we were married. He kept me pregnant and said God wanted it that way.”
“Has your husband ever mentioned a man named Falke?” Traveler asked gently.
“You think I’m a backslider, don’t you? You think I’ve fallen away from my faith. But I don’t care. It was wonderful back then, having my own job and my own money. Once, I got my picture in the Tribune standing on one of those salvaged tanks. ‘One of Utah’s Rosie the Riveters,’ the captain said. I sent a copy to my fiancé in the Philippines, but I don’t know if he ever got it. His name was Orin Hale. He was listed as missing in action not long after.”
She sighed deeply. “I kept in touch with Orin’s parents until they passed away, even after I was married to someone else. The Hales were never satisfied, you know, despite the War Department declaring their son officially dead. Maybe they should have hired a detective like you.”
Carefully, Norma refolded the paper and returned it to her apron pocket. “Listen to me, going on like this. You’d think I never got the chance to talk to anyone.”
Traveler started to nod agreement, then caught himself.
“I met my husband when my brother was an officer at the POW camp in Cowdery Junction. Like all of the prisoners, Otto was starved for feminine company, not that anything went on between us, not then. That wasn’t allowed. We talked, that’s all, more and more as his English got better. He was a very handsome man in those days.”
She smiled. “We women weren’t supposed to fraternize, of course, especially in the camp area. It went on just the same, more so in Cowdery because it was such a small town. It was nice there until the shooting in Salina. After that everything changed.”
She left the sofa to retrieve a needlepoint hoop and yarn from on top of the television set. As soon as she was seated again, she took up her needle and went to work, keeping her head down as she spoke. “My mother taught me needlepoint and crocheting, though Otto won’t have it at home. He says it clutters the house.”
“My mother was a great one for doilies,” Traveler said.
Norma nodded without looking up. “After that last harvest in Cowdery, Otto was never the same. Of course, everyone connected with the place had been ordered not to talk about what happened. It would hurt the war effort, we civilians were told, though I could never see why since the war in Europe was already over.”
She paused to thread a second needle with a different color yarn. “When Otto came back to this country and started courting me, we went for a drive and ended up in Cowdery Junction. He said he wanted to see the countryside again. We parked near the old campsite and were petting hot and heavy when he told me the prisoners’ side of the story. They thought the camp guards had murdered their comrades. Some of the hard-core Nazis were even planning revenge, he said, though they never got the chance.”
She pricked her finger and sucked it for a moment. “You probably think I’m senile, but I haven’t forgotten about the man you’re looking for. I probably knew him to look at but not personally, not by name.”
Traveler started to get up.
“There’s more, young man. My husband got a letter from Germany, from a woman named Falke. It was a long time ago, but I remember it because of Otto’s reaction. He was terribly angry. ‘The war is over,’ he said. ‘People should forget about it.’ ”
“What was in the letter?” he asked.
“It was in German, so I only know what he told me. The woman was looking for her husband, who never came home after the war. She wrote to us because of a letter she’d gotten years before from her husband, saying that Otto was his closest friend in the Cowdery camp.”
“That’s not what your husband told me.”
“Otto said the woman was wrong, that her husband must have meant someone else. That’s why he threw the letter away without answering it. That fact is, I’m surprised my husband talked to you at all. Like I told you, he thinks those days are best forgotten.”
“The man I’m looking for went missing right after those six prisoners died in Cowdery Junction,” Traveler said.
She looked up from her needlework. “I’m sorry. I don’t know anything else.”
“Is there anyone in Cowdery Junction I could talk to?”
“The camp’s not there anymore. It was gone by the time we took our drive back in 1949.”
She left the sofa to replace her needlepoint on top of the television set. “There was a park where it had stood. There were even picnic tables. I remember thinking at the time that there should have been a monument of some kind. Instead, I got the feeling that someone had tried to erase all memory of what had taken place there.”
“I’d like to speak with your husband again.” Traveler got to his feet. “Do you know his schedule after he leaves the plant?”
“If I were a detective, I’d catch him at the Alta Club at one o’clock. He’s meeting his lawyer and a couple of investors.”
Norma’s broad smile made Traveler wish he’d known her as a young woman.
“Thank you, Mrs. Klebe.”
“I’d get there early if I were you. Otto has that German compulsion. ‘Punctuality is next to Godliness,’ he likes to say. That means he’ll be there with fifteen minutes to spare.”
Traveler had gotten as far as the door when she said, “I wouldn’t have married him, you know. Not if my Orin had come back from the Philippines.”
16
LUNCHTIME AT the Alta Club was still two hours away when Traveler left Bacchus and headed for Salt Lake. From where he was, the west bench of the Oquirrh Mountains, he could see the Wasatch Mountains to the east. Brigham Young’s wagon train had crossed those ten-thousand-foot peaks in 1847 to escape the Illinois Masons and politicians who’d murdered the first Mormon prophet, Joseph Smith.
Once hunkered down behind the Wasatch, Brigham Young laid out his City of Zion according to God’s master plan, with the temple at the center. He decreed that every aspect of Mormon life would radiate out from that hub, a holy progression all the way to the city limits. These days, however, Brigham’s vision ended at those boundaries, where the secular chaos of the postwar building boom had taken over. Greater Salt Lake, it was called now, with over a million people and everything that went with them.
By the time Traveler reached the temple intersection at the head of Main Street, hail was falling. For a moment, he was tempted to circle the block and take shelter in the Chester Building. But the Tribune was only a block and a half away. If the newspaper’s computers were on-line, he had more than enough time to research the official version of what happene
d in Cowdery Junction.
He ended up parking two blocks away and making a run for it. He was soaked by the time he reached the Tribune Building. The newspaper—originally founded by excommunicated Mormons to battle the church-owned Deseret News—had lost some of its teeth over the years but could still bite when provoked. The man with the sharpest incisors was Cody Peterson, a political reporter who’d gone to high school with Traveler and Willis Tanner. Peterson was a short, round man who indulged in Brooks Brothers suits because he claimed they were the best at hiding his pear-shaped body. He smelled of tobacco though he didn’t smoke, a condition he achieved by filling his coat pockets with loose cigars. It was his way of thumbing his nose at the church’s Word of Wisdom without endangering his health.
At Traveler’s approach, Peterson pulled off his glasses and cleared his desk to arm-wrestle, a ritual he insisted on. He rolled up his right sleeve as far as it would go without removing his coat, then called over a couple of female colleagues to witness the spectacle. Both women looked young enough to be students.
“He wasn’t trying,” one of them said as soon as Traveler lost.
“It’s fixed,” the other added.
“It’s a matter of leverage and muscle length,” Peterson told them. “Pound for pound short guys have more power.” He leered. “In everything.”
“I suppose that’s what you call male bonding,” the first one said.
Both women walked away without looking back.
Peterson shook his head. “Pretty soon there won’t be any men left in this business. Tell me what you want before affirmative action gets me thrown out on my ass.”
“German prisoners,” Traveler said. “Specifically those held in Salina and Cowdery Junction during World War Two. One of them disappeared and I’ve been hired to find him.”
Peterson whistled. “If you come up with the guy, I want him for my column.”
“Six prisoners died just before my man disappeared. Their deaths may have been hushed up.”
Peterson led the way to a computer terminal that accessed back issues. He attacked the keys as if he were pounding an old Royal typewriter. Salina popped up under the heading of German Prisoners. The machine-gunning there had made national news. The only mention of Cowdery Junction involved POWs volunteering to help with the sugar beet harvest. The headline read, GERMAN PRISONERS HAPPY TO HELP U.S. WAR EFFORT.
“The computer has only so much storage space,” Peterson said. “When you get back that far, more than forty-five years, only the front pages of the first and second sections have been posted. We could go through back issues by hand if we have to, but it would be a bitch.”
“You’d think six deaths would have made the front page,” Traveler said.
Peterson tapped a computer key absentmindedly. “There was a war on, don’t forget.”
“It was over in Europe by the time he went missing.”
“Still, six more dead Germans might not have made much fuss. Most likely they censored it like everything else during wartime. What do you say about the back issues? Do we schlep through them or not?”
“If I get desperate, I’ll be back.”
“Don’t forget, Moroni. Either way, I expect to hear from you. My column has to be fed once a day.”
******
Outside, the hail had turned to a cold, steady rain. A copy of the Tribune kept Traveler dry for a block and a half before disintegrating. After that, he took refuge in Sam Weller’s bookstore, where Sam himself donated a plastic shopping bag as a makeshift umbrella.
Traveler was only mildly damp by the time he reached the Chester Building, where Mad Bill and Charlie were picketing out front. Bill’s sandwich board, bleeding ink from every letter, read, END RELIGIOUS PERSECUTION. Charlie’s hand-held picket sign said, END THE INDIAN WARS.
Rain had plastered their hair against their scalps. Bill’s beard hung in strands like wilted dreadlocks.
Traveler herded the pair into the lobby where Barney Chester was waiting. It took the three of them—Traveler, Chester, and Charlie—to separate Bill and his soggy prophet’s robe from the sandwich boards.
He spoke the moment he was free. “I won’t be intimidated, Moroni.”
“Bill’s been to the dentist,” Chester said. “He says you made him do it.”
“I should have kept the pain,” Bill added. “It was my way of being tested.”
“He had his tooth out,” Chester said.
“Did you finally go to Doc Ellsworth after all?” Traveler asked.
Bill folded his arms and pursed his lips. Charlie did the same.
Traveler shook his head and started for the elevator. When he saw Nephi Bates pointing at him with The Book of Mormon, Traveler veered into the stairwell. He was breathing heavily when he reached his office.
“I just got off the phone with Lael,” Martin said as soon as Traveler opened the door.
Traveler sank into his own client’s chair.
“She talked to that Breen woman on the Coast again,” Martin added. “We’ve got another chance to find the boy.”
“Where now?”
“Since Milford didn’t work, Miz Breen now says she must have misunderstood Claire. She now thinks it was Milburn down in Sanpete County where the boy was adopted.”
“That sounds like a maybe,” Traveler said.
“Could be he’s the only grandson I’m ever going to get.”
“Do you believe Lael?”
“We can’t afford not to,” Martin said. “Besides, what would it hurt to check out Milburn?”
“I’ve got work to do in Cowdery Junction.”
“Come over here.” Martin tapped the glass on his desk that covered a Utah map. As soon as Traveler was looking over his shoulder, Martin ran a finger down the center of the state, following 1-15 to Spanish Fork. There, his finger de-toured onto Highway 89 until it reached Milburn. “It’s practically on the way.”
“Does that mean you’re coming with me?” Traveler asked.
“I’d better, since you still have a few things to learn.”
Traveler grunted. “I don’t suppose you’d have a necktie handy?”
“I taught you better than that. A detective has to be ready for all occasions.” Martin opened a desk drawer and removed a clip-on paisley. “Where are we going?”
Traveler retrieved a conventional striped tie from his own desk and began struggling with a Windsor knot. “We’re lunching at the Alta Club.”
Martin tucked his tie into place. “You must have missed part of my lesson. It’s harder to strangle someone wearing a clip-on.”
Traveler ran a finger around the inside of his collar. “Then it’s a good thing I’m taking you along as protection.”
17
THE ALTA Club, originally founded as a Gentile men’s club excluding Mormons, stood one block east of the temple and catercorner from Beehive House, once Brigham Young’s official residence. The club’s membership had been integrated years ago, though Mormons were still said to be in the minority.
Traveler and Martin got past the doorman by saying they were lunching with Otto Klebe. Inside, walnut paneling and gold-framed oil portraits glowed in soft light from converted gas chandeliers and wall sconces. Oriental carpets muffled their footfalls as they headed for a waiting room filled with hand-carved desks, wingbacked chairs, and love seats. Traveler and his father sank into side-by-side Chippendales where they could watch the foyer.
“They say the food here is superb,” Martin said quietly.
“I don’t think we’ll get the chance to eat,” Traveler whispered back.
“Your mother always wanted me to join a place like this. Private clubs have bars, I used to tell her. That’s one of the reasons they exist, to get around Utah’s liquor laws. You know what she said to that?”
Traveler shook his head as was expected of him.
“ ‘Drinking wouldn’t be a sin if you did it in a place like that.’ Kary’s words exactly. Your mother could accommodate
just about anything if it suited her purpose. Do you remember when the colleges were recruiting you out of high school? Your mother and I weren’t living together at the time, but she came to me all excited when Notre Dame showed interest. She’d seen that Knute Rockne movie. I told her you couldn’t play there unless you joined the Catholic Church. What do you think she said to that?”
Traveler resisted the temptation to answer.
“She got that shrewd look of hers, you know the one, and said, ‘A little religious instruction would be good for my Moroni.’ ‘He’d have to go to chapel every day,’ I told her. ‘It does a man good to get down on his knees,’ she answered.”
Martin rubbed the knees of his corduroy trousers and grinned. “Do you know what she said when nothing came of Notre Dame?”
Before Traveler could respond, Otto Klebe entered the vestibule and began shedding his trench coat. Underneath, he wore a dark blue three-piece suit.
Traveler and Martin, walking side by side, moved to block his way.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“There are some things we have to talk about,” Traveler said.
“I’m meeting someone for lunch.”
“We haven’t eaten yet,” Martin said.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It’s best to keep your voice down in the Alta Club,” Martin said. “God knows what they’d do if we made a ruckus and started yelling.”
Klebe clenched his teeth.
Martin continued. “The way I hear it, most of the members here are old-time families. They don’t take in newcomers like yourself.”
“I could buy and sell most of them.”
“You’re not a member, then?”
“I’ll give you ten minutes. We can talk in the bar.”
To get served, Klebe had to admit to the bartender that he was there as a guest of his lawyer. Traveler recognized the attorney’s name, a senior partner in a third-generation Gentile firm.
“He’s putting me up for membership when the time’s right,” Klebe said when their drinks had arrived. “Lucky for you two they still blackball here. Otherwise, I’d have thrown you out myself.”
