He showed her his badge. Glynn. It looked official, not that she knew for sure.
“But you’re still not with the British police,” she said. “You can’t be in here.”
“I think you’ll find I can,” he said. “You ignored a subpoena. That doesn’t exactly make you look like a desirable resident here, does it?”
Did it? She had no idea. She needed to talk to Hannah. A lawyer. Nigel Elliott.
“I’m allowed a lawyer,” she said. “I still have rights.”
“Sure, honey. I’ll let you make a phone call when we get there.”
She didn’t even ask, “Get where?” She just shook her head. She wasn’t going anywhere with this man. He seemed to sense the impasse because he shifted his stance enough that she could see the bulge of a pistol.
Good grief. I’m stuck inside one of my own crime scripts.
“Why me?” she demanded. “I’ve gotta be the smallest of small potatoes. Why come over here and make such a big deal of tracking me?”
“Glynn always gets the goods,” he told her. “You didn’t think I was the type to let any of my targets get away, did you? And anyway, don’t sell yourself too short. Apparently your episodes for that cruddy little crime show you were working for were the most popular, didn’t you know that?”
She didn’t, but was hardly going to admit that. “Sure,” she said casually. “I was the best writer in the bunch.”
“And yet you got paid fifty bucks less a script than the men.”
“What?” Phoebe couldn’t contain her outrage. How had she not known? And here she always thought Hank was her friend, her mentor, her scrupulously fair boss. Then again, this man could be lying. She decided to hope that was the case.
“Crummy business, television,” Glynn said. “Movies too. No place for decent people to work, that’s for sure.”
“No,” Phoebe agreed. “Good entertainment needs some indecency.”
“Cute. Now, pack a bag, sweetheart,” he ordered. “I’m taking you home.”
“No,” she said. “I’m entitled to a lawyer. And if this warrant was real, you’d be with British police,” she improvised.
“Oh, honey, really!” Glynn laughed. “Do you think the cops here have any love for Commies? Ever heard of a fellow called Philby?”
“No, but the Communist Party is perfectly legal here,” she said.
“Sure, sure, and if I tell a cop you ducked a subpoena and were suspected of treason, how much love do you think they’ll have for you? Think about it.”
She thought. Maybe this was the FBI’s greatest success. As innocent as Phoebe, as all of them, might be of the crimes for which they were accused, there was something about the way they were treated that almost made them feel as though they deserved it.
“I’ll give you five minutes,” he said. “Start packing.”
“No. I’m allowed to talk to a lawyer. I have rights.”
“You resisting arrest, sweetheart? Do I have to start searching this dump for more evidence?”
“Evidence of what? What are you—?”
He took the photo of Mona in the Groucho costume, and ripped it in half.
“Some Reds can hide stuff in photos. Lucky you, you’re not one of them.”
He might as well have ripped Phoebe in half. She launched herself on him with a howl of rage, punching and kicking. He made a swift move and suddenly she was pinned to the ground, pain shooting up her arms. He pressed a knee into her chest to keep her down, tore the watch from her wrist, and smashed it on the floorboards. Tiny shards flew everywhere. Some pierced Phoebe’s cheek. He made a show of examining the watch’s interior.
“Nothing hidden in there either. So far, so good. You’re looking mostly clean, sweetheart. If you can play ball, you might get treated like a friendly witness.”
She wanted to say, “I’d rather be treated like a Salem witch.” But she knew if she opened her mouth she’d spit at him, and that would only bring more pain.
“Miss! What the devil, miss?” Freddie, a guardian angel in short pants and a school cap, was at the door, holding an envelope.
“Hey there, sonny,” Glynn greeted him. “Miss Adler’s had some trouble but she’s all right now. Aren’t you, sweetheart?” he asked Phoebe.
“You’re hurt, miss!” Freddie cried, hurrying to her. “Can I help?”
“There’s a good boy, you help Miss Adler wash her face,” Glynn instructed.
Phoebe swelled with hope. Glynn must not know the power of Freddie if he was granting them a few minutes alone. She pretended to be more hurt than she was, leaning on the boy and limping into the bedroom for the washstand. As soon as she was sure they were out of sight, she held a finger to her lips, then seized a pen and paper and scribbled furiously. Freddie refused to take any payment. He knew very well he was being charged with the most important mission of his life.
* * *
• • •
Hannah hung up and promptly dialed Nigel Elliott’s number. She’d said nothing to Sidney, but he’d heard enough on her end to look appalled.
Nigel was in, luckily, and she liked him all the more for being just as appalled as Sidney.
“If the man gets her to the American embassy, we’re sunk,” Nigel fretted. “She’s on US soil then, and in their custody, no matter if it’s a ruse and done illegally. I’ll make a call. Instruct her to stall as long as possible.”
“I can’t, she doesn’t have a phone!” Hannah cried.
“Oh dear. Then I advise you to have someone go round to her flat and attempt to intervene.”
Hannah slammed down the phone and grabbed her hat.
“You can’t!” Sidney cried. “We’ve got a meeting with ITV in half an hour!”
“I’ve got to,” Hannah insisted. “She’s my friend and she’s in trouble.” She hurried down the steps, struggling into her coat, Sidney hot behind her.
“Keep the heid!” he shouted. “You’re a single mum now, you’re flat-hunting, you’re under watch yourself and a hair away from who knows what. And you’re ready to drop yourself into Loch Ness with the monster’s mouth wide open?”
They were outside. Cabs zoomed by, but Hannah didn’t raise her hand. Sidney was right. Horribly, miserably right. It was a risk she couldn’t take.
“Shirley,” she said, bounding back to the office two steps at a time.
“That’s more like,” Sidney said approvingly, between pants. “If your fella’s like some, the mere fact of a black woman in his presence will tip him off balance. Americans are odd ones.”
Beryl was reading, not bothering to look up either when Hannah and Sidney ran out, or now as they came back in. Hannah made the call and, breathless though she was, relayed enough so that Shirley assured her she was out the door. Hannah slumped in her chair with her head in her hands. Sidney slid over a tin of Walkers.
“It could be a bit of luck for the program, anyway,” he said sorrowfully. “We say we had no idea Phoebe submitted that script. We kick off a wee bit of fuss about her deception, declare all the other writers clean and cleared, and then they’re all safe. And the show is safe too.”
“But Phoebe isn’t,” Hannah said irritably, knowing and hating that Sidney was right. They could say Phoebe had used a front. Her friendship with Joan would lend credence to the story, implying that Phoebe was whom Charlie had meant but been reluctant to name directly out of respect for his wife. CBS would pounce on this easy solution, make a lot of noise about how swiftly the problem was handled and that the episode in question was being removed, when in fact all anyone would do was change the title and Phoebe’s nom de plume. It would be over before it began.
“You’ve sent Shirley, she’s more than capable, and if that Elliott fellow is anything like I think, he’s the best hope for Phoebe now,” Sidney said. “You’ve done all what a friend could pos
sibly do. We’d best be leaving for the meeting.”
“Yes, of course,” Hannah answered mechanically. She glanced at her in-tray, which included a note from her solicitor saying the settlement was being processed. She smiled grimly. Money didn’t solve everything, but it solved some things, and she knew one more thing she could do for now to help Phoebe.
* * *
• • •
Phoebe dressed carefully, so as to look the picture of ladylike charm. Her good suit and best shoes, her hair neatly combed. Then she packed a bag. The whole time, her mind was racing, trying to make sense of it all. They’d always said the FBI couldn’t touch them here. Scare them, sure, they could do that if they wanted. Touch them, no. That warrant must be fake. Glynn must be acting outside the law. But she needed a lawyer, or Nigel Elliott, to confirm that. Her heart soared suddenly. If Glynn had broken the law, a deal might be struck! She would agree to say nothing about his actions; the FBI and HUAC would agree to wipe her name clean. She would be Phoebe Adler again.
She just needed someone to come and help her.
Freddie didn’t return upstairs, which was wise, but she wished he could tell her if he’d gotten through to Hannah. She packed as slowly as she could, straining her ears for the sound of a savior coming up the steps.
“I hope you’re nearly done in there, honey,” Glynn called. Phoebe was sorely tempted to answer, “Yes, dear.”
When she couldn’t postpone it anymore, she returned to the living room. Agent Glynn had made coffee and was reading one of her library books.
“Well, don’t you look the picture of domesticity,” Phoebe said.
He grinned. “You’re a funny one, aren’t you? Guess that explains the writing. You’re pretty good, I gotta say.”
“That’s nice to hear, thanks,” she said, thinking what a peculiar conversation this was and wishing she could tell Reg about it. Reg. Had Freddie tried to find him? Not that he could do much, but he would be such a comfort right now. Or between them, they could at least take Glynn down, even with the gun.
“Ready, honey?” he asked.
“That depends,” she said. “Where are we going?”
He gave her a baleful look and glanced meaningfully at the broken watch on the floor and two halves of the photo. “We’re not really going to have this conversation again, are we?” he asked. “Now come on, it’s time to pay the piper.”
“I don’t remember hearing any music,” she muttered. But she snatched the two halves of the photo, stuffed them in her jacket pocket, and tagged after him.
It was only when they got out to Meard Street and she saw the car that her full brain kicked in. Nothing good ever happened when a woman got in a car with an armed man.
“No,” she said in a shaky voice. “No, you have to tell me where we’re going.”
“You’re the criminal here, honey, I don’t have to tell you a damn thing.”
“I’m not a criminal,” she said, feeling close to tears. “I’m not.”
“Someone else’ll have to be the judge of that,” he told her, pressing a hand into the small of her back and shoving her toward the car. She inched along, wondering how far she’d get if she dropped her bag and ran. Would he really shoot her, here, in the fading daylight, in London? He wouldn’t, would he?
They were at the door. A driver stared straight ahead. This had to be a dream, it had to. She hoped she was sleeping next to Reg. Any second, her shakes and whimpers would wake him and he’d whisper, “Phoebe, wake up.”
“Phoebe!” she heard. There. She was about to wake up.
“Get in,” Glynn snarled, his hand pressing into her spine. That was right. A nightmare was at its worst before it ended.
“Phoebe! Don’t get in!”
It must still be a dream, because that mellow, honeyed voice had never sounded shrill. Never sounded terrified. Phoebe turned and saw Shirley running up Meard Street.
“Bitch!” Glynn snapped. He slammed his hand on the back of Phoebe’s neck and pushed her into the car. She kicked hard, but he was more than ready for her—a few well-trained moves had her subdued in seconds, stilled by pain and shock. All she could do was turn and look out the window at Shirley, who was memorizing the registration number. For whatever good that would do. Tears rolled down Phoebe’s cheeks. Still, Hannah had tried. And she would do more. Phoebe had true friends here. They weren’t going to let her go without a fight.
London unspooled out the window. Phoebe thought of Reg and all the places they’d been together. And all the places they planned to go. She thought of Robin Hood and the sort of England he’d fought for. She thought of Hannah, Shirley, Freddie. The other exiles. Even the Other Girls. And Mona. Who was here and then gone only yesterday. How perversely lucky Mona didn’t need to know about any of this. She clung hard to her own powerful innocence and laid a hand on the window, as if she could reach through it and brush her fingers against the city as it rolled by.
She mechanically noticed the car had stopped. Glynn was dragging her out.
“All right, all right, I can walk,” she muttered. “So where the hell am I?”
“Congratulations, sweetheart,” he said. “You’re as good as home.”
Then she saw the sign. They were in the American embassy. Which was technically American soil. She was officially their legal prisoner.
* * *
• • •
Glynn escorted her down what felt like several corridors. Phoebe wasn’t paying attention. She was thinking frantically, wondering how to get out of this mess. Could she claim she was engaged to a British national? Reg would back that up, if she was allowed to send him a telegram. Perhaps Hannah, with Nigel’s help, could secure the sort of British lawyer to make such a stink about the illegal wiretappings and harassment that it would end up easier to make them all just go away. Perhaps she could start screaming and not stop till they threw her in a loony bin. That didn’t seem like such a bad option. Certainly it wasn’t far off from her current predicament.
There was a lot of chatter, but it was all just background noise as Phoebe attempted to form a plan. There had to be a way out. There just had to.
“Miss Adler?” A pleasant female voice snapped her back to attention. A sleek woman in a pinstriped suit smiled warmly. “I’m Miss Gould. Care for some coffee?” she asked. Phoebe swore she heard a hint of the Lower East Side, recognizing a woman who’d worked her way up and out, probably to Barnard and now the State Department. But not too lacquered to still be friendly to a fellow New York girl.
“No, thanks,” Phoebe said. “But I’d like to make a phone call, if I can?”
“Sure, I can get you set up for that,” Miss Gould agreed. “They just need to check your passport. Do you have it?”
“What do they need to check it for?” Phoebe asked.
“Oh, just your residency here, make sure it’s all on the up-and-up.” Miss Gould gestured lightly, giving Phoebe to understand she found some of the protocol silly. She was still a Lower East Sider at heart, even for all her polish. Mildly comforted, Phoebe handed the woman her passport. “Thanks,” Miss Gould said. “I’ll get this all taken care of. And your phone call. You sure you don’t want coffee?”
Phoebe nodded. Glynn was busy with something or other and directed her to a chair. She sat to keep from pacing. Better not to let anyone know she was agitated. It felt like hours must have passed. She looked at her naked wrist. Horatio Adler had said the watch would last forever if she took good care of it. I’m sorry, Daddy. I tried.
When neither Miss Gould nor Glynn returned, Phoebe started to feel a new sort of anxiety. There seemed to be no one around. No one at all. The screaming plan was starting to look promising again, when at last she heard raised voices. She clenched and unclenched her fists, readying herself for the unknown.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the charming Miss Phoebe Adler,
” Nigel Elliott said, appearing like a ministering angel. Phoebe almost threw herself in his arms as he kissed each of her cheeks and squeezed her hand.
“I can’t tell you how much I was hoping for you,” she said. “I’m so sorry, I think I’m in a heck of a jam.”
He sat her down again, keeping her hands in his. “You are,” he said in a low voice. “It was rather off, the way they got you here, but you’re here and that makes things thorny. Britain has no love for the blacklist, but a few of our own from MI5 seem to have been engaged in actual espionage on behalf of the Soviets. It’s quite a blow. I’m not in a good position to argue for the protection of an American Communist.”
“But I’m not!” Phoebe was outraged. Nigel gave her a stern look.
“Did you tell Agent Glynn you’d submitted a script to Robin Hood under a false name?”
Phoebe bit her lip. “I . . . okay, I did. But that was because I’m on the blacklist. Being on the blacklist doesn’t mean I’m a Communist.” She paused, thinking of Anne and Shirley and Will and even Charlie. “And anyway, being a Communist doesn’t mean I’m a criminal.”
“Being a Communist shouldn’t mean you’re a criminal, no, but too many people have carved out some fine careers believing otherwise. And there’s the matter of that subpoena. I’m afraid right now you’re guilty till proven innocent.” He handed her a cigarette. “It looks as though they’re going to fly you back to DC, today most likely.”
Phoebe reeled. “But they can’t! Why? What if Reg comes down, says we’re engaged?”
“If you were married, perhaps, but you’re not. And the British government won’t make an official complaint about your treatment whilst you’re potentially indeed a matter of some concern.” He looked around and lowered his voice further. “I’m arranging to go with you. Officially, of course, I’m traveling for my own business. Once we’re on the plane, we can discuss strategy. I’m quite sure after I’ve been able to chat to a few chums, I can sort something out for you. I just need time.”
Red Letter Days Page 33
