The Practical Spy

by Doug Walker

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Time passed and life went on, but Mary Warren’s political capital was flagging. It wasn’t so much what she was doing in office, but how it was perceived. In truth the government was humming along despite dissidents in Congress.

  There came a morning when Orson found a note on his desk asking that he report to the Oval Office for coffee.

  “I’ve had coffee,” he told the President after he was seated.

  “You can have another cup.” She buzzed her secretary and asked for a pot of coffee and a couple of croissants, or some sort of breakfast thing. Looking grimly at Orson, she said, “We’re down in the polls.”

  “I’ve heard. But when you say ‘we’ what do you mean? I’m a simple man from Georgetown earning my daily bread, or pretending to.”

  “My political people are shmegegge if you know what that means.”

  “I don’t.” The coffee arrived and the secretary poured them each a cup and beckoned toward a plate of pastries.

  The President pulled a face and suggested the pastries were left over from some former breakfast event, maybe from the week before. The secretary said she could remove them but was told not to bother.

  “A shmegegge is something like a schlimazel or a shmendrick.”

  “I didn’t know you were Jewish.”

  “I’m not.” She bit into a stale pastry and pulled another face. “I’m supposed to be President. Maybe I should fly to Paris for a croissant.”

  “There’s a bagel place around the corner.”

  “You’ve heard of Tony Morgenson?”

  “I think so. Some kind of scandal. Worked in politics.”

  “Damn right he did. Political genius. I need him.”

  “Pick up the phone. Maybe you can’t get breakfast pastries, but you are the President. People jump to your command.”

  “Tony isn’t doing much jumping lately. He’s in Liverpool apparently working in a bar.”

  “Sounds like a come down.”

  “Righto, Guvner. There was a party in Georgetown no less. Ended in a dead prostitute, a junior congressman from Utah who was badly banged up, a committee staffer with a knife wound that required a great many stitches and other parties unknown, except Tony. He was questioned by police, gave no coherent answers, but because of his reputation was OR’d and he grabbed the next flight to Jolly Old where he remains to this day. I need him.”

  “Is he free of sin?”

  “Yes and no. He was released on his own recognizance, which means he was supposed to report back for some sort of judgment, but that seems to be his only sin. Simply a matter of clearing that one up. A small matter, I believe.”

  “Can’t you explain this to him by telephone, or some other modern device?”

  “I’ve tried.”

  “He’s a fighter. A brawler, a Hemingway type. You might have to have it out with him with fisticuffs.”

  Orson laughed. “My reputation precedes me.”

  “By a country mile. Will you go?”

  “Can you assure me so that I can assure him that there are no serious charges against him?”

  “Yes, I’ve gone through all that with the attorney general.”

  “That should do it. When should I depart?”

  “I’ve booked you on a flight to Heathrow tomorrow night. You can take a train to Liverpool from Victoria station.”

  “I am your humble servant.”

  “Let’s get together when you get back.”

  “You can lick my wounds.”

  “I’ll lick more than that.”

  Orson tidied up his ongoing projects and left work early to check in with Cook, the nannies and the ever-growing twins. Also to toss a few things into a carry-on. His was as happy a household as a household might be.

  The bedside telephone jarred him awake just after midnight. It was his dead wife’s former intern, Nora Noto and she had obviously been drinking.

  “I’m the one you’re looking for,” she blurted. “There’s been a man asking questions. I thought I’d better confess.”

  Orson breathed a sigh of relief. The private eye seemed to have paid off. Finally, a break in the case.

  “I’m sorry you’re so upset, Nora. I’m certain whatever you did was quite innocent.”

  “Oh, it was, Sir. It was. It was a Friday night at the Jane Hotel. This handsome young man approached me. We hit it off.”

  “This Jane Hotel. Where might that be?”

  “In the West Village, on Jane Street, near the Lincoln Highway. There’s a club there, the French-Morocco Café. I was there with a girlfriend. I had planned to spend the night at her apartment, then this dream appeared.”

  “Handsome man?”

  “You betcha. I’m almost certain he gave me a fake name, but he was registered at the hotel, had a room and all, Room 324. And the night!”

  She checked a calendar and gave him the date.

  “He extracted information from you?”

  “Yes. He was good. Those rooms are like miniatures. We laid on the floor, made love, talked, drank wine, talked and made love again. Of course when dawn finally broke, he was long gone. That didn’t bother me at the time. You know how those quick hook-ups are. But then I got to thinking about his questions. The two main items. I told him where the house was and that Delilah frequently walked on the beach after coffee, and maybe with a cup of coffee. She meditated. It was her way.”

  “I know, Nora. If you hadn’t told him they would have found out in some other way. So put it out of your mind. I’m guessing your friend is also not the culprit we seek, but certainly involved. Now clear your mind of guilt and forget we’ve talked.”

  “I will, Orson. If you ever want a hook-up…”

  “Goodnight, Nora.” She was no dummy.

  Late as it was, Orson called the private eye’s home number and gave him the story. He asked him to check the Jane Hotel, get the name of the man who checked into room 324 on the night involved.

  In the morning, he called Mary Warren’s secretary and said his England date would have to wait for a day or two. There had been a break in Delilah’s murder case.

  Just after noon the detective called with the name he had sought. Jacob Irons. “I checked into this, Orson. He’s an NRA employee, lives in Washington.” He then gave this Iron’s address. It was in Georgetown, less than four blocks from the Platt townhouse.

  He thanked the detective and asked for a bill. “This may be the break we need.”

  Orson phoned John McBride, the FBI agent who was still on the case. “I think I know who tipped off the murderer to Delilah’s residence and beach walking habits.”

  “Give me the information and we’ll pick him up. It is a man, isn’t it?”

  “NRA employee. But I want the first crack at him.”

  “We don’t need a vigilante, Orson. We’ll handle this as official business.”

  “I do not want to hurt him. I merely want a few minutes to talk to him before you move in. I know where he lives. You and as many agents as you like can go with me early tomorrow morning. But let me go to the door first and ask him a few questions. There will be no violence unless he starts it. I will be unarmed.”

  “You’ve done our work for us. It’s a deal.”

  It must have been a rush of adrenaline. Orson felt alert, he could see things more clearly as if for the first time. There was excitement in his life. He tried to calm himself, but his senses were heightened. He knew the feeling wouldn’t last and that he had to calm down. It was only mid-afternoon. And the reckoning would be early in the morning.

  He did not go directly home after signing out. He drove past Jacob Iron’s townhouse. It was one of those narrow structures. With long arms one could almost stand in the center of the room and touch both walls. There would be a living room, a dining room and a kitchen in shotgun fashion, and an upstairs bedroom.

  Dropping by a well-known steakhouse, he downed a martini, then dug into a porterhouse that weighed the better part of a pound. With
that he had a glass of white wine, then one of red. His nerves settled, he headed for home, spoke to Cook and the nannies, looked in on the twins who were sleeping like angels and took a glass of scotch to his room.

  Generally, he was not excitable, but this night was different. He did sleep until 4 a.m. when the alarm woke him. He made himself coffee and a peanut butter and apricot jam sandwich. The paper was on the front stoop. He read until McBride, accompanied by one agent rolled up at five.

  “This is the life, eh,” he remarked as he climbed into the rear seat and directed them to Iron’s townhouse.

  “So, what’s the plan?” McBride asked.

  “I wake him up. I probably step inside and talk. Then I come out and you go on. Simple enough?”

  McBride laughed. “Orson, you’re a wonder. Just keep your shirt on.”

  “No problem.”

  It took some bell ringing and hammering on the door before a sleepy eyed Jacob Irons stood face to face with Orson. He was a youthful, handsome man. Very likely older than he appeared. Orson asked, “You know me?”

  “Orson Platt. How could I not recognize you?”

  “We have to talk.”

  “Of course. Come by the office. You know where I work?”

  “We need to talk now.”

  Irons looked beyond him to the car at the curb with two men in the front seat. “Are they with you?”

  “My associates. You don’t want to antagonize those two.”

  “Ok. Come on in.”

  Irons dropped into an overstuffed chair after switching on a table lamp. Orson took a seat on a small sofa.

  “You are responsible for my wife’s death,” he began.

  Irons quickly interrupted him. “Not intentionally, if at all. I was asked to locate your wife so we might meet with her and give her our point of view.”

  “The typical NRA way. Out of the barrel of a sniper’s weapon. Why haven’t you come forward?”

  “I was told not to. I talked it over with my boss. He told me not too. He said no one would find out. I told him everything, about the Jane Hotel, about Nora and the information they wanted. They said they merely wanted to talk. I believed them. I still do. They wouldn’t condone cold blooded murder.”

  “Someone did. Using your information. I’m certain you’re aware of that.”

  “I thought it could be true. But my boss said not to talk. I have a good job.”

  “So did Delilah. Do you have guns in the house?”

  “I have a gun, an automatic. It’s almost required. Defend the home.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Not really. It’s not loaded. You want it?”

  Orson shook his head and smiled. “No. I’ve not come to rob you. I’ve come to talk. Those are FBI men outside. They will very likely see that you and perhaps your boss are punished for what you have done. You had better hope they inflict some sort of punishment, not that there is a simple punishment that fits your crime. Hanging would be appropriate. If you get off Scot-free so to speak, I’d suggest you go far away and change your name. I’m a good tracker.”

  “I didn’t mean any harm.”

  “Of course not. You seduced an innocent girl with evil intent, used a fake name, fled before dawn. What harm could have come of that?”

  “She wasn’t all that innocent.”

  “You mean she wasn’t a virgin. True. But she was relatively free of sin. You might say in a state of grace. Now I’ll summon the hounds.” Orson moved to the door and signaled McBride to join the fun.

  When the two agents entered, Orson said, ”Meet Jacob Irons, NRA stalwart. I’m going to trot on home and have breakfast.” Turning to McBride, he said, “If you have any questions, John, I’ll be in my office. I may leave for England later today.”