Face of the Enemy

by Beverle Graves Myers

  Louise didn’t think she’d ever met anyone from Lithuania before. She didn’t even know where it was. “Were you born here, Mr. Pritzker?”

  “Just barely.” He laughed again. “When they got off the boat, Ma was big-as-a-house pregnant with me. She says she squeezed her legs together until they reached Manhattan—just to make sure I’d be born an American.” He cuffed her shoulder. “But say, can the Mr. Pritzker stuff. Okay? I’m Abe, just Abe.”

  Louise winced from both the cold and his playful blow, but managed to raise a smile anyway. Abe was different, for sure—so blunt, so outspoken. So in need of a barber’s shears. But if Abe Pritzker could do something for Mrs. Oakley when everyone else had refused to even try, she’d just have to get used to his brash ways. “Okay,” she replied. “Abe.”

  “So, where is your family from, Louise?”

  “Oh, we’re just Americans. I’ve heard my grandmother mention England. Scotland, too. But that would have been a good two hundred years ago. Maybe more.”

  Abe held her gaze as if he expected further revelations. His big frame blocked the worst of the wind, making her feel small and protected, but not loosening her tongue. Finally he said, “So, not Jewish, then. Didn’t think so. Too bad.” He winked. “Well, maybe someday you’ll tell me what brings a Southern beauty north to nurse cantankerous New Yorkers.” He finished on a wide smile that caused Louise’s heart to give an unanticipated thud.

  She felt a flush climb her neck. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. After Pres’ defection she’d sworn off men, at least until she had a steady job and more security. Until a time when her life wouldn’t feel so…out of control. Even then, Abe Pritzker would hardly be the kind of man she’d want to…keep company…with. No, not at all. Her breath was smoother now. She cleared her throat. “We’re almost across. Perhaps you could tell me what you plan to do for Mrs. Oakley.”

  “All right.” He sank back, hands dangling between his legs. If he was miffed, he didn’t show it. “This won’t be an easy case. The notes you made for me will be a help, but I saw that piece in this morning’s Times…”

  Louise twisted her fingers inside her hat. A scurrilous piece, thanks to her conniving little roommate.

  But Abe was continuing, “Taking everything into consideration, Masako Fumi Oakley has at least three strikes against her. Number one—she’s a civilian enemy national, the daughter, actually, of a minister in Tojo’s government. Over the past several years, Hisashi Fumi has been a strident voice for Japan’s mauling of Chinese territory.”

  “But Masako’s husband is a respected professor at a prominent university,” Louise burst out. “Shouldn’t that count for something?”

  “He’s a professor who’s lived in Japan.” Abe gave her a straight, serious look.

  “As a boy, yes. His parents were missionaries.”

  “And as an adult he’s traveled frequently in the region and devotes the bulk of his scholarly work to Japanese history. Before Hitler turned Europe upside down and Japan jumped on der Fuhrer’s coattails, Dr. Oakley was pursuing plans to set up an independent Institute for Asian Studies, drawing experts from around the world.”

  Louise scraped a strand of wind-blown hair from her mouth. That hadn’t been in the notes she’d transcribed—and then rewritten. “How did you find that out so quickly?”

  Abe shrugged. “I have cadre of eager student volunteers who love poking their noses into injustice. They’re great little researchers.”

  “Students like Alicia Rosen?”

  He nodded with gusto. “Miss Rosen is one of the best.” Then after a lop-sided smile, he added half under his breath, “I’ll have to be sure to thank her for bringing Louise Hunter to my attention.”

  Louise was glad to feel the ferry bump the deck. Or was that little thump her heart again? Why did she always have to be so susceptible to unsuitable men?

  She and the attorney lined up to disembark with a few other bundled-up stalwarts. “What about the other two strikes against Mrs. Oakley?”

  “Oh, number two is her artwork adorned with Japanese calligraphy.”

  Louise opened her mouth to protest, but Abe held up a finger. “Try to see this from the FBI’s viewpoint. The calligraphy could contain sensitive information. Perhaps, along with the abstract shapes in the artwork and maybe even the choice and arrangement of the colors, it could contain coded material.”

  “That’s nonsense!”

  “I think so, too.” He raised bushy eyebrows. “But Special Agent Bagwell has ordered all the paintings that were shown at the Shelton Gallery taken away for thorough study. He also thinks it’s possible the text could be propaganda aimed at encouraging enemy aliens living in America.”

  “Oh, come on,” Louise responded in a withering tone.

  A seaman unhooked a chain, and everyone in line shuffled forward. Bumped by an angry looking man in a long overcoat, Louise caught her toe on the gangplank and lost her footing. Abe reacted quickly, clasping her around the waist and setting her back on balance. Through her embarrassment, her nostrils picked up the subtle sweetness of cherry tobacco. Ah, Abe was a pipe smoker, like her father.

  She murmured her thanks, then continued, “I just don’t see how Mrs. Oakley’s paintings could do a spy or concealed partisans any good.”

  “It really doesn’t matter if her paintings actually help the enemy or not. It’s her intent that matters. One man’s paean to the beauties of the countryside is another man’s propaganda. See?”

  “Yes,” Louise agreed with a sinking heart. She recalled Agent Bagwell’s suspicions based on a perfectly innocent vase of chrysanthemums. How much more could he make of Masako’s enigmatic art work?

  “Strike three,” Abe said, striding along with a grave look, “is the murder of Shelton, the gallery owner.”

  She turned to look into the attorney’s deep-set brown eyes. “But, Abe, she didn’t—”

  He interrupted with a hand on her shoulder. “So you told me on the phone. And again in my office. And again in the car on the way down to the Battery. And I’m willing to accept your assessment of her character unless I learn otherwise, but you’ll never persuade Agent Bagwell. He’s decided that the Japanese are an inherently greedy, evil, underhanded race, and nothing’s going to change his mind. Unfortunately, recent events haven’t proven him wrong.”

  “Has he questioned Mrs. Oakley about the murder?”

  “I doubt it. I got the impression it would suit Bagwell’s purposes to leave the accusation hanging until after she’s had to face the Enemy Alien Board. That taint of suspicion could tip the scale toward the government’s side. If the cops fingered somebody else for that murder, it would sure pull the rug out from under Bagwell.”

  “Then we’ll just have to make sure they find the real killer,” Louise said with a sharp nod.

  Abe heaved a deep sigh.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Lieutenant McKenna was in his office writing reports for the Captain. Or, rather, with a leaky fountain pen, he was scrawling notes that Doris would type up into a meticulous, grammatical, beautifully spelled report to send to Captain Dwyer’s secretary. Bernice would make certain the Captain read it and acted on it, and then would file it somewhere at the tip of her fingers where she could find it instantly upon request. McKenna knew that nothing at Headquarters would ever get done if it weren’t for the secretaries. He had a sneaking suspicion that a good percentage of those girls were smarter than he was. Doris, for sure.

  Not that he’d ever let her know it—or anyone else, either.

  But Doris had gone home early, and darkness was gathering at winter speed when his phone rang. He picked up the bulky black receiver. “Yeah? McKenna here.”

  It was Doris’ counterpart from the Feds. Agent Bagwell had authorized a permit for Lieutenant Michael McKenna to interview Masako
Oakley at the Immigration Detention Center on Ellis Island. She’d appreciate it if he would come pick it up at Foley Square before the FBI office closed at five.

  McKenna slammed the receiver down and glanced at the wall clock. Holy shit! 4:48!

  He grabbed his hat and took off, cursing the federal pencil pushers every limping step of the way.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  “Fifteen minutes,” said a broad-shouldered, deep-voiced matron. “No physical contact. No passing of material without prior permission.” Her thin lips fired the regulations with crisp precision.

  The matron’s rubber-soled shoes squeaked as she ushered Louise and Abe into a large, high-ceilinged room with a wooden counter running across it; a foot-high barrier on that counter separated internees from visitors. Abe Pritzker pulled out one of the chairs for Louise, then sat next to her.

  They waited. And waited. An odor of boiled cabbage began to permeate the air. Louise wrinkled her nose. From the corner of her eye, she caught a streak of movement in the corner of the vast room. She clutched the attorney’s arm. “Was that a rat?”

  He didn’t bother to look. “Probably.”

  Then an armed guard materialized and took a wide-legged stance behind them.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Abe whispered out of the side of his mouth.

  Through a far door, the matron led Masako Oakley into the room.

  Louise gasped—the Japanese woman was so pale. She wore the same gray trousers and blue sweater she’d left the apartment in two days earlier. Her hair was dull and scraped back in a ponytail. Slumping onto her chair, she seemed to take no notice of her visitors. She merely bowed her head and directed her gaze downward.

  “Mrs. Oakley?” Louise said.

  Masako started, and her eyes suddenly came to life, gleaming black.

  “Nurse Louise.” Her hands fluttered. She drew herself up, ignoring Abe Pritzker. “Oh, no! My Robert. He is dead?”

  “No, no.” Damn these people! Even if some detainees did present a danger, they at least deserved news of their families. Even a convicted murderer was entitled to that small comfort. “Professor Oakley is holding his own. Please don’t worry. He has round-the-clock care, and Dr. Wright stops by twice a day.”

  “It’s true?”

  Louise nodded. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  “Thank god for that,” Masako whispered. She hung her head again and covered her face with her hands. Her thin shoulders began to shudder.

  Louise continued, the words rolling out, “He’ll be better once he knows you’re all right. You’re not ill, are you? Are you eating? Sleeping? How are they treating you?”

  The Japanese woman went very still. “They ask me questions, over and over. I do not have…answers that please them.”

  Abe leaned forward, focusing on Masako as if she were the most important client he would ever have. “Mrs. Oakley, I’m Abe Pritzker, an attorney here to help you at your husband’s request. Do you understand?”

  She furrowed her brow. “Can you arrange my release? I must get back to Robert.”

  “I hope so, eventually. But it may take some time.” An apologetic shrug seemed to be an effective part of his physical vocabulary. “I’ll be brief. The government has set up Hearing Boards consisting of prominent citizens. These boards will try the cases of aliens who’ve come under suspicion. That’s you. However, they haven’t announced when the hearings will begin, we don’t know what the charges will be, and you’re not allowed the presence of an attorney when you face them.”

  Masako went even paler. Louise wanted to take her hand over the partition, but was stopped by the guard’s gimlet gaze.

  Abe continued, “Your own testimony will be crucial in overriding the FBI’s accusations. You will need to convince them you’re no threat to America. All I’m allowed to do is assemble supporting documents for your file. Is there anyone besides your husband who could vouch for your loyalty?”

  “Surely this Board would respect the word of Robert’s colleagues—Lawrence Smoot and Lillian Bridges. And of George Wright, our family doctor.” Her voice cracked as Abe noted the names in slanted printing. “Agent Bagwell thinks I’m a spy—”

  “Okay, I have to ask”—Abe drummed impatient fingers on the countertop—“in the papers they took away from your apartment, the FBI won’t find anything to support that theory, will they? Personal letters to or from Japan? Japanese newspapers or magazines you’ve subscribed to? Memberships in Japanese organizations?”

  Her eyes grew round. “Nothing. I was three years old when I left Japan. And I—” She frowned. “The government men took things from the apartment?”

  Abe nodded. “Quite a few things. Books, photos, maps.”

  “Those are Robert’s. He must be furious.” Masako threw Louise a despairing look.

  “His concern for you overshadows everything else,” the nurse answered. “That’s why you must answer Mr. Pritzker’s questions. So we can get you home.”

  But Masako had something else on her mind. Her hands fluttered to her face—dry leaves stirring in a breeze. “They didn’t touch my paintings, did they?”

  Abe loosened his tie and sighed audibly. His hair, uncombed after the windy crossing, hung ragged around his bony face. “Your paintings…” Abe stared at her for a few seconds, then said flatly, “The G-men took your paintings away. They think the captions might be an attempt to communicate with Japanese nationals.”

  “Yes. I’ve tried to explain that the texts are short poems inspired by the themes of the paintings.”

  “Give me a for instance.”

  Masako shut her eyes, sighed helplessly. “I can’t think.”

  “Try. If the poems are absolutely innocuous, translations might convince the board that they have no propaganda or security value.”

  Masako didn’t answer. She looked like a drowning woman.

  Scarcely knowing where the words came from, Louise blurted out, “Cling new bird against cold wind. Old branches blossom. Cherry! Pink, then green.”

  A smile altered Masako’s expression. “That’s from the painting in our living room. I didn’t realize you’d paid such close attention.”

  “It’s beautiful. I was trying to understand,” Louise replied, feeling she’d thrown the Japanese woman a lifeline.

  As Masako nodded deeply, Abe raised his eyebrows at Louise. “You read Japanese?”

  Masako answered instead, “That particular series of paintings included English translations, but the works Arthur chose to display were from a later series in my studio embellished with Shodo only. Please”—her folded hands hit the counter with a dull thud—“tell me my studio is not invaded. My paintings—they are as precious to me as children.” She tapped the place over her heart.

  “Studio?”

  “Yes. On Bleecker Street.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of a studio. Bagwell didn’t mention it.” Abe crossed one long leg over the other, lassoed his knee with his arms. “But then, like every other government facility, Foley Square has been in chaos…Hmm. It’s possible they’ve overlooked it.”

  Masako glanced over at the guard, then lowered her voice. “Please. Someone must secure my paintings right away.” Her eyes brimming with tears, she turned toward Louise.

  So did Abe. He said, “If we can get that poetry translated, it would help a great deal.”

  Louise dithered. “I…Well…” Yes, she was working as Professor Oakley’s assistant now, but she didn’t know anything about how to transport art work.

  “I can help. I’ll hire a van,” Abe encouraged.

  “Robert will give you the key,” Masako whispered.

  “But what would I do with the paintings? I can’t take them back to the apartment. They wouldn’t be safe there.”

  M
asako thought for a moment. “Have you met our friend, Lillian Bridges? She has plenty of room, and the authorities would never bother her—her ancestors came to America three centuries ago.”

  As if from a far distance Louise heard her voice agreeing. “Yes…all right…I know Professor Bridges wants to help. If your paintings are still at Bleecker Street, I’ll see that she gets them safely.”

  “Bless you.” Masako’s face lit up for an instant, then darkened as she stared past Louise and the lawyer. “Who is that? Does he come for me?”

  Louise and Abe turned at the same time. A man in a well-worn, dark overcoat was striding across the waiting room. His gait rolled like that of an old ship’s captain, and his unbuttoned coat flapped with each step.

  “A black crow.” Masako’s words were thick and slow. “Another carrion bird come to pick my bones.” She ducked her forehead to her hands.

  The guard hurried to intercept the newcomer, who paused to show his badge and identification card.

  “Oh, no.” Louise gripped the attorney’s arm.

  “You know that man?” His eyes were mere slits.

  “He’s Lieutenant Michael McKenna,” she whispered. “He came to the Oakleys’ apartment on Monday.”

  “McKenna? Homicide, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Oakley, say nothing—” Abe whirled toward Masako, but the Japanese woman wasn’t there. Head down, shoulders slumped, she was gliding back the way the matron had brought her.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Cabby looked across the bedroom to where her carefully arranged tweed coat hung on the coat rack. Beneath the coat was her handbag, and in the bag was the large envelope containing Louise’s notes on the Oakley arrest. She watched as Louise fell into bed without even cold-creaming her face.