Louise nodded, straining her ears. She couldn’t hear a thing from the far side of the bed. What was Professor Oakley doing? Had he passed out? Lillian held her gaze. Not so elegant now, Louise thought, with her dress askew, hair falling around her cheeks. And that manic glint in her eye. And…that mannish camel-hair coat thrown across the chair…Suddenly Louise realized it must have been Lillian who’d frightened her that night on the subway platform.
And, at first, she’d actually admired this deranged female!
Must keep her talking. “Masako heard you moving around upstairs the night Arthur Shelton was killed.”
“Did she, now? The little bitch! I stepped onto the top rung of the stairs to see who was visiting the gallery after hours. Her being there was a beautiful stroke of luck. With Masako and that unforgettable Jap face right there on the scene, not only could I make certain Arthur would never open his mouth to Robert, but I could provide a ready-made suspect. I’d already made sure the FBI had her in their sights—”
Lillian licked her lips and moved the gun from hand to hand. There was an animal intensity about her now. “Everyone assumed the FBI was interested in Masako because she was such an important artist—that they’d amassed piles of data—that they considered her Enemy Alien Number One.”
“They knew about her father…the government post he holds…”
“That’s because I alerted them. To her bigwig daddy and plenty more.”
“More?”
“Her apartment overlooking the Hudson shipping lanes. Her mishmash paintings that could carry secret meanings. I even made sure they knew about the paintings stashed at her studio.”
Louise felt her jaw drop. “That’s why the studio was empty—the FBI had cleaned it out. All that shock and surprise! You were just putting on a big act for me and Abe.”
Wide grin. “Robert and Lawrence weren’t the only actors in the drama club.”
Dimly, Louise heard a gasp from the other side of the bed. The professor must be stirring. She had to keep Lillian’s focus on her, so she changed tack, gabbled out an accusation, “You must be the very devil. You marked that innocent woman with a big red X. Treason. Murder. Just so you could have the man you—”
Louise’s heart gave a leap as Professor Oakley surged up to a sitting position. He bellowed and made a grab for Lillian’s skirt. But he was simply too weak. Lillian scooted away and kicked him hard in the side. He sank down with a moan, once again out of Louise’s sight. Damn!
Lillian’s expression was frightful. She pointed the gun down as she spoke. “You think you can stop me, Robert? Save your sly little Jap?”
Another moan.
“Impossible. If they don’t execute your precious Masako for Arthur’s murder, she’ll get a nice one-way ticket to Tokyo.” Lillian Bridges stared down at Professor Oakley. She seemed lost in some private hell, the pistol held loosely now, barrel to the floor. “Not that we’ll be around to see it.”
Carefully, Louise looked toward the door. From the corner of her eye, she’d seen it crack open. A nurse or doctor would barge right in—it must McKenna. Right? But, oh, no. He’d come in only to face a pistol shot.
No more time for talking. She had to act. What to do? She looked around. She was a nurse, not a helpless ninny. Like Professor Bridges, she was a professional woman, trained to take things into her own hands. Trained to act. It was all in her hands now.
The brush pot—yes!—there on the table. Louise grabbed it with both hands, jumped up. With a banshee scream, she heaved it with all her might. She heard the satisfying thunk of stone on bone and saw Lillian’s face contort in pain.
Then it all jumbled together. The door slammed open. “Drop the gun!” McKenna’s voice. “Drop it! Do it now!”
But Lillian Bridges didn’t drop the gun. She pressed the barrel to her temple and focused her gaze downward. “Oh, Robert, why couldn’t you just love me?”
A shot, a rain of blood, and her body hit the floor.
“Shit!” McKenna again, groaning. “Oh, lady, it didn’t have to play out like that.”
Then, the room was full of police. Nurses. Doctors.
McKenna was at her side, his arm steadying her. “Oakley’s okay, Nurse Hunter. Your patient’s okay. Miss Bridges won’t be hurting anyone any more. You done good.”
Chapter Eighty-nine
Saturday, December 20
Christmas was in the air. Helda’s fruitcakes had been wrapped in rum-soaked cheesecloth for weeks; today she was baking pfeffernusse. Ruthie had tacked mistletoe over the doorway in the front hall. Howie was in and out of the house on mysterious errands. All day long the aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg, vanilla and raisins, emanated from the kitchen. But Cabby couldn’t get into the spirit.
It was only with the most sacred avowals of off-the-record confidence that Cabby had coaxed Louise to tell her and Alicia the details of what happened in that fatal hospital room. Bud Smallwood’s curt article in Monday’s edition of the Times had reported only the suicide of a Columbia University professor at the bedside of an ailing colleague. Cabby suspected that the university had a hand in keeping the story low-key in the Times. Of course, the daily tabloids were having a field day.
Louise had been having a rough time, tossing and turning in bed, crying out in her sleep. But she still went out every day to tend Professor Oakley and confer with the lawyer about his wife’s case. Hearing the grim details of the shooting and watching her roommate soldier on, tight lipped, had given Cabby a new respect for the nurse. Earlier in the week, she’d offered Louise some advice for handling their fellow boarders. “Look, Louise. Ruthie and Marion will hound you to death—they both love dirt. Promise them one crack at the story and make it an expurgated version. You don’t need to worry that I’ll butt in and spill the lurid details.”
So this evening, all the boarders had been hanging on Louise’s tale in the parlor, only moving when Howie signaled the approach of dinner by fetching the plates and silverware from the butler’s pantry. Now, at the supper table, Louise concluded with, “So Lieutenant McKenna has everything he needs to convince the DA that Lillian Bridges is the one who killed Arthur Shelton.”
Helda passed the bread basket. “That Michael McKenna, he’s one good police.”
Alicia eyeballed the bread choices and took a slice of rye. “But it was Louise who kept Professor Bridges from killing them both—all three of them, actually—in the hospital room.” She spread her butter carefully, a thin, even layer from crust to crust. “How did you know what to say to her, Lou-lou?”
All the girls had taken to calling her that now! Louise sighed, and shrugged. “A little psychology—and a lot of luck.”
What a story! Cabby rolled a red beet around the plate with her fork, thinking back to the act of vandalism that had taken her to the Shelton Gallery in the first place.
Had it only been a couple of weeks since she’d read No Go Jap Show under Shelton’s broken window? Maybe Louise could help clear up that little mystery. “I understand why Bridges hired the men to picket, but surely she didn’t come back herself to toss that brick. There would have been no point. She’d already killed Shelton. The show was over.”
“Lieutenant McKenna thinks the vandalism was just a random act—someone who’d noticed the protestors. Then, when Pearl Harbor was bombed, that someone took out their anger on the nearest Japanese target.”
“Just think,” Ruthie said, still focusing on the love angle as she reached for the butter-pooled mashed potatoes. “Loving a man for years, letting no one stand in the way of making him yours. And then killing yourself when you couldn’t have him. That lady professor must really be something.” She plopped down with a passionate sigh.
Louise twisted her lips. “They also think it’s possible she murdered Professor Oakley’s first wife, Virginia.”
“Mein G
ott.” Helda’s hand flew to her heart. “A double murderess.”
“How’s that?” Cabby asked, eyes glinting.
Louise laid her fork down. “The lady died on a faculty tour of North Africa. Supposedly of food poisoning. Professor Oakley has his suspicions.” She gave her roommate a straight look. “That’s not for publication.”
“Of course not.” Cabby’s big, brown eyes were guileless.
“W-e-ell,” Marion drawled in her theatrical tones. “I’ve never met a man I’d risk going to prison for. Never mind the electric chair.” She sent the prim spinsters, Jane and Irene, a mischievous look. “What about you two ladies?”
As Jane only put her head to one side and cocked an eyebrow, Alicia stepped in. “Louise, how will having identified the real killer affect the FBI’s case against Masako Oakley?”
“That’s the one good thing to come out of all this.” She clapped her palms together soundlessly. “Abe believes Lieutenant McKenna’s testimony will make a tremendous difference.”
“The cop agreed to go before the Board?” Alicia again.
“You bet! McKenna actually heard Lillian Bridges admit to false accusations against Masako. He’s determined to testify, even though he’s had to fight his superiors on it. Along with Dr. Wright volunteering to supervise Masako’s parole, Abe thinks the case is in the bag. The hearing is this coming Monday. With luck she may be out of detention by the new year.”
Alicia scowled. “Well, Mrs. Oakley’s only one of many. What about the rest of the detainees? And I hear scary things about government plans for Japanese on the West Coast.”
Louise held up her hand. “I know—Abe has been fretting about that, too. But right now, just let me be happy for the Oakleys.”
Cabby looked down at her plate. She was happy for the Oakleys, too. Happy for Louise, happy for Helda and Howie. Happy for everyone besides herself. She cut her tough cube steak into ragged, bite-sized rectangles, determined not to be a wet blanket. For once, all of Helda’s boarders seemed cheerful, even jubilant. Louise’s patient was healing. Even her own banged-up arm felt lots better.
It wasn’t the fault of anyone in this house that Halper had given her another bum assignment. There was plenty going on. Bud Smallwood had covered Mayor La Guardia’s address to the labor unions, inspiring workers to unite for the country’s defense. And over at St. Vincent’s Hospital, Archbishop Spellman had trumpeted plans to upgrade services for wartime emergencies. He’d even stretched out on a gurney to personally donate a pint of holy blood. Another one of the guys bagged that assignment.
What had Cabby done? She chewed morosely. Gone over to Queens to interview some dame who’d come up with the idea of giving war bonds as Christmas gifts. You couldn’t argue with the sentiment, but, jeez, why couldn’t Halper have sent her to the union rally instead of Bud? Wasn’t she ever going to get another real news story?
Marion had started bragging about understudying some role at the Hudson Theater, but Cabby’s gaze lit on Mousie, the only one who hadn’t been paying any attention to Louise’s story. She’d left the group several times, going through the dining room toward the kitchen as if she meant to help Helda, but each time she returned with empty hands.
Now Cabby watched as Mousie coughed deeply and balled up a fist to cover her mouth. She reached for her water glass, brought it to her lips and poured the contents down the front of her grubby pink sweater. “Oh, excuse me,” she squeaked to no one in particular as she left the table.
What the hell? No one else seemed to have noticed, but in as obvious a ploy as Cabby had ever seen, the Mouse had spilled her water on purpose. Just what was that girl up to?
Cabby got quietly to her feet and pussy-footed into the kitchen. She intended to find out.
***
The butler’s pantry was dark. Someone had nixed the light that usually shone on the glass-front cabinets stacked with Helda’s willow-patterned dishes. The fixture over the kitchen sink was off, too. The only light came from the naked bulb outside on the kitchen porch. Cabby steadied herself with a hand on the thick breadboard built into the counter. The glow from the porch light was enough for Cabby to make out Mousie crouched by the rear window. Her arm was extended along the sill. In her hand was…
Cabby blinked. Mousie had a gun?
And Howie was out on the porch. Cabby saw him pacing back and forth in his floppy-eared cap and outgrown bomber jacket. Each time he passed the window, his expression looked more worried, mouth tight, gaze furtive.
Cabby started to speak, “What’s go—”
Mousie shushed her with a glare and a vicious hiss, then resumed her tense position. Her entire being seemed focused on the neighbor’s shed across the yard.
Cabby looked back through the butler’s pantry. No one. Good. Whatever was going on here, Helda and the boarders needed to stay away from the kitchen.
Cabby turned as the basement door creaked open. The fingers of a long white hand curled around the door’s edge, scuttling upwards in a spidery dance. She recoiled as a man’s blond head appeared, lips pulled back over clenched teeth.
He didn’t see her. But he saw Mousie, and a silver pistol suddenly glinted at the end of his bent arm.
No!
He stepped through the door.
Quicker than thought, Cabby grabbed Helda’s big knife, the one she used to slice her crusty loaves for the bread basket. She tensed her fist around the hilt. Twelve inches of serrated double-edged blade—that ought to do some damage. Fueled by adrenalin, she bounded across the kitchen, braced her feet, and sprang onto the intruder’s back, knife firm in her grip.
The man bucked, arms windmilling, but he didn’t drop the gun. Cabby hooked her left arm around his neck, slashed wildly with her right. He screamed. Blood spurted. Cabby held on, slicing at him again. His gun fired, and the explosion made Cabby’s eardrums ring.
Suddenly, bright headlights lit up the back of the house. Half-blinded, Cabby sensed Mousie pointing her gun straight at them. “Drop it,” she ordered. The man’s gun hit the floor and so did Cabby. She kicked the gun away from him, as hard as she could. It skidded across the floor and lodged beneath the refrigerator.
Cabby crawled away from the bellowing man, then used the counter to pull herself to her feet.
Mousie still had her gun on the stranger. Blood ran down his neck in a steady rivulet. As if the gun didn’t exist, he yelled something in German, charged Mousie and locked the smaller woman in a tight bear hug. She went limp, but, with a swift flick of her wrist, lobbed her gun in Cabby’s direction.
Cabby bent, swept it up, pointed it at the intruder. The man froze, arms still around Mousie, hatred flooding his expression.
“He’s in there!” A rough voice yelled from outside. Howie flattened his nose against the windowpane.
The women of the boarding house had come to life and poured into the kitchen through the butler’s pantry. Ruthie started shrieking, ripping the air like a demented opera soprano. Marion slapped her. Ruthie slapped her back. Louise and Alicia pushed around them.
Just what we need, Cabby thought, more people to get hurt. Moving her focus from the gunman to the women, she ordered them back.
Taking advantage of her moment of inattention, the wounded man slammed Mousie to the floor and kicked her in the stomach. Then he burst through the back door and leapt off the porch. Cabby saw Howie run out after him, grabbing at his coattails.
A blur of activity followed. Running men crisscrossed the back yard. Flashlight beams sliced into dark corners. A big engine roared to life. More shouting, none of it distinguishable.
“Get back, kid!” A man’s voice, deep and insistent, separated itself from the chaos. “Stay out of it.”
Sputtering, but now upright, Mousie seized the gun from Cabby and sped outside.
Cabby couldn’t keep the ot
her women back any longer. Helda broke through first, calling for Howie. Then Ruthie. Then Alicia. The rest spilled out of the pantry in a knot, stumbling, questioning, bumping into table and chairs. Howie’s neglected dinner plate crashed to the floor. Red beets rolled everywhere.
Helda made for the back door but slipped on one of the slimy beets. Cabby caught up with her as the landlady pushed up from one knee. “Helda! They have guns. Don’t go out there!”
Try telling that to a hysterical mother bent on retrieving her son.
Helda gave Cabby a heroic shove and opened the door.
The landlady froze. Two men in dark overcoats marched a limping, bleeding handcuffed man across the now brightly lit yard. “Gott im Himmel! It’s Ernst!” Was that horror in Helda’s voice? Or was it triumph?
Cabby watched as the men put…Ernst?…Ernst Schroeder?…in a big black sedan. Helda had found Howie. With arms folded tightly around her struggling son, she watched the sedan as if transfixed.
Other agents ringed the yard. One of them shook Mousie’s hand. Another clapped her on the back.
As quickly as the incident had begun, it was over. Cabby’s head was reeling. Except for a few gawking neighbors on the sidewalk, the street returned to quiet as soon as the tail lights of the black sedans disappeared down the block. The boarding house residents, still shocked and bewildered, clustered around Helda and Howie. Louise, in particular, appeared absolutely stunned. But then, she’d already suffered a bout of life-threatening violence this week. Poor thing.
Alicia led Helda inside and handed her a glass of water. Cabby was dimly aware of Louise rousing herself to take the landlady’s pulse.
While everyone was sorting themselves out, Cabby pulled Mousie through the butler’s pantry and into the dining room. “You’re not just a Macy’s sales clerk, are you, Ethel?”
Mousie shook her head. “No. And I’m not even Ethel. Never was.” She squared her shoulders, smoothed her baggy sweater and lifted her chin. Her gun was no longer in evidence. Had she hidden it in her waistband? In some indefinable way, Cabby realized she wasn’t talking to Mousie anymore.
Face of the Enemy Page 34
