“And I don’t suppose you’re taking questions?” Jed asked perceptively.
“I’d rather not.”
“Okay, but surely you can tell us what happened with Caitlin.”
McColl looked at the two of them. “Why, have you got bets on the outcome?”
“No!”
“We traveled on the same train. But she hasn’t seen her family for months, so I don’t suppose I’ll see her for a few days.”
“And then?” Jed asked, with the bluntness of youth.
“And then what?”
“Will you be staying on here or will she be coming to England?”
So that was how they saw it, McColl thought. He could hardly blame them. “Neither for now, but we’ll see,” was all he could think to say, and he was saved from further questions by the arrival of their food.
The dinner was excellent, and so was the only show they could find with empty seats. A two-hour roller coaster of music and comedy put them in high spirits, which they soon found they shared with most of the city, if the Friday-night revelers thronging Broadway were anything to go by. With work the following morning, they restricted themselves to a couple of drinks and walked happily back to the hotel. As far as McColl could tell, his earlier revelations had not made his two companions overly nervous. Should he be pleased that he hadn’t spoiled their fun or alarmed that they hadn’t taken the situation seriously enough?
Mac’s insistence that they all check McColl’s wardrobe eased his mind somewhat, and while the two of them were doing so, he pocketed the latest note the staff had slipped under his door.
Once the wardrobe had been declared safe and his companions had disappeared, he tore the envelope open and read the message. “Meagher arrives Grand Central at ten on Sunday morning,” Kensley had scrawled. “See you at nine-thirty outside the barbershop.”
They all spent Saturday morning in the showroom, either talking to prospective buyers or, in Jed’s case, passing comment on each New York princess that walked past their window. After lunch McColl left the two of them to handle trial drives and walked back to the hotel, hoping to find a message from Caitlin. There was none. He reminded himself that she would be fully engaged catching up with family and friends, but he couldn’t quite quiet the mean little voice in the back of his mind telling him it was over and that a cold but beautifully written note would soon arrive laying out all the reasons they couldn’t go on.
There was nothing he could do about it, other than turn up unannounced at the family house in Brooklyn, loudly declare his undying love, and insist that she do the same. Something he had no intention of doing. Not yet, anyway.
He found a lunchroom serving meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and two veg for fifteen cents, then took a long walk, heading east into a world of dirty streets and yellow-brick tenement buildings whose only decoration was a latticework of fire escapes. As good as lost, he was accosted by an enterprising urchin who offered to sell him the way back to “safety.” The neighborhood reminded McColl of Glasgow, and he half suspected he was safer here among the tenements than he ever would be on Fifth Avenue, but he handed over his dime in exchange for some very basic directions—“See that tall building? That’s the Woolworth Building. It’s the tallest building in the world. Just walk toward it and you’ll end up on Broadway.”
That evening he went out again with the others, and this time they drank rather more, so much so that they ended up chorusing Al Jolson’s recent hit, “You Made Me Love You,” with sufficient volume to warrant an in situ lecture from one of New York’s finest.
McColl felt distinctly hungover next morning but managed to reach Grand Central Station on time. Kensley seemed in little better shape, and the two of them smoked their cigarettes in silence until a third man arrived. “Jack, Andrew,” was the extent of Kensley’s introduction. Andrew was probably around McColl’s age, as thin as Kensley but with fairer hair and mustache.
At nine forty-five the three of them took up position within sight of the platform egress, and only seconds later the first passengers from the 20th Century Limited were streaming past. Three priests appeared before Father Meagher, who eventually emerged, resplendent in cassock and biretta, trailing a porter and a trolley piled with the familiar suitcases.
“That’s him,” McColl told the others.
They watched the priest lead his porter across the concourse and into the waiting room opposite, then followed as far as the entrance. Kensley turned to McColl. “He knows you, so keep your face turned away. Andrew, what’s he doing?”
“He’s telling the porter where he wants the suitcases. Now he’s paying him. And now he’s sitting down, with his back to the door.”
McColl risked a look over his shoulder, just in time to see a man approach the priest.
“He’s talking to someone,” Andrew said. “An Indian, by the look of it. And the Indian’s picking up one of the suitcases.”
“The newspapers,” McColl guessed.
“You’d better follow him,” Kensley told Andrew.
The latter watched for a few seconds more, then walked swiftly after his quarry.
“Meagher’s not moving,” Kensley murmured.
“More business?” McColl wondered.
They didn’t have long to wait. According to Kensley, the priest’s second visitor was older, clean-shaven, wearing a slate gray suit and hat.
“They’re talking,” Kensley told McColl. “And Meagher’s handing over an envelope. One of your letters. Okay,” he said reluctantly, “since Meagher knows you by sight, you’d better take this guy. But for God’s sake don’t lose him.”
“Can I turn around?” McColl asked.
“You don’t need to. He’s coming our way.”
The man passed within a few feet of them, and McColl slipped into his wake. The courier—if that’s what he was—still had the envelope in his hand, but he stowed it away in an inside pocket as he started down the ramp to the subway platforms. A train was thundering in, and McColl’s sudden realization that he might not have the nickel required induced a few moments of panic, but a frantic scramble through his pockets proved successful, and he made it through the barrier in time to step aboard. The man in the gray suit was at the other end of the car, examining the subway map.
Which might be good news, McColl thought. It suggested a local knowledge no better than his own.
He hung on to the strap as the train stormed and clattered its way through the tunnel. Thirty-Third Street, Twenty-Eighth, Twenty-Third, Fourteenth, and soon they were into the names—Astor Place, then Bleecker. It was a fairly shoddy suit that the man was wearing, McColl thought; there were clear signs of wear at the cuffs and elbows. It was the sort of suit an aging errand boy might wear.
Like a lot of others, he got off at Fulton, and McColl followed him up and out. They emerged onto Broadway, two blocks down from the towering Woolworth Building. His quarry crossed at the light and walked in that direction, turning left down Barclay Street toward the Hudson. McColl kept some forty yards behind him but had the feeling he was being overly cautious. The man hadn’t looked back since leaving Grand Central, another indication that he was just hired help.
Beyond West Street a long line of piers jutted out into the river. The one opposite Barclay was host to the Hoboken Ferry, and this, it transpired, was the man’s objective. McColl followed him on board and took a seat a few rows behind him. The ferry was soon under way, and as it plowed a diagonal course across the mile-wide river, McColl stared back at Manhattan and the low clouds brushing the peak of the Woolworth Building.
All the big British shipping lines used Manhattan piers, but their German equivalents were here on the New Jersey shore. McColl and his unwitting guide had already walked past the North German Lloyd terminal when the man turned in through the gates of its Hamburg America rival. He ignored the passenger terminal building, headed around the side of the enormous quayside warehouse, and walked into what looked like an accompanying suite of offices. McCo
ll hesitated and decided against following him inside. If the man didn’t come out in a few minutes, then perhaps …
Five minutes later he did come out, counting out green dollar bills with his thumb. His fee, McColl assumed, but he supposed he ought to make sure—Hamburg America wouldn’t be going anywhere.
It didn’t take him long. Rather than return to the ferry, the man walked away from the river and into Hoboken. A bar, McColl guessed, and sure enough, after zigzagging through several blocks, the man pushed his way through the doors of the Lorelei Beerhouse. Considering the time of day, it could only just have opened, a deduction soon confirmed within by the absence of other patrons. His quarry gave McColl a quick glance and went back to admiring the golden schnapps flowing from bottle to glass.
McColl ordered a cup of the ready-brewed coffee and settled down to eavesdrop. “I did a job for Johann,” the man was telling the barman. “He knows I’m reliable, and he gives me work when he can.”
The barman managed an “uh-huh” or two, but only from politeness. McColl sat with the coffee for a few minutes, then walked back to the Hamburg America pier. It seemed obvious that the letter had changed hands in the warehouse offices. Did Herr Rieber work there? McColl could hardly just walk in and ask.
Then again—why not? The sign by the door said this was the freight-handling office, so why not invent some freight to handle? Automobiles, he told himself, stick to what you know. He worked for a small firm in the old country, which was interested in starting an export business. And since he was over here looking at premises, he thought he’d investigate rates and timings. He’d already been to North German Lloyd.
He explained all this to the woman at reception, who told him he needed to see Mr. Fromm.
Five minutes later he was offering the same spiel to a middle-aged, balding German-American. Tables for weight–cost ratios were produced and studied, along with the additional costs of rail transportation in Germany. The Hamburg America Line had already acquired considerable experience in the shipping of automobiles, and Mr. Fromm was ready to guarantee delivery in New Jersey within a fortnight of collection. At what he swore was a highly competitive price.
McColl agreed that it was. He would recommend Hamburg America to his partners, and Mr. Fromm would almost certainly be hearing from them shortly. In the meantime, “I believe my old friend Rieber works here. Can you point me in the direction of his office?”
Fromm looked surprised, but not suspicious. “Erich Rieber?”
“That’s him.”
“He’s on the second floor. I’ll get someone to show you the way.”
“No, don’t worry. I’ll find him.” He offered Fromm his hand. “Until next time.”
He climbed the stairs and walked down the passage, checking names on doors. Rieber’s was the fourth he came to. McColl stared at the sign for a few seconds, considering his next move. Was seeing Rieber’s face worth letting the German see his own?
Deciding it was, he abruptly turned the knob and stepped across the threshold.
The man looking up from his desk was still in his twenties. He was clean-shaven, with a handsome, chiseled face and striking blue eyes. McColl was probably being fanciful, but his first impression was one of cruelty.
The single sheet of Reischach’s letter lay on one side of the desk, as if saved for future rereading.
“Gee, I’m sorry, wrong room,” McColl drawled, backing out into the corridor and clicking the door shut behind him. He wouldn’t forget that face, he thought, as he walked down the stairs and out onto the quay. And he had the feeling that Rieber would remember his. But at least he could now point him out to the others, and if Kensley wanted to know where the German lived, one of them could follow him home.
It started to rain as he walked to the terminal, and it was falling in sheets by the time the ferry reached midstream, blurring both Manhattan and Jersey shorelines. Matters hadn’t improved when they docked, so he lunched at a café in the Barclay Street terminal and sat watching a Cunard liner inch up the river until the sky began to brighten. As he headed for Broadway to catch a trolley home, the upper quarter of the Woolworth Building slowly dropped out of the clouds.
When he reached the Aberdeen, Kensley was sitting in the lobby, ostensibly reading the New York Times. McColl continued on up to his room, thinking to change his damp trousers before joining the Canadian in the coffee shop, and found that yet another note had been pushed under his door. It was from reception: A Miss Hanley had rung and would do so again at 5:00 P.M.
He felt his heart lift, and almost danced down the corridor to the elevator.
Kensley was in the same booth and might have been stirring the same cup of coffee. He sat with interlinked fingers in front of his mouth as McColl delivered his report, then offered a brief “Good work” when he was finished. “I’ll get someone onto Rieber,” he decided. “It’s interesting that he has an office at Hamburg America. All the Germans we’ve dealt with until now have worked out of their embassy. The controllers, I mean. They use local German-Americans for the small jobs, like your man in the gray suit. Tell them it’s their patriotic duty.”
“Maybe the Germans are making more use of people like me,” McColl guessed.
“Maybe. Or maybe someone’s decided to set up a whole new organization outside official channels.”
“How did you get on?” McColl asked.
“Oh, Meagher went straight to Devoy’s house, where he doubtless delivered the letter. He only stayed a few minutes, though, and Devoy was in. Which suggests that the letter was more important than anything Father Meagher might have to say. I’d lay odds he’s just a courier.”
“So we’re left with the arms shipment and the action on enemy soil.”
“Yes. And I’m waiting to hear how Cumming wants to proceed.” He looked up at McColl. “He might ask you to help out here for a few weeks. Could you do that?”
“Maybe. I’d like to know what he has in mind.” A plan to foil Irish-German plots that didn’t involve the destruction of his relationship with Caitlin would be a good start.
Kensley went off to meet Andrew and to find out where the copies of Ghadar had ended up. McColl asked reception where he could find a bookstore, walked to the one recommended, and purchased Conan Doyle’s latest story, The Poison Belt. He started reading in the hotel lounge and by ten to five was wondering how the creator of Sherlock Holmes could have sunk so low.
He took her call in a booth behind the lobby. “How are you?” she asked. “How’s the hotel?”
“Fine. And your family?”
“Oh, they’re all fine.”
“Did they like their presents?”
“I think so. Colm liked his map, and Orla hasn’t taken the shawl off since I gave it to her, but, Jack, I can’t really talk for long, and I can’t talk, if you know what I mean.”
He pictured her in the hall of the family home, surrounded by open doors. “I understand. When can we meet?”
“Not tomorrow, I’m afraid. I have so many people to see and an interview out in Queens. But Tuesday—are you free for dinner? I could meet you downtown.”
“Why don’t you come to the hotel?”
“For hors d’oeuvres?”
“Something like that.”
“I’ll be there at six.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Neither can I.”
The next forty-eight hours were uneventful. He took one man for a trial drive and wished he hadn’t—the potential customer could hardly drive, and McColl had to commandeer the steering wheel on several occasions to avert collisions with pedestrians and other vehicles. When the man announced that he was ordering a Maia, McColl felt like posting a citywide warning.
He heard nothing from Kensley and suffered no apparent attention from Rieber or his friends. Perhaps Cumming’s entreaty to play the game had struck a chord with his Prussian counterparts. Or perhaps McColl was low on their list of priorities.
It was a minute past six
when Caitlin rapped on his door. “This is a refreshingly progressive hotel,” she said, taking off her coat. “They had no objection to my coming straight up, especially when I let slip that I was a journalist.”
“The power of the press.”
“Indeed. And speaking of that, I have something to show you.” She started to unbutton her blouse. “Remember I told you I had someone to interview this afternoon. Her name’s Mary Phelps Jacob. She’s younger than I am, and look what she’s invented.”
Caitlin’s breasts were covered by the lightest of garments, with no sign of metal stays or stiff lacing.
“Mary calls it a brassiere. It’s basically two silk handkerchiefs and a few lengths of ribbon. And you wouldn’t believe how much nicer it is to wear. I feel like I’ve been set free. And so will millions of other women.”
“That’s wonderful,” McColl said.
“And it’s so much easier to take off,” she added, releasing a knot in the ribbon and snuggling into his arms.
Their lovemaking showed no sign of growing stale; their physical passion for each other seemed, if anything, even more intense than before. Afterward they lay entwined in joyous exhaustion until his rumbling stomach forced them to contemplate dinner. As they went past the reception desk, McColl made sure to mention how much he’d enjoyed the interview.
They walked to an Italian restaurant she liked, ordered olives, bread, and wine, and caught up on each other’s last few days. Hers had been full, and she’d loved every minute. Her various employers had nothing but praise for her pieces on China and seemed to be falling over themselves to commission more. The brassiere girl had been a delight, and Caitlin had just discovered that during her absence a woman had been appointed commissioner of the New York City Department of Correction. “The first woman to ever head a municipal agency,” Caitlin insisted. “That’s another wall down.”
Her eyes positively shone, and McColl found himself thinking how lucky he was to have met her.
“You know, sometimes I despair for my country,” she said. “When I see children virtually starving not five miles from Fifth Avenue. And when I see how desperate people are to turn a blind eye. Ch’ing-ling and I once hired a man in Macon to drive us out into the countryside. We both cried for days over what we had seen, and the other girls just laughed at us.” She shook her head. “But sometimes, like this week, I feel almost drunk on the possibilities. And I have to keep reminding myself that most people think I’m crazy. Even those who love me.”
Jack of Spies Page 18
