Mr. Jones

by Margaret Sweatman

  Emmett got out with his armload of books. The sky had darkened, a meagre twilight, and the air had turned cold. He stood on the concrete steps and freed two fingers to pry open the heavy door to Leonard’s building, hurried up the stairs to Leonard’s suite, and threw all the books down in the hallway, careless of the noise he was making, then went back down to collect the several that had fallen.

  When at last he entered the apartment, a speckled dusk filtered through the dirty window. It was abandoned. But for a short, square man in a hat, the pearl grey of his trench coat catching, enhancing the last light.

  “Did I alarm you?” asked Mr. Farce. Then, “What have you got?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m looking for Leonard Fischer. You know where he is?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm. Yet, you said he was visiting his sick aunt.”

  Mr. Farce was connected to the Polish carpenter somehow, a network of surveillance. Emmett felt the hateful confinement of being caught, having his words tossed back at him by such a dandy. “I don’t know where Leonard is.”

  “He’s a good friend of yours. You might say he’s a fellow traveller.” Mr. Farce made the expression sound sexual.

  “He’s not such a good friend.”

  “Yet you have a key to his apartment.”

  Emmett said, “A lot of people have a key to this place.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know their names. And I don’t know where Leonard is.”

  “Why did you say that you do know, Emmett?”

  Emmett looked more closely at his interrogator. In the fading light he confirmed that they were of the same age, or close to it. So power wasn’t inflicted on the powerless from above, or from an older generation; power was all around him, he was hemmed in.

  Mr. Farce approached. Emmett could smell his cologne when he leaned across and switched on the lamp.

  “Look.” Emmett made his voice sound tired. “I was doing the guy a favour. He told me he was hard up for cash, so would I sell some things for him. The only thing he had were books, so I tried for that.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Not yet.”

  The man looked into Emmett’s eyes, seeing something there that Emmett couldn’t hide. “It must be hard,” he said.

  “Who are you?” Emmett asked again.

  “Oh, come on.” He shook his head in disgust. “Did Leonard Fischer defect? Is he working for the Russians?” When Emmett didn’t answer, he persisted. “How about John Norfield? Dawson Elliott, know him? Joseph Chambers. Fred Shaw.”

  “I don’t know any of them. Except John Norfield.” Emmett was guilty by association. Maybe the books weren’t technically illegal, but this man could require that he go with him now for questioning.

  Mr. Farce gave a weary sigh. “Norfield. Yeah. I know. That, I know.” He rubbed his jaw, the diamond glittering on his hand. “If you’re telling the truth, about selling Fischer’s books, you’d’ve taken them to your friend Norfield.”

  “How do you know I didn’t?”

  He smiled to himself in a condescending way. “Let me ask you something. Have you ever seen Norfield sell a book?”

  Emmett hadn’t. He said nothing.

  “Ever wonder where he gets his money?”

  “He’s a poet.”

  This caught Mr. Farce by surprise. He laughed. “Holy god.”

  Emmett went to the door and opened it. He expected to be restrained, maybe even attacked, and he forced himself to move slowly, listening for a sudden move from Mr. Farce, walking out to the hallway, leaving the door open behind him. He walked down the stairs and outside, feeling the man on his back, resisting the impulse to run. He didn’t know why he’d been let go.

  He got back to the McCallum place just at nightfall. He took a cab, and had the cabbie wait while he loaded the books into the trunk. As the cab drove past the house on the way back out to the road, he saw Suzanne’s mother watching from a window at the corner of the main floor of the house. He was certain they looked each other in the eye, though she was thirty feet away. She let the drapes fall back into place and turned toward the darkness of the house without waving.

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  That was November 1946, only sixteen months after two atomic bombs fell out of a blue sky onto two cities in Japan. Emmett removed the incendiary literature from the McCallum estate, while in the far-off land of the Soviet Union, the best scientists were preparing for World War Three, building nuclear bombs and long-range nuclear rockets. Success was in the air in America too. The United States was making some difficult decisions as to whether they should ignite a small amount of thermonuclear fuel by a large fission explosion or contrive a small fission explosion to ignite a very large mass of thermonuclear fuel (what they affectionately called the “superbomb”).

  Suzanne McCallum’s elegant mother let the drapes fall and turned from the window as Emmett’s taxi rolled past and out to the road, lurching at the end of the drive. She did not wait to see him clearly off the property and did not see the nondescript sedan pull out from under the golden maples, following the cab back to College Street, to Emmett’s attic room in the home of a snoopy widow.

  PART TWO

  Chapter One

  Blue Sea Lake, Summer, 1953

  Bill Masters, undersecretary of state at External Affairs, cut an alarming figure in a bathing suit. Lake water glittered like quartz in the silver hair on his barrel chest and over his fleshy back. It was a marvel that his small feet and narrow ankles could leverage such mass. Watching him swim, Emmett was fascinated by the pretty movements of Bill’s limbs propelling him through the water.

  Bill appeared to bear no ill effects from the alcohol last night. He slapped his belly and filled his lungs, “Great air,” pectorals jiggling, a friendly Samurai. With a happy sigh, he raised a glass of orange juice tarted up with vodka. “Great place, Emmett.”

  Ethel called. “Yoo-hoo! Breakfast is hot!” She hopped partway down the cottage stairs to the lawn, decked out in a variation of the rayon paisley she’d worn the previous day, with fresh stockings and another pair of strapped sandals, shielding her eyes with one hand. Bill gave her a wave, toodle-doo. She trotted back up the stairs to the cottage, gripping the hand-railing, and then at the door, she leaned back toward Bill, her hand raised in another little private yoo-hoo.

  Bill grinned with pride. “Comfy beds you got here.” He punched Emmett’s arm. “Ethel’s having a good time. She gets along real well with Suzanne.” They threw towels over their shoulders and began to walk up, Emmett following Bill’s amazing white feet with their purple veins and frank toes. Bill said, “Ethel doesn’t get on with too many Ottawa wives.” He stopped and waited till Emmett caught up to him. “Most of them are bitches. Seen from a female mind. I let Ethel stay home from a lot of functions. Better’n her being miserable. But it’s nice to see her happy. Thanks. Appreciate it.”

  A boat cruised by. A small inboard filled with kids and their parents, trolling a couple of fishing lines and strains of Dean Martin slurring the words to “With My Eyes Wide Open I’m Dreaming.” The boat was so close to shore, Emmett could make out a turntable balanced on a cooler amid the chaos of kids, life jackets, Cokes, towels, and a dog, a beagle.

  Bill said, “Now, there’s a guy who likes to live.” He walked ahead, “I hope Ethel lets me have bacon.”

  Emmett wondered how to power a turntable aboard a boat. Sun on blue water made the scene Kodak, a contrivance of colour technology. The boat wasn’t familiar on this part of the lake. He thought its driver must be lucky, head of an empire. He couldn’t see the man’s face under a sun hat.

  After breakfast Bill and Ethel packed up to leave. Bill tickled Lenore under her chin, earning her mild scorn. “Okay, little baby,” said Bill. “I guess you’re not the laughing type.”

  Ethel picked up Lenore and gave her a kiss. Lennie put her finger up Ethel’s nose, Ethel clucking, capturing the baby’s hand and saying, “Oh, you littl
e bug.” Suzanne retrieved Lennie, “C’mon, professor.” They all went down to the dock. Ethel was thoughtful, kindly wondering: she’d never met such a serious baby. Her two teenaged boys were at Upper Canada College, bless them, but would soon be out for summer holidays. Becoming strangers to her.

  Emmett lowered Ethel into the boat. She looked unsuitable for transport. Bill patted Suzanne, “You did fine,” and turned his back to speak more confidentially to Emmett. “I recruited you to External because you know Asia. We’re holding the line in Korea, but only so long as we keep the communists scared shitless, pardon my French. I’m not saying the Americans should drop an A-bomb on anybody, but the commies sure better know it’s in the equation. Now,” and here Bill shuffled a little, wiped sweat from his eyes; he appeared to be struggling to remember where he was going with this. Again he said, “Now . . .” his eyes darting over the smooth blue water, sweat running down his face into his fat neck. Then it came back to him, he was aiming to talk about what everybody wanted to talk about. “The Ruskies,” he announced, “the Ruskies and the Chinese communists are getting ready for World War Three. And it’ll be the big one. Us or them. Freedom or Communism. Anybody who doesn’t believe that is playing The Glad Game.” He gripped Emmett’s hand, maybe just to steady himself. “We need men like you, and we need you here, where you can untangle some of the gobbledegook we get from Southeast Asia. You’re young. You’re smart. And you know the Chinese.”

  “Japan.”

  “Whazat?”

  “I was born in Japan.”

  Bill looked at him blankly.

  “I’m learning some Mandarin,” Emmett explained, though Bill already knew this, “but I can’t say I know the Chinese.”

  “Good. Stick it out. You got yourself a future, Jones.”

  “Okay.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Right.”

  “Don’t dick around. Tell the RCMP what they wanta know. You get the Mounties off your back, they’ll straighten out the Americans. Then you can get on with your work. Get on with your life. No more suspicion following you around. Once and for all. Clear?”

  “Yup.”

  “Attaboy.”

  They paused uncertainly until Emmett said, “I’m driving you to the landing.”

  Bill laughed. “Forgot.” And stepped onto the hot boat cushions, Ethel warning, “Don’t fall, Daddy,” and Bill saying, “I’m always on Parliament Hill.”

  Emmett and Suzanne and Lenore were studying Bill, Emmett wondering if it was heat stroke. Bill said, “In my mind. C’mon, Jones. Start this thing,” settling his backside. “Bye bye,” to Lenore; then, to Ethel, “That kid doesn’t like me.”

  Emmett jumped into the boat. Before he started the engine, he heard, faintly, Dean Martin moving over the water.

  Chapter Two

  A heat wave, lasting more than a week. It was so hot in the city, Suzanne kept Lennie at the lake; she and the baby stayed alone at the cottage while Emmett worked in town.

  Nobody from External’s Security Panel and no one from the RCMP contacted him. Days passed, then another weekend when he was with Suzanne and the baby at Blue Sea Lake, and yet another week alone in the city, and still no contact from the Mounties. He tried to convince himself that they’d decided to let him alone.

  He needed a few quiet hours at his office in the East Block on Saturday morning so he told Suzanne he’d go in for a couple of hours, then drive down to the lake. He promised to take Monday off and stay with them, if he could get ahead on some reports that needed his attention.

  Leaving Parliament Hill at seven o’clock Friday evening, Emmett drove home, opening the door to an empty house, the drapes drawn against the heat, the house shady but stifling. He walked through the darkened living room, making no sound on the carpet, and stood at the foot of the stairs, listening. The house was silent but for the small, yawning vibrations that houses make in summer heat. He startled at the crackling cellophane noise of a black squirrel’s feet running up an oak tree out on the lawn. There were waves in the plush broadloom, made from a vacuum, and a footprint. He remembered that the cleaning lady would have come today, letting herself in with her own key to clean the house even though it never got dirty when Emmett was alone in the city.

  He went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. He’d forgotten to pick up something to eat on his way home. Nothing looked like dinner. He had that automatic feeling again, of being driven ahead by the thoughtless way time pushes him, pushes everyone, just slightly ahead of itself and then sweeps overhead like a rogue wave. He felt soulless, ill at ease, he needed to hurry, hurry to soothe himself; he was inconsolable, anxious from waiting for something to happen with the investigation. Liquor helped, it helped more and more. He poured himself a stiff Scotch and soda on ice, drank some, poured more, and went upstairs.

  It was hotter upstairs. He paused to look into Lennie’s bedroom. The pale yellow walls could melt in the heat. Her closet door was ajar and he crossed the silent room to push it shut.

  He changed his clothes, threw the white shirt he’d worn all day into the hamper, exchanged his dark blue trousers for a pair of shorts, took off his damp socks, and sat on his side of the bed while he sipped his drink.

  The doorbell rang. Emmett peered down from the window that looked over the front of the house. He saw the dented lids of three hats, the padded shoulders of three men in suits standing on the stoop. He watched them, finishing his drink. The bell was rung again.

  Two of the men left to walk briskly around the side of the house toward the garage, out of sight. The third man raised his head and caught Emmett looking down. Emmett knew him. It was Harold Gembey, chair of Security at External Affairs. Harold’s face was expressionless. They looked at each other for a moment. Gembey’s lips moved, he was calling the other men back, his eyes on Emmett.

  Emmett went down and opened the door barefoot, wearing faded madras shorts and a green golf shirt that had shrunk in the dryer, to find only Harold Gembey standing there. “Emmett,” said Harold and held out his hand. “Glad to find you at home.”

  The other two men returned from around the back of the house, their pant legs swinging. Harold Gembey introduced them. “Sergeant Frank Partridge. And Inspector Robert Morton, RCMP.”

  Inspector Robert Morton removed his homburg hat. On his hand, he wore a gold ring with a diamond and he had a gold tie clip with another diamond chip. Emmett remembered the amber-coloured eyes, the short stocky frame, the compact build of a middleweight boxer. Here was Mr. Farce come to call.

  Emmett said, “Bill Masters told me you’d contact me by telephone to set up an appointment.” Gembey started to apologize, but Morton pushed himself between them and walked in, and Emmett said wryly, “Make yourselves at home,” then followed Morton into the stuffy house. “My wife’s away with our baby girl.”

  They sat in the living room, Harold Gembey and Frank Partridge on the couch, Robert Morton in the chair that Emmett normally occupied when he would read the newspaper after work, when Suzanne was at home. The men watched as Emmett went to open the curtains. He offered them a drink, which they declined, and then he poured himself a big one.

  “Sit down, Emmett, please.” Harold Gembey had greying red hair and a red moustache and wore black-framed glasses. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Your name has come up with the Americans. And it’s our job, together, to find out why.”

  “Why don’t we ask the Americans — together?”

  Morton interrupted. “How’s your pal Leonard Fischer?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know where he is. Do you?”

  “Buggered off to Russia,” Morton said, but he glanced at Partridge, as if it was a private joke.

  Gembey rubbed his forehead. Emmett sensed that Gembey was in competition with Morton, that there was some kind of struggle going on between them. He sensed that they disliked each other, but that didn’t mean Gembey was on his side.

  Gembey had a paternal attitude. Emme
tt knew him as one of the Oxford University trained civil servants, confident, sharp, and literate, blending in well at External Affairs — but Emmett saw a weakness in him, a failure of confidence and the consequent desire to please men whom he considered more powerful than he was. Gembey knew all the mannerisms of authority, but he lacked self-belief, he lacked goodwill.

  Gembey said, “Tell us what you know about this man, John Norfield.”

  Emmett said, “I knew John Norfield in the past.” To Morton, he added, “I’ve met you before too. A long time ago.” It was nearly seven years ago, in 1946, when he’d met Mr. Farce in Leonard’s apartment, a few months after Leonard had disappeared, apparently to Russia — to Moscow, or to drive a tractor on a collective farm by the Black Sea.

  Gembey softly persisted. “Has this man Norfield been in touch with you in the last year?”

  “I haven’t seen John in a long time.”

  “Yet you were close friends, you and him,” Morton observed.

  “Not really.” This was a complicated question, their friendship. He could say that much honestly.

  Harold Gembey asked the questions after that, but he often looked at Robert Morton, as if Morton were a ventriloquist. “Remember things as accurately as you can,” Gembey told Emmett.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  Gembey glanced quickly at Robert Morton before responding, “Certainly.”

  “Has something happened to John?”

  Even the sergeant, Partridge, who’d been silent throughout, straightened.

  Robert Morton spoke. “He’s been arrested.”

  “What for?”

  Morton stood up. Gembey eyed Morton uneasily as he spoke to Emmett: “MI-5 picked him up.”

  “John’s in England,” Emmett said, surprised.

  Gembey scratched his head and admitted reluctantly, “Well, he was.” He looked worried, maybe he was giving too much away. They all looked uneasy, embarrassed; it would be, after all, embarrassing if the Brits deported a Canadian spy. “We’re keeping it out of the newspapers,” Gembey said. He looked Emmett in the eye. “He got off.” With a quick, contemptuous glance at Morton, he added, “Unauthorized surveillance. No case.” Then slowly, as if he were trying to cipher something, protect Emmett, or protect himself, Gembey asked, “When was the last time you saw John Norfield? Think carefully.”