Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Fifteen minutes later, Florence brought in the mail, and Broadstreet sighed his relief. “Is something the matter?” Florence asked him.

  “I don’t know,” said Broadstreet. “There’s an inconsistency in these reports”—he gestured to the stack of files—“and I don’t know if that’s important or not. Inconsistencies don’t always mean deception, do they? But they might.” He had made the answer up on the spur of the moment, but now that he had said it, he decided it was a useful tack to take in terms of pursuing information. “I should send a wire to Phil Rothcoe; he can assign one of his men to check these things out. I can’t manage it from here.”

  “You’ve said before that inconsistencies are one of the hazards of field work, and this is probably just more of the same,” she reminded him as if addressing a favorite teacher. “Why ask for more field work to clarify matters?”

  “Yes, I understand your point,” he agreed. “But it’s those inconsistencies that lead to problems—that is why cases remain open when they should be closed. I want to be able to settle the cases on these professors, once and for all, and that means taking the time to find explanations for all the information that is lacking, and all the statements that are contradictory.” He did not add that it would make his reputation if he did, and that he would be able to get the promotion that had eluded him for so long. He wondered how he might work Baxter into Wallace’s information, once he got Alice Jamison to tell him what it was.

  “I called in your lunch order,” said Florence, as much to get his attention as to impart what she had done on his behalf.

  “Thanks,” he said a bit distractedly. Then he looked up at her. “Sorry.” He reached into his trouser-pocket and pulled out a small coin purse from which he took out two half-dollars and a dime. He gave her his version of a smile. “Keep the change.” He added a nickel to his offering. “Get yourself a roll to go with your salad.”

  She took the coins, an unreadable expression on her face. “Thank you, Mister Broadstreet,” she said tonelessly before she turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  In a kind of self-torment, Broadstreet waited to open his planted letter last, wanting to make the most of this moment. He ordered the various letters in a single stack, overseas letters on top, domestic letters underneath. He noticed one of the envelopes said Grant Nugent as the return addressee and was post-marked St. Louis. This he set out on the desk, wondering what Hapgood’s brother-in-law had to tell him now. Last of all, he picked up the envelope addressed by a standard Royal ten-point typewriter, his first name misspelled—he thought that was a nice touch—and no return address. It was post-marked Wilmington, Delaware, two days ago; the envelope was somewhat wrinkled as if it had been carried in a pocket that was too small for it—another nice touch, he felt.

  The intercom buzzed.

  “Yes, Florence?” Broadstreet asked, annoyed.

  “I’m going up to lunch, Mister Broadstreet. I’ll be back within the hour.” She clicked off, and he was distantly aware that he had offended her in some way, although he had no such intention. “Women,” he muttered as he continued his inspection of the letter he had been at such pains to make look right. The lined yellow paper off a legal pad was a clever choice, and the small coffee-stain in the right-hand corner gave it the air of something written in haste. The text was a mix of script and arbitrary printed capitals, suggesting the writer was attempting to disguise his handwriting, which, of course, was true. He read it through twice, glad that he had chosen to put his brief message in the middle of the page, the ink a standard blue, bought with the lined paper at Deering Office Supplies in Philadelphia, where he had paid cash and had not kept the receipt. He noticed the few grains of beach sand that were in the envelope, hardly more than six or seven, something that anyone might ignore; he had brushed them off his sleeve after he had spent half a day in his little boat on Christmas weekend. There were no fingerprints on the paper beyond the few he had supplied when he opened the letter to read it: Broadstreet had worn thin cotton gloves when he worked on it; he had thrown the gloves into a public garbage can in Oxon Hill, Maryland. He had covered his tracks very well, he told himself. There was no way to trace all this back to him. He congratulated himself on his accomplishment.

  Mr. Broadstreet,

  I have Tried twice beFore to contact you in regard to the maTTer I approached you about, but was unable to Keep our appointment to discuss. Now I would like to Try to see you at the same place at twelve-thirty on this coMing Thursday. CoMe alone. IF this is conVenient, call MAdison 7-430 0, in AleXandria and leave an answer for me with the recepTionist conFirming the appoinTment.

  BaXter

  He folded the letter carefully and put it back in the envelope, trying to decide how best to approach Channing with this. He should call him, probably within the hour, and make a case for keeping the appointment. He would be surveilled, that much was obvious, but he had thought of a way to turn it to his advantage. He decided he would need to express curiosity and concern in equal amounts so that Channing would not be tempted to turn the meeting over to one of his restless young agents who had not yet received an overseas assignment. For ten minutes he remained at his desk, looking over his other letters, including the one from Rutherford, which informed him that Hapgood’s sister had received another letter from him, and in it he mentioned that he was going to go into the country for a couple of weeks in May—one of our group has access to a place near Nice, Nugent had written—and if she wanted to fly over and join him, he would be glad to see her. That was something worth looking into, Broadstreet thought. He would bring that up as well when he called Channing.

  At twelve-forty, he picked up the receiver and dialed the switchboard; he wanted his call logged in. “Please connect me to Deputy Director Channing, in the Washington satellite. This is Lydell Broadstreet.”

  “Just a moment, Mister Broadstreet,” said a bored woman, and there was the sound of dialing four numbers, followed by a quick exchange between the operator and someone Broadstreet could not hear. “I’m sorry, Mister Broadstreet. Deputy Director Channing is out of his office. Do you want to leave a message?”

  This was a worthwhile development. “Yes, if you would: tell him that I have had a note from Baxter.”

  “From Baxter?” the operator repeated.

  “Yes. Baxter.”

  “Anything else?”

  Broadstreet bit his lower lip to keep from laughing. “No, thank you.” And he hung up before a guffaw could burst out of him and ruin his whole scheme. He continued to laugh, but more quietly, delighted that things were going so well. This was turning out to be just what he had anticipated, he told himself, so he would have to be careful not to give himself away by too much confidence.

  Florence returned a few minutes later, carrying a rectangular steel tray with a one-inch brim and a white stoneware plate with his sandwich and two slightly wilted lettuce leaves on it, along with half a large pickle. The coffee-carafe, a creamer, and a white stoneware mug along with a rolled paper napkin containing a knife, fork, and spoon completed the array. “Your sandwich, Mister Broadstreet,” she said as she set the tray down on his desk, on the side away from the files and envelopes.

  “Thank you, Florence,” said Broadstreet. “I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

  She said nothing, giving him a long, sad look as she started for the door. “Enjoy your sandwich.”

  “Um-hum,” he responded, to let her know he was listening; he busied himself making stacks of the files and letters, and surmounted them with paperweights before moving the tray to the immediate front of the desk. The sandwich had been cut diagonally, with red-frilled toothpicks fixed in each half. Broadstreet opened the napkin, removed the utensils, tucked the end of the napkin into his collar to save his tie from getting spotted, removed the toothpick from the nearer one, and bit down. The meatloaf had both beef and pork in it, along with breadcrumbs, minced onions, salt, chopped celery, a smidge of garlic, and s
ome shredded cheddar cheese. Not quite like Broadstreet’s mother used to make, but a good, substantial sandwich nonetheless, he decided, and took a bite of the end of the pickle.

  He was on his second mug of coffee when the phone rang; the sound was so jarring that Broadstreet nearly dropped his coffee in his lap. Chiding himself for foolishness, he reached out for the receiver. “Broadstreet,” he said, pleased that he did not sound nervous. He drank the last of his coffee as he waited.

  “Will you hold for Deputy Director Channing?” asked a voice that Broadstreet did not recognize.

  “Certainly,” he said, trying not to seethe at this ritual of who-waits-upon-whom. The day would come when this would no longer be a trial for him, he reassured himself, tapping his fingers on the side of the mug.

  “Dell Broadstreet, what’s up?” said Channing with just enough condescension to remind Broadstreet that he, Channing, was the one in charge. “I understand you have a message for me?” He let his question be a challenge.

  Broadstreet did not like the phrasing Channing used, but he curtailed the sharp reproof that rose in his throat. “Yes, sir. I have a few developments that I thought I should discuss with you before I take the next step. I’m in new waters here, you know.”

  “Sounds important,” said Channing in a tone that implied that the developments had better be important.

  “I think it may be.” He took a deep breath to steady himself, then said, “I have a letter here from Baxter.”

  “Baxter, is it?” Channing said, his voice changing with saying the name.

  “It’s very brief, sir. And since it refers to the meeting that did not take place—obliquely, but clearly enough—I am pretty well convinced that it is authentic.” He waited long enough for Channing to say something, and when he did not, Broadstreet went on, “The paper and envelope will have my fingerprints, but there may be something useful the lab can find.”

  “I’ll have a messenger pick it up within the hour.” He sighed. “I’ll be glad when we’re all under the same roof, and not spread all over the region in satellite offices. Well. For now it can’t be helped.”

  “No, sir,” said Broadstreet, taking the letter and its envelope from under the paperweight.

  “What does Baxter say?” Channing asked.

  “He wants to meet again, same time, same place, next Thursday.” He paused a second or two, then added the risky part. “I think it might be worth another try. He’s a little like pulling teeth out of ducks, but I think we may be getting some place with him.”

  “You think so, do you?” Channing asked.

  “If he doesn’t show, then that’s the end of it. If he does, we might get useful information from him.”

  “I’ll order surveillance on you on Thursday. We’ll find out who this Baxter is one way or another.”

  “He said to come alone,” Broadstreet said.

  “Sure. They all do. And we promise them we will. But we know how to keep an eye on you and on him without making it obvious, as a precaution.” Channing sounded energized by this development. “I’ll call you tomorrow with the arrangements.” He sounded ready to hang up. “Anything else?”

  “Nugent’s brother-in-law tells me that Hapgood has asked his sister to join him in France, near Nice in May. Could be a real opportunity.”

  Channing coughed once. “All right. Send me your preliminary report on both of these today before you leave the office. I’ll want to study them this evening. You did the right thing in calling me,” he added, as if patting Broadstreet on the head. Then his receiver went down with a bang, leaving Broadstreet alone, vexed that he had forgotten to tell Channing about Florence leaving; he would put that in his report. “Roger. Over and out,” he said quietly to the sullen sky outside his window. Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair to grin as he finished the last dregs of his coffee.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM RUSSELL MCCALL IN PARIS TO JONATHAN HASTE-WINDLASS OF THE MIRROR IN LONDON, DELIVERED TWO DAYS AFTER IT WAS MAILED.

  Feb. 27, ’50

  Mr. J. Haste-Windlass

  The Mirror

  5-9 Fleet River Close

  London, England

  Dear Jonathan Haste-Windlass

  Your request for an opportunity to interview members of our group of ex-pats must be refused. I submitted your offer to the group and all but one declined your invitation; the one who did not decline also did not accept; he abstained. Most of our members have been exploited enough already, and do not want to dredge up our problems to help you sell papers. Surely there are other American ex-pats in Europe who might benefit from your attention; this group seeks to remain out of the public eye. There has been embarrassment enough to go around, and we are not anxious to renew the kind of commentary and public disrepute that caused us to leave our own country, in the first place, which might very well become yet another insult to our relatives back in the US. You claim you want to show our side of the accusations to the world, theoretically on our behalf, or so your message implied, but that would still require the revelation of various personal experiences which the group has made a practice of keeping private. I do not want to appear ungrateful, but the group has spoken, and I am bound to uphold the group’s decision.

  Why not asked Dalton Trumbo or Sterling Hayden to give you information on the witch-hunts? You may have to travel a way to find them, but a trip to Mexico isn’t so dreadful, is it? They’re a lot more famous than the members of our group are, and they have an international following, which we do not, nor are we seeking one. From what we hear, there are likely to be more actors and directors and screenwriters Black Listed before this is over. There are a number from Hollywood in Europe now, and their numbers are going to increase through this year, according to my contacts at The Washington Post. I believe your paper would get more mileage out of them than our academics.

  Sincerely,

  Russell McCall

  3

  THE BUILDING had once been a coaching-stable, but its transformation into a printing plant thirty years ago had not entirely erased the signs of the past: the largest of the offices had been stalls for the storing of large carriages and coaches, and the tack-racks in them had been kept for the hanging of ink-stained clothing. It stood a few blocks from the Baroque enthusiasm of the Opera, in a cul-de-sac that backed onto a park that had once been the private garden of the Duc de Orleans. The building stood a little apart from either of its neighbors—a company that made purses and briefcases, and a culinary supply warehouse—allowing the printers in the day, and tonight the Coven’s members, to park in the alleyways between them. The windows on the old box-stalls had been enlarged and were designed to be opened at the horizontal middle during the summer months; at present, all were closed but unshuttered, revealing a molten, late-afternoon sky. The day had been attempting warm but had not achieved it, and it was clear that the night would be chilly.

  “It’s the Vernal Equinox next week,” said Miranda Nevers, who, until a year ago, had been a professor of astronomy at the University of Montana, and who had been away from the Coven for almost six months, trying to find a position in Europe. She was forty-one, divorced, had a grown daughter living in Minneapolis, and three horses back in Helena, just now being cared for by her neighbor, Jasper Raskin; she was not sure if she missed her daughter or her horses more. “I always like the sky around the Equinoxes; day and night, light and dark, it all goes together so well.” She glanced over at Szent-Germain. “Sorry. I don’t know what kind of thing I’m supposed to say about printing presses.”

  He chuckled. “That’s fine. I like skies at the Equinoxes, too.”

  Moira Frost maneuvered Tim’s wheelchair out of the press-room, into the front reception room; she was taking care not to rush in such close quarters. Behind Tim, the Praegers came in, hand-in-hand, their pea-coats over identical turtlenecks and jeans. “Pleasant night, sorry we missed the tour,” they said almost in unison; they received a number of casual greetings in return.

  Tollive
r Bethune, in a beautifully cut dark-gray suit over a white linen shirt and a silk foulard tie, moved fastidiously away from the press-room, glancing toward the meeting room off to the east side of the building. He looked directly at the evening’s host. “Grof, you said there would be coffee? Do you mind if I help myself? No offense intended, but that room is pretty cool.” He seemed almost apologetic, and that made three of the others look at him, suspicion in their eyes; Bethune rarely apologized for anything.

  “Go right on in. It isn’t Chez Rosalie, but I trust it’s sufficient to our present needs. The coffee is at the far end of the room. There are pastries, if you want one, and if you’d like tea, there is a samovar. Rogers can help you,” Szent-Germain said, noticing that the members of the Coven were beginning to mill in the smallish area at the front of the building. “In fact, why don’t you all go into the meeting room? There are couches and chairs, as well as half a dozen tables. Make yourselves comfortable.” He stepped aside to give Stephen diMaggio and Hapgood Nugent the chance to go past him, into the meeting room.

  Axel and Julia Bjornson made for the meeting room as well, Julia brushing at her sleeve as if she feared it had been smirched with ink in the press-room; Winston Pomeroy smiled at Szent-Germain before going into the meeting room. Mary Anne Triding offered Szent-Germain an approving nod.

  Charis went to Szent-Germain briefly, saying fairly loudly, “Thanks for showing them the galleys of my book.” Then she lowered her voice and moved a little nearer to him, trying to pay no heed to the physical thrill that went through her. “I need to talk to you.”