by Greenberg
She opened the door and slid over close to Clint. Osborne piled in and shut the door. “Let’s have it, Mrs. Aintrell.”
“They seemed pleased. Mr. Jackson told me that he’d already sent word to have Bob looked after, knowing in advance that I’d cooperate. And he gave me sixty dollars. He made me take it. Here it is.”
“Keep it all together. He’ll give you more. They love to pay off. They take some poor, idealistic fool who wants to help the Commies because he was nuts about Das Kapital when he was a college sophomore. When the fool finds out what kind of dictatorship he’s dealing with and wants out, they sweetly remind him that he had accepted their money and he thereby established his own motive, and it is going to make him look very bad in court. So bad he’d better keep right on helping. By the way, thanks for the loan of the letters. The boys are tabulating them tonight.”
“What do I – ?”
“Just keep doing what you’re doing. Feed them dope from the Sherra file.”
“Oh, I forgot. Jackson mentioned that Sherra was contacted once. Is that important?”
“We know about it. Sherra reported it.”
“Can I have that last letter back? The one from the prison camp?”
“You’ll find it in the box with the others. I’ll get a report from the handwriting experts soon.”
“That’s a waste of time. I know Bob wrote it. It sounds like him.”
“Take her home Clint, before she convinces me,” Osborne said, getting out of the car, “Night, people.” The blackness of the night swallowed him at once.
On Wednesday and Thursday Francie turned more copies of the Sherra file over to the Jacksons, receiving each time, an additional twenty-dollar bill, given her with utmost casualness and good cheer by Stewart Jackson. On Friday afternoon Francie was called into Dr. Cudahy’s office by Clint. Cudahy was not there. Just Luke Osborne. He looked weary.
As Clint paused uncertainly in the doorway Osborne said, “Sit in on this, Reese.”
Clint pulled the door shut and sat down. Osborne was in Cudahy’s chair.
“What have you found out?” Francie demanded.
“How long can you keep playing this little game of ours, Mrs. Aintrell?”
“Forever, if it will help Bob.”
Osborne picked up a report sheet and looked at it, his expression remote. “There’s this report of the handwriting. They say it could be his handwriting, or it could be a clever forgery. There are certain changes, but they might be the result of fatigue or illness.”
“I told you he wrote it.”
Osborne studied her in silence. He looked more than ever like a prosperous Midwestern farmer worried about the Chicago grain market.
“Now can you take it on the chin?”
Francie looked down at her linked hands. “I – I guess so.”
He picked up another sheet. “Tabulation report. It has a cross reference of the words in previous letters. We have numbered all his letters chronologically. Letter Four uses the term ‘crumb-bum.’ In Letter Sixteen there is a sentence as follows: ‘Put old Satchmo on the turntable, baby, and when he sings “Blueberry Hill,” make like I’m with you in front of a fireplace.’ Letter Eighteen has a reference to Willy in it. And Letter Three mentions – ah – the green housecoat.”
Osborne colored a bit, and Francie flushed violently as she remembered the passage to which he referred.
“What are you trying to tell me?” she asked, in a low voice.
“There are no new words or phrases or references in that letter Stewart Jackson gave you. They can all be isolated in previous letters. We can assume that Jackson had access to those letters during the first few weeks you worked here.”
“I don’t see how that means anything,” Francie said. “Of course, Bob would write as he always writes, and talk about the same things in letters that he always talked about. Wouldn’t that be so?”
“Could be. But please let us consider it sufficient grounds – that and the handwriting report – to at least question the authenticity of the letter Jackson gave you. Remember, the handwriting report said that it could be a forgery.”
Francie jumped up. “Why are you saying all this to me? I go through every day thinking every minute, that if you slip up, just a little, Bob is going to die, and die in a horrible way. I’m doing the very best I can to keep him alive. If you keep trying to prove to me that he’s been dead all the time, it takes away my reasons to go through all this – and I just can’t see it like – ”
She covered her eyes and sat down, not trying to fight against the harsh sobs.
Osborne said, “I’m telling you this, Mrs. Aintrell, because I want you to do something that may end all this, before you crack up under the strain. I never like to have anybody follow orders without knowing the reason behind the orders.”
Francie uncovered her eyes, but she could not answer.
Osborne leaned forward and pointed a pencil at her. “I want you to re-establish friendly relations with these Jacksons. Talk about your husband, talk about him all the time. Bore them to death with talk about your husband. Memorize the three items on this little slip of paper and give the slip back to me. I want those three items dropped into the conversation every chance you get.”
Francie reached out and took the slip. There were three short statements on the paper: “Willy wears a green hat.” . . . “Bob broke the Goodman recording of the ‘Russian Lullaby’ accidentally.” . . . “You met in Boston.”
It gave Francie a twisty, Alice-in-Wonderland feeling to read the nonsense phrases. She read them again and then stared wildly at Oborne, half-expecting that it would be some monstrous joke. “Are you quite crazy?” she asked.
“Not exactly. And not all those words appear in the letters. We know you are clever, Mrs. Aintrell. We want you to tell the complete truth to the Jacksons, except for those three statements on that slip of paper. We assume they have a photostat of those letters, too. Nothing in the letters contradicts those three statements. You are not to repeat them so often that the Jacksons will become suspicious. Just often enough to implant them fimly in memory. Then we shall wait for one of those false statements to reappear either directly or by inference, in the next letter you get from your husband.”
“And if they do, it will mean that – ”
“That the army’s report of your husband’s death was correct. And that the Jacksons have been working one of the nastiest little deals I have ever heard of. Very clever, very brutal, and, except for your courage, Mrs. Aintrell, very effective.”
With forced calmness Francie said, “You make it sound logical, and it might be easier for me if I could believe it. But I know Bob is alive.”
“I merely ask you to keep in mind the possibility that he may not be alive. Otherwise, should that second letter prove to be faked, you may break down in front of them.”
“She won’t break down,” Clint said.
Francie gave him a quick smile. “Thank you.”
“Just be patient,” Osborne said. “Keep turning data over to them. Skip a day now and then to make it look better. We’re trying to find their communication channel. When we find it we’ll want you to demand the next letter from your husband. Maybe we can have you risk threatening to cut off the flow of data unless you get a letter. But get friendly with them now, and work in that information.”
That night Francie walked down the shore path to the Jackson camp. She saw Stewart through the window in the living room. He let her in. Betty sat at the other end of the room, knitting.
“A little eager to deliver, this time, aren’t you?” Stewart asked. He shut the door behind her and she gave him the folded packet. He glanced at it casually.
“Is something on your mind, Francie?”
“May I sit down?”
“Please do,” Betty said.
Francie sat down, sensing their wariness at this deviation from routine. “This is something I have to talk to you about,” she said. “I – I know I�
��d never have the nerve to consciously try to report you. But I am afraid of giving Dr. Cudahy or Mr. Reese a clue involuntarily.”
“What do you mean?” Stewart demanded, leaning forward.
“It’s just this: I think about Bob all the time. I think about how he is going to come home to me. It is the sort of thing a woman has to talk about, and there is no one to talk to. Sooner or later I may slip and mention Bob to either Dr. Cudahy or Mr. Reese. On my record it says that Bob is dead. They both know that. You see, I just don’t like this chance I have to take every day, of my tongue slipping.”
“You haven’t made a slip, have you?” Stewart asked.
“No. But today I – I almost – ”
Betty came to her quickly, sat on the arm of the chair. “Stew, she’s right. I know how it would be. Hon, could you talk to us, get it off your chest?”
“It might help, but – ”
“But you don’t particularly care for our company,” Stewart said.
“It isn’t that exactly. I don’t like what you stand for. I hate it. But you are the only people I can talk to about Bob.”
“And perhaps get into the habit of talking about him? So that you’d be more likely to make a slip?” Stewart asked.
“Oh no! Just to have someone listen.”
Stewart stood up. “I want to impress on your mind just what a slip might mean, Francie. Not only would it mean you’d never see Bob again, but you wouldn’t be around long enough to – ”
“Leave her alone!” Betty said hotly. “A woman can understand this better than you, Stew. We’ll be substitute friends for a while, Francie. You go ahead and talk your head off. Stew, it will be safer this way.”
Stewart shrugged. Francie said, uncertainly, “I may bore you.”
“You won’t bore me,” Betty said.
“I’m bursting with talk. Saving it up. I’ve been wondering what to do when he gets back. He’ll be weak and sick, I suppose. I won’t want to be here. I’ll try to get a transfer back to Washington. I could rent a little apartment and get our things out of storage, I keep thinking of how I’m going to surprise him. Little ways, you know. He used to love our recording of ‘Russian Lullaby.’ The Benny Goodman one. And then he stepped on it. I could buy another one and have it all ready to play.
“And after I got the – the telegram, when I packed our things I was sort of shaky. I dropped Willy and chipped his green hat. I saved the piece, though, and I can have it glued on. You know, I can’t even remember if I ever told him about saving the flowers. I pressed them – the ones I just happened to be wearing the day we first met in Boston. White flowers on a dark-blue dress. I can get some flowers just like them. When he comes into the apartment, I’ll have the record of ‘Russian Lullaby’ playing and Willy with his green hat fixed on the mantel and a blue dress and those flowers. Do you think he’d like that, Betty?”
“I’m sure he will, Francie.”
“He isn’t the sort of man who notices little things. I mean, I could get something new for the apartment and I’d always have to point it out to him. He used to – ”
She seemed to be two people. One girl was talking on and on, talking in a soft, monotonous, lonely voice, and the other girl, the objective one, stood behind her, listening carefully. But the ice had been broken. Now she could talk about Bob and they would understand just why she had to. The words came in a soft torrent, unbroken.
After that, the days went by, and the constant strain was something she lived with, slept with, woke up with. The Sherra file was exhausted, and after careful consideration of the three team leaders, Cudahy brought Tom Blajoviak into the picture. Tom was enormously shocked at learning what was transpiring, and he was able to go into his personal files to find the basis for a new report on work that would in no way prejudice the current operations.
Stewart Jackson, although disappointed at the way the Sherra reports had reached negative conclusions, was pleased to begin to receive the Blajoviak reports.
Francie knew that she was becoming increasingly dependent on Clint Reese. No one else could make her smile, make her forget her precious moments. It was a quality of tenderness in him, of compassion, yet jaunty in its clownface.
And since that one night he never again put any part of his heart into his voice when he spoke to her. She thought that she could not bear it if he did.
During a frigid mid-November week Betty Jackson went away on an unexplained trip. Stewart collected the daily portions of the Blajoviak report. He smiled at Francie too much, and made clumsy, obvious passes which she pretended not to notice.
Betty left on a Tuesday night. She was back Friday night. Saturday morning Luke Osborne talked to Francie alone in Tom Blajoviak’s tiny plywood office. Osborne was having difficulty concealing his jubilation behind a poker face.
“What have you found out?” Francie demanded, her voice rising.
“Nothing about Bob,” he said quickly.
She sagged back into the chair and closed her eyes for a moment.
Osborne went on, “But we’ve gone places in another direction. Can’t tell you too much, of course. But I thought you’d like to know. Evidently, they’ve been under orders to keep contacts at a minimum. I believe that Mrs. Jackson acted as a courier for everything accumulated up to date. She has good technical training for the job, but I don’t think she has the feel for it. We put enough people on her so that even if she could push a button and make herself invisible, we’d still stay with her.
“Her contact is from one of the control groups we’ve been watching. She met him on a subway platform and went through a tired old transfer routine. He gave the stuff to a deluded young lady who works in Washington, taking a oneday vacation in New York. She took an inspirational walk when she got back to Washington. Visited national shrines by night and was picked up by the traditional black diplomatic sedan. By now those no good reports have cleared Gander, chained to the wrist of a courier from one of the cold war countries.”
“Why are you telling me all this, Mr. Osborne?”
“It’s time to get impatient. We know all we have to know. It has been a month since the first letter. How has it been going?”
“All right, I think. I don’t think I’ve overworked those three things you told me to say. But it seems so pointless. I’ve been friendly. I help her with those lures they make, enameling them. And we talk a lot.”
“Start tonight. No letter, no more reports. My guess is that they’ll tell you one is on the way.”
“One probably is.”
“Please, Mrs. Aintrell, keep planning on the worst. Then if I’m wrong, it will be a pleasant surprise.” Osborne smiled. “Young lady, you are doing fine, but, remember, give them a bad time tonight.”
That evening fat, wet flakes of the first November snow were coming down as she walked down the trail toward the Jackson camp. She walked slowly, rehearsing her lines.
She went up on their porch, knocked, and opened the door.
Betty put her knitting aside. “Well, hi!” she said. “Off early today.”
Stewart was near the fire, reading. He put his book aside and said. “An afternoon nip to cut the ice?”
Francie stripped off her mittens, shoved them in her pocket. She unbuttoned the red coat, looking at them somberly. She saw the quick look Betty and Stew exchanged.
“I came over to tell you that I didn’t bring you anything today. And I’m not going to bring you anything from now on.”
Stewart Jackson took his time lighting a cigarette. “That’s a pretty flat statement, Francie. What’s behind it?”
“We made a bargain. I kept my end of it. A month is more than up. As far as I know, Bob may have died in that military prison. When I get the letter you promised me, the letter saying that he’s better, then you get more data.”
“Hon, we can understand your being impatient,” Betty said, in an older sister tone. “But don’t go off half-cocked.”
“This isn’t just an impulse,”
Francie said. “I’ve thought it over. Now I’m doing the bargaining. You must be reporting to somebody. They’re probably pleased with what you’ve done. Well, until I get my letter they can stop being pleased, because you’re going to have to explain to them why there aren’t any more reports.”
“Sit down, Francie,” Stew said. “Let’s be civilized about this.”
Francie shook her head. “I have been civilized long enough. No letter, no reports. I can’t make it any clearer.”
Stewart smiled warmly. “OK; there’s no need of hiding this from you, Francie. We just didn’t want to get you too excited. A letter is already on the way. I’m surprised we haven’t gotten it already. Now, do you see how foolish your attitude is?”
It startled Francie to learn how accurate Luke Osborne’s guess had been. And the rightness of his guess strengthened her determination. She turned from them, took a few steps toward the fire.
“No letter, no reports.”
Stewart’s smile grew a bit stiff. “You are being paid for those reports.”
“I thought you’d bring that up. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t care what might happen to me. Here is step two in my ultimatum: Either I get my letter within a week or I consider it proof that Bob is dead. Then I’m going to go to Dr. Cudahy and tell him about you and what I’ve been doing.”
She took pleasure in Stewart’s look of concern, in Betty’s muffled gasp.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Betty said.
“You’re bluffing,” Stewart said. “Sit down and we can talk it out.”
Francie pulled her mittens on and turned toward the door.
Stewart barked, “I insist that you act more reasonably, Francie!”
“Look me up when you’ve got mail for me,” Francie said crisply.
She slammed the door behind her and walked along the lakeside trail. She felt neither strength nor weakness – just a gray, calm emptiness. When she got home the fire she had lit was blazing nicely. She sat on the floor in front of it, looking for Bob’s face in the flames.
On Monday after listening to her report, Osborne said, “Now, understand this: You’ll get a letter. If the letter proves by content to be a fake, it will be up to my superiors to make a policy decision. Either we take them into custody or we flush them and see which way they run. If the letter doesn’t prove anything one way or another, then we go on as we are and wait for the report through Formosa. That may take until Christmas.
