Authors: David Downing
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.”
He asked how her family was treating her.
“Like a homecoming queen. But what have you been doing?”
“Not much, compared to you. Jed and Mac had arranged everything by the time I got here, and they seem so proud of how professional they’ve both become that I’ve more or less left them to it. I’ve been doing a lot of walking—I even got lost the other day.”
“In Manhattan?”
“Well, I expect I’d have found my way home, but a six-year-old sold me directions for a dime.”
She laughed. “Have you taken the Staten Island Ferry? That only costs a nickel, and it’s a lovely ride. When I go away, it’s usually the first thing I do when I come back. Like I’m saying hello to the city.”
“I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“Oh, and Central Park. You have to walk from one end to the other—it’s close to three miles. But pick a nice day.”
“Maybe we could do that together.”
“I’d love to, when I have some time to spare. Now I have something to ask you. My aunt invites you to lunch next Sunday—will you come?”
“Oh. Of course. I’d love to,” he added, though his emotions were actually mixed. He welcomed what the invitation implied about her feelings, but couldn’t help worrying over how Cumming and Kensley might seek to exploit it.
“Didn’t you think you’d be meeting my family?” she asked.
“I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about that.”
She took his hand. “Much as I like being ravished in luxury hotel rooms and train compartments, I think it’s time we brought our romance into the open.”
“You’re not going to announce that we’ve been enjoying intimate relations since Shanghai?” he asked, more than slightly alarmed.
She laughed. “At the dinner table, you mean? No, I don’t think so. But I’d like you to meet my family, and I’d like them to know that you and I are … are fond of each other.”
“Have you told them anything about me? About us?”
“Just my Aunt Orla. What you do, where you come from, how we met. That we like each other.”
“Will they all be there? At dinner, I mean.”
“Maybe not Fergus, but everyone else. And there’s a young man from Ireland who’s staying with us for a few weeks.”
“Will I have need of the Scottish accent?”
“Just a touch, perhaps.”
McColl had cause to visit Central Park earlier than he expected. The note on his carpet the following morning was brief and to the point: “59th and Fifth at 10:00
A.M
., NK.” He saw the others off to the showroom, lingered over a second coffee in the hotel restaurant, and took the elevated on Sixth up to the Fifty-Eighth Street terminus. It was a fine spring day; above the soaring buildings the sun was playing hide-and-seek in a forest of white clouds.
Kensley was waiting on the specified corner, wearing the usual clothes and smoking the usual cigarette.
“Why the change of venue?” McColl asked as they dodged across the busy street toward the park entrance.
“It always pays to keep them guessing,” Kensley said. “And my girlfriend tells me I need the exercise.”
They walked down a wide pathway, a small expanse of water
off to their left. McColl had recently read a newspaper article lamenting the state of the park, but it didn’t look too neglected.
Kensley stopped to light a new cigarette from the butt of the old. “Cumming has a proposition for you,” he announced.
“Yes?”
“A full-time job with the Service.”
“I see.” It was what he had wanted, but what would Cumming want in return? “And how would that work?” he asked warily.
“What do you mean?”
He wasn’t going to do Kensley’s work for him. “Well, I’d need a new cover story for a start.”
The Canadian grunted. “Well, you wouldn’t be much use with an automobile permanently in tow. So yes, you would. But I’ve no idea what Cumming has in mind—something diplomatic perhaps.”
“Not a permanent posting somewhere?”
“I doubt that very much. He tells me you speak nine languages, and I expect he intends to make use of them all.”