Allegiance (26 page)

I am impressed that the file exists at all, but it does not give me much to go on. I study the photograph clipped to the folder. Bendetsen sits at a desk in his army uniform, dark hair slicked back. About the mouth he resembles Bogart, and I think he knows it, for in the photo he has adopted Sam Spade's calculating squint. All that is missing is the cigarette dangling from cynical lips.

I look into the pictured eyes and speak aloud. “Are you my man?” He is from the West. He could have an economic interest in acquiring Japanese land, I suppose, or in eliminating the competition of their farms and orchards. His advancement through the ranks is clearly tied to his role in the evacuation. It would be an embarrassment to see the program rejected by the Supreme Court; it might cast a shadow over his career prospects. But it does not seem enough of a motive for murder. Perhaps fear of exposure, if he thought Gressman was getting close to unmasking him. Or perhaps, I think, I am looking in the wrong place after all.

Felix Frankfurter does not share my doubts. “I understand this man,” he says. “It could be him. He would go that far.”

“Why do you think that, Justice?”

“He might do it for love of country alone. There is something desperate in the patriotism of the unassimilated. The refugee who has lost one home and will not lose another. The man who pushes another out of the boat fearing lest it be him instead.” Not for the first time, it occurs to me that Frankfurter has a keen eye for his own traits when they occur in others. “And yet . . .” Frankfurter hesitates.

“What?”

“His interest would not extend beyond the Japanese cases. Bendetsen gives us no explanation for the range of activity, the attention to corporations.”

“Maybe he got distracted when he realized there was a chance to make some money.”

Frankfurter nods. “We must not discount cupidity. Surely it would be a temptation, no matter what purpose set the plan in motion. But Bendetsen cannot be a full answer. This scheme has been in place for a while. From before internment was dreamt of, if I am not mistaken. From before Pearl Harbor. Its roots go deeper than that.” For a moment he is lost in thought, his face unfocused. Then his attention gathers itself to a point and aims at me. “You have turned up quite a lot of information on this man, and very quickly. Do you mind if I ask how?”

“The FBI,” I say. “Hoover has a file on him.”

Alarm flits across Frankfurter's face, followed by a severe frown. “He does not know why you requested it,” he says. “He does not know I am involved.”

“Of course not, Justice.”

Frankfurter's brow relaxes; then his lips tighten. “Hoover can be useful,” he says. “But do not think you can control him. And do not think he performs favors for nothing. You may find you have incurred debts that will come due at an inconvenient time.”

ONCE AGAIN,
I meet Clara at Dupont Circle. She has insisted that we cannot meet at the Court; nor will she tell me where she lives so that I can pick her up in proper fashion. She is wearing a belted dress beneath her coat and has swept her hair up under a black cloche hat. Her skin, which can look olive in some lights, seems pale now, and her dark features stand out in sharp relief. “So, you have another plan for me? Dinner with a friend?”

Her tone is light and amused. Almost smug. But I do have a plan. “Yes,” I say. “This time I admit we're invited.” And then I point her to Cissy Patterson's house.

“That?” Her tone is different as she looks at the sweeping wings, the Italianate marble. “That is your friend's house?”

“Yes. Let's go.”

She is hanging back. “No,” she says suddenly. Her hand goes to her throat. “No, I don't want to.”

“Are you scared of something?”

“I will go to a movie instead if you want.” She is looking down and her voice is small.

“Oh, so now you think it's too risky? You want to hoof it?” I am trying for a playful tone, but I think she can hear something else underneath it, for color comes into her face and she straightens her back.

“I do not.” She leaves me behind as she crosses the street.

Dinner with a friend was not a fair description, I think as I follow her, for Cissy is not really a friend, and there are many other people there. And Clara certainly seems taken by surprise. I watch as each room of the house opens before her, and I can see how her lips part for a second before they tighten. She talks to the jugglers and magicians who mingle with the diplomats and social lights; she drinks one glass of wine quickly and starts on another.

At dinner the talk is still of war. But now the news is good. The Allies advance on every front, from the Pacific Islands to the steppes of Russia. British bombs fall on Berlin, and Mussolini must accept rescue from German paratroops. “And they've let Oswald Mosley out, too,” Drew Pearson says to Colonel Richards. “That must please you.”

Richards ignores him. Joe Patterson is not there to support him—I gather he is unwell—but Richards has been pushing ahead on his own. For most of the meal he has pressed upon me the necessity of ensuring that the expansive government powers—wheat quotas! price controls!—ushered in by the war are rolled back when peace arrives. Did I know they plan to take taxes from our paychecks before the money even reaches our pockets? I have been ignoring him in turn, watching Clara. This environment is plainly unfamiliar to her, but she is navigating it with a certain aplomb. There is a
Times-Herald
reporter to her left who is hanging on her words, leaning in to whisper stories.

“I met my wife here, you know,” Pearson says to me. “At one of Cissy's dinners.”

I don't know why he's raising the topic. “Cissy's daughter, you said.”

“That's right. We had an odd number, so Cissy called her downstairs and sat her next to me. I took her out afterward and gave her her first planter's punch. And the rest is history.”

“How interesting.”

“It's not. Not to anyone but me, and even I don't care so much anymore. But it's got a moral that you might find apropos.”

“What's that?”

“Reporters are hungry men.” He jerks his head toward Clara, who is spilling a lilting laugh at her
Times-Herald
companion. “Watch out.”

“Oh, no,” I say. “You misunderstand. I have no interest there.”

“Is that what you think?”

“What do you mean?”

Pearson just looks at me. Somehow the next sip of wine enters my trachea, and he smiles more broadly as I start to cough. Clara pounds on my back with a small fist. “Are you all right?”

“He'll be fine,” Pearson says. “A little trouble swallowing.”

Before I can speak she nods and turns away again. When dinner is over she leaves the table, losing herself in the crowd. “Excuse me,” I say to Pearson, and he nods encouragement.

As always, the house is filled with entertainers. The parlor is a smoky cabaret, jazz piano and drunken singing. A juggler is on the stairs. But Clara is nowhere to be seen. As I continue my progress, a magician blocks my way. “You seek a maiden?”

It's the guy from my first visit, I think. “Not your card tricks, anyway.”

“Is this a trick?” It is the same guy; that, or they have a standard line of patter. Which also seems likely enough, as I think about it. “Are these cards?” He makes a conjuring pass, and suddenly he's holding a spray of flowers.

“Thanks, I'll take those.” I pluck them from his hand.

He gives me a sly smile. “Think what you really bring her.”

“What?” Something in his eyes unsettles me. I look down, and I am holding a bunch of dead sticks. A fist of bones. I can't see how he's doing it, but then I'm fairly drunk. “What is it with you?” I hand them back; in his grasp they bloom again.

“She's dancing,” he says. “Go forth, young knight.”

I get to Cissy's ballroom, half expecting to see Clara surrounded by admirers, but she is standing by herself. The mirrors on the facing walls hold an infinite row of solitary girls in black dresses, whom infinite boys approach with slow steps. Life's limited patterns in eternal return. I can see now the magician has left a carnation on my lapel, which emits a jet of water as I toss it away.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” I ask.

“Do you want me to?”

“Of course,” I say, even as part of me realizes it isn't wholly true. I am a little annoyed, in fact, at how even here she seems to have all the answers. Beauty is the universal solvent.

“You're not sure, are you? Maybe not, if you're not the reason?”

The glass of wine in her hand must be her fourth now, but this is still pointed. “You're pretty bold.”

“Would I be here if I weren't? I wouldn't be clerking at the Supreme Court. What kind of woman do you think gets that job? You think someone just called me up and offered it? It's easier with the war, of course, but it wasn't handed to me. Nothing was, except an apron.” She twirls, a trifle unsteady, looks down at her dress. “And I seem to have lost that somewhere along the way.”

“You've got a real chip on your shoulder, don't you? You might try being a little more . . .”

“Feminine?”

“No. You're plenty feminine.” She smiles and looks down again. “I just mean that I've found things go better if you get along with people.”

Clara nods. “Have you ever thought that what works for you might not work for everyone? That maybe you're in a slightly different situation than I am?”

Suddenly I feel stupid. Of course it is true. I resented her reference to the phone call, but that is exactly how I got my job. And certainly not how she got hers. I parry with a compliment, the only way I know. “That's a beautiful dress.”

Clara smiles. “Thank you. It's handmade.”

“Oh, so's my suit.” I offer a shoulder seam for her inspection. “It makes a real difference with the stitching.”

She fingers the fabric, seeming puzzled. “You don't mean you . . . or your mother?”

“Of course not,” I say. “There's a man in town. What, did you . . . ?” My voice trails off. Clara is looking at me with a curious mixture of embarrassment and contempt. Others have come into the ballroom now; there is a burble of chatter all around. Somehow it only makes the lengthening silence between us more apparent. “So,” I say. “How about a movie next time?”

Clara laughs. It is incredulity more than anything else, but I have caught her off guard. She gathers her face into a smile under the dark eyebrows, the multicolored eyes. “What could match this production?”

“Seriously. How about it?”

She sips her wine again and looks at me. “I must admit I was mistaken,” she says. Toleration edges into her smile. “You have talked me into it.”

The silence between us has a different feel now, warmer, suggestive. There is a sense of rising possibility, perhaps my favorite feeling of all. Cissy's voice breaks in.

“Cash! You've been hiding your light under a bushel.” She stops as Clara registers. “And your friend.”

“Clara Watson,” I say.

Cissy is dripping emeralds and seems somewhat liquid herself. “My,” she says to Clara. “You're an exotic, aren't you?”

Clara blushes. In an instant, every trace of confidence has gone.

“Turn your head so I can see, dear,” Cissy continues. An unaccountable anxiety is creeping through me. She inspects Clara from another angle. “I was married in this room, you know. Every time we have the candles lit I remember. It was filled with flowers all across the mantles and I saw them go on forever.” Her voice goes soft. “An eternity of lilies.”

“How beautiful,” I venture.

“Deceptive,” says Cissy, still in her reverie. “Nothing goes on forever. Life consumes life. Everything we have is taken from someone else. And it will be taken from us in turn.”

I am at a loss, and Drew Pearson's arrival is a relief. Until he speaks. “Oh, no, Cissy,” he says. “Some things do go on forever. This story, for instance. Though like the candles it's only by virtue of indefinite repetition. Can we skip to the part about what a brute your husband was?”

Cissy's eyes sharpen. “Someday, darling, I'll play chopsticks on your bald, fat head with a meat cleaver.”

“Well,” says Pearson. “Till then.”

Cissy turns back to us. The hate in her face is fearsome to see. That we are not its cause is small consolation, for we are still the only outlet to hand.

“What was I saying?” Cissy asks. “Ah, yes. Where is your family from?”

I can barely hear Clara's response. “Seattle.”

Cissy laughs, and if I ever thought Clara's tone cutting, I can see now that
she is an amateur. “No, dear, I mean what country. I don't think it's so long ago that you've forgotten.”

The answer is even quieter. “Germany.”

“But,
Watson
?” I say. It is not my idea of a German name, and I am about to remark on this when something in Clara's face stops me. She flushes deeper; her hand goes to her neck. She looks small and wretched, nothing at all like the serenely superior girl who mocked my ice cream and movies. It is what I wanted—I understand now that this is why I brought her here—but I don't feel triumphant. I feel protective, and sick, and very, very sorry.

“I think perhaps we'll go now,” I say.

Cissy's teeth are like daggers in her smile. “But we're having such a marvelous conversation.”

I am trying to think of a polite way to insist when a tumult of noise from behind Cissy spares me the trouble. There is the smack of fist on flesh; there is the crash of glassware on a marble floor. From what I can see over her shoulder it looks as though Drew Pearson has finally made good on his repeated promises to take a swing at Colonel Richards. The two of them go to the floor together as guests clear a circle. Cissy loses interest in us at once.