City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (3 page)

He took the candy and unrolled two. “New addiction?”

“They’re better than fucking Kools.”

He laughed aloud for a few seconds, genuine this time. Hesitated in front of her desk, then leaned in suddenly, hands pressed flat against the surface.

“Miranda … you’ve met the Fifth Column. How’d you like to tackle the war head-on? Help your country and earn five thousand dollars?”

Scent of mentholated tobacco and Dunhill for Men, and somewhere south of Market a church bell. Toll four times,
ding dong ding dong,
but don’t ask for whom the bell tolls, lady, because no man is an island, and no woman, either. Favors don’t come free.

She chewed the candy and swallowed.

“That’s a lot of money. What is it, a suicide mission?”

Silky voice, persuasive. “Nothing of the kind. But we can’t risk government involvement. No Bureau, no Dies Committee, no Army and Navy investigators, no State or War or even Treasury Department. Nobody traceable to us.”

Miranda reached for the discarded cigarette half. Flicked the Ronson, deep inhale.

“I see. I’m expendable, and my reputation isn’t exactly Lady Astor. So if I’m caught—I’m caught. What am I supposed to be caught doing?”

“As I said, service to your country at a time of crisis and uncertainty…”

“Christ, you sound like a politician. Which crisis, James? Which country? The miners in Kentucky? The Negroes in Georgia? Or the middle-aged bankers who think FDR’s a Red and want to leave England to Oswald Mosley and Unity Mitford?”

He retreated to the edge of the chair, hands held out as if trying to push her back.

“We both know the war’s coming, Miranda. We don’t have a choice.”

“Bullshit. You had a choice in ’39, when they blitzkrieged Poland, tanks against horses. You had a choice in ’38, when Hitler swallowed Czechoslovakia, and Chamberlain waved a piece of paper in the air. You even had a choice three years ago, when the Spanish Republic was begging for guns and the Germans bombed Guernica, and most of the world sat by and watched from a front-row seat.”

Miranda shook her head. “The war’s already here, James. It’s been here for a long time.”

He ran his fingers through his hair again, fidgeted with his hat brim. She kept her eyes fixed on the red coal of the Chesterfield and the fine line of gray at the tip, voice low and terse and careful.

“Go ahead and talk. Lay it all out, nice and neat, and maybe I’ll take you up on your offer. But don’t for a fucking second try to sell me a story about the grand old flag and the boys in Congress. If I work, I work for myself—not you or Uncle Sam.”

He looked up and cocked his head, mouth stretched in a conciliatory line.

“Look, ducks, politics is an ugly business. And I know you love your Uncle, or I wouldn’t be here. Be thankful you can still make speeches like that. The French can’t.”

Miranda crushed the stub in the ashtray.

“My terms, James. Talk.”

He sighed, hands pressed together between his knees.

“We have reason to believe a local university professor is a spy. Possibly for the Nazis, possibly for the Reds, though the German connection is most likely. He’s been in and out of the Nazi consulate here several times a year, social occasions, parties. He’s on friendly terms with Hitler’s old commander Fritz Weidemann, your burly consul general—both members of the Olympic Club. He travels, too … took a few trips down to Mexico, visits Chicago and New York regularly.”

Miranda reached for the Old Taylor bottle, pouring another shot in the Castagnola glass. Held it up to MacLeod. “Want some? Or will this kill me, too?”

He shook his head, smiling. She tossed back the bourbon, shuddering a little. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“So you don’t know who he’s spying for. Any idea about whom or what he’s spying on?”

The lines around his mouth deepened. “We’re afraid he could be smuggling information related to weapons and armament development. He’s a professor of chemistry, has access to certain research going on at Berkeley. He’s written papers on how gas was used in the last war. We think he may be passing what he knows to the Germans.”

“So why not sic the FBI boys on him—or even hire Pinkerton? Why come to me?”

“Hoover can’t be everywhere, no matter what his PR men claim. Our department would like to handle this ourselves, but we can’t risk one of our own agents. And Pinkerton’s too big, too political, too well known—and too risky. We need someone outside the establishment, someone they’d overlook. Someone unim…”

He caught himself. Half a smile played across her lips.

“‘Unimportant’? Go ahead and say it, James. I’ve heard it all my life. Don’t forget to add ‘expendable’ … just in case.”

“I didn’t mean—”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, you did. That’s why you’re here. You’re slumming with the ex-escort you helped set up in business, a female private investigator you figure nobody would miss if she wound up floating in the Bay. Tell me something: Is this supposed information he has access to really that important? Would it make a difference, a real difference?”

MacLeod picked up the fedora in the seat next to him and ran his little finger under the hatband. Said slowly: “He’s supposed to be a science whiz, Miranda. Teaches chemistry but spends his money on art. We’re not sure what the connection is … or if there’s a connection. All we know is that he has access to sensitive information we’d rather not have him near. Plus his background shows an interest in weapons, particularly gas.”

He looked up at her. “We’re worried. Yeah, it could make a difference.”

Church bells south of Market and a fire siren up Battery, clang of the White Front, smell of the trawler’s catch and homemade wine drifting on the wind from North Beach.

Miranda nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

He let out a breath and spun the fedora on his index finger, back and forth, back and forth.

“Hitler’s agents paved the way for him in Holland and France, and we’ve already uncovered a large spy ring out of New York—that’s been dealt with. But we don’t know what this bird is doing, what he’s selling, what he’s buying. He travels too much and makes too much money. We want to know what his business is with the Krauts and the Reds.”

“I’m not a scientist—how would I know what to look for?”

“You don’t need to recognize a formula, Miranda. We just want you to follow him, report on where he goes and who he meets, times, places, faces. If you could get a look at his luggage, so much the better.”

He stretched a hand across the desk for the Old Taylor bottle and poured another shot in the Castagnola glass.

“You mind?”

“Be my guest.”

MacLeod swallowed, setting the glass down with a clank. Rubbed the back of his neck uneasily.

“I shouldn’t have come. I don’t have a right to get you involved, but Jesus, Miranda, nobody knows what the hell to do. Hoover wants control over South America and everyone else is fighting over what’s left. Bill Donovan’s canvassing England on some kind of hush-hush mission for FDR. No one expected France to fall so hard and so easy. Pétain officially surrenders today, you know. The collaborators are already in line. Goddamn Germans seem invincible.”

He stared past her toward the window.

“Everything we do had better make a difference, because that fat old man in Downing Street is the only hope Europe’s got left.”

Churchill and a little island of green. Plenty of Blackshirts there, too, Lords and Ladies, Old Order welcoming New, Duke and Duchess of Windsor claiming Hitler as a pal and the Honorable Mitford girls giving the Fascist salute. The sun may never set on the British Empire, but the swastika might, jackboots crushing the toy planes and teenage boys of the RAF.

England. Last hope for the world, for Europe, for two women named Corbie who may or may not be mother and daughter.

She passed a shaking hand over her forehead and opened the top drawer of the desk. Slid a Martell’s Liquors calendar out from between two accounting books and set it in front of her, flipping the pages to June.

“How long is the assignment?”

“As long as it takes to confirm or deny our suspicions.”

She raised her eyebrows. “That’s pretty open-ended.”

“The pay’s good. Half up front, plus all expenses. You’d travel. In style, too. The target likes the
City of San Francisco
streamliner.”

He cleared his throat and looked away, flush creeping up from his collar. “I can also sweeten the pot, Miranda. We had word from the British consulate that you’d like to get to England. Mind telling me why?”

No secrets. Not from Uncle Sam. Final trick played, goddamn blue eyes making her forget he held the cards.

“You don’t own me, MacLeod. I thought we established that.”

“There’s a war on, Miranda.”

She grasped the edge of the desk, knuckles white. “And I don’t need you to remind me of the fact. Either you trust me or you don’t. And if you don’t, then why the fuck are you wasting my time?”

He grunted. Match point.

“I can get you booked on the
Cameronia
provided a U-boat doesn’t sink it first. August or September. I’ll pay for the train ticket to New York and a round-trip passage to Liverpool.”

“You expect I’d be finished in time to collect?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know. I wish I did.”

They sat across from one another in silence, Market Street horns and the guttural roar of White Fronts and Municipals filling the room, blending and dancing with the blue-gray smoke.

She said: “I’d be completely on my own?”

“You’d report to me. But if something happened—I couldn’t do a goddamn thing. No friends, no family involved … though that wouldn’t be a problem for you.”

Her voice was heavy. “No. No, it wouldn’t.”

“Your father teaches at the University of California. Same place as the target. It’s a perfect cover.”

Her eyes fell back to the cracks and scratches in the dark, shining wood. A tremor ran through her left arm.

“When do I have to decide?”

Apologetic smile. “Right away, unfortunately.” He gestured toward the brown envelope. “I brought the briefing papers in the hope you’d say yes.”

“I’m already working on something else.”

“As long as you’re prepared to travel whenever the professor does, you can keep up your normal casework, Miranda. In fact, we want you to—it’ll help shield you from suspicion.”

Another church bell, slow and sonorous, and she could almost smell the olive trees, taste the thick red wine.

Johnny, who wanted to cover the war in Spain.

Who wanted to make a difference.

You’re a good soldier, Randy. A good soldier …

Her eyes stung, unexpected moisture. Her voice was steady.

“I’ll do it.”

No grin of triumph from MacLeod.

“I won’t lie to you, Miranda. You’ll be taking your life in your hands.”

A warm breeze blew through the window, disturbing the dried-up wings of dead moths from the sill. It smelled of salt and beaches and Ivory soap, of coeds in bathing suits and young men building sand castles on the shore.

“It’s been there for a long time.”

He jumped up, impulsively grabbing her hands across the desk and holding them in his. They were warm and strong, palms dry, skin rough and reassuring.

“Welcome aboard, Miranda.”

She poured another shot of bourbon and raised the glass. Gave him half a smile. “To making a difference.”

Three

The money lay on the rusted shelf, crisp, dry, and green, two bundles still wrapped in bank paper.

$2,500. A hell of a lot of cash. Now she’d have to earn it.

Miranda started to close the door of the old Wells Fargo safe, the thick doors and dark, quiet interior remembering earlier days, when gold dust was the currency and Lotta Crabtree danced in the mining camps, ankles flashing amid gold nuggets thrown on the ground at her feet.

James held a hand out. “Wait.”

She watched him, curious, as he reached inside and picked up the Baby Browning on the shelf below. He held it in his palm, grinning.

“This isn’t legal, you know.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I’d advise you to carry it from now on. Excellent gun for undercover work.”

Her mouth twisted up at one corner. “So I’ve been told.”

He laughed and replaced the pistol, letting her shut the safe. The heavy door squeaked until it finally latched with a clack.

“Was that a .38 next to it?”

“Astra. Spanish. Takes .38 ACP or 9mm Largo. I prefer loading it with the former.”

“Ah.” He was silent for a moment, watching her twist the dial. “Pick it up when you were there?”

She flicked a glance at him. “Why the hell are you so interested in my guns, MacLeod? I’ve got a license to carry and I know how to use them. End of story.”

The grin spread across his face, making him look younger, more like the man she remembered. “Wanted to make sure you’re taken care of, is all. We normally issue a .45 pistol, the M1911. I can get you one, if you’d like.”

Miranda shrugged. “I don’t need it, but go ahead if it’ll make you feel better.”

He laughed, put a hand on her shoulder. “I want you armed and dangerous, ducks.”

She handed him his fedora. “I can shoot.”

“Yeah, so you’ve told me.”

MacLeod pulled the hat brim low and gestured to the brown envelope on her desk.

“Check-in instructions are there, along with the long distance and local telephone numbers. I plan to be in San Francisco for a few more days, unless they call me back to Washington for something else. If Jasper leaves the area, phone me immediately. I probably don’t have to tell you to memorize what you need and destroy the papers when you’re done.”

“I’ve already seen
Confessions of a Nazi Spy.
”

He clapped her on the back, laughed again. “Miranda, you’re giving me my heart back. But then again … you’ve always had it.”

He winked at her, bent over her hand and kissed it. She pulled it away and spun him around to face the door.

“Don’t get giddy. I plan to collect on that
Cameronia
ticket.”