Hamilton, Donald - Novel 02 (23 page)

 
          
Kirkpatrick
cleared his throat, suddenly drawing the attention of everyone in the room to
the presence of the big man they had forgotten, still standing by the door.

 
          
“I’ll
be back,” he said. “Dr. Kissel is in his laboratory, over in the restricted
area. I’ll bring him around.”

 
          
As
he pulled the door open, Dr. Kaufman said, “Just a minute, please,” and turned
to the seated girl. “Ann,” he said.

 
          
Ann
looked up at him. With the thermometer in her mouth she looked, Emmett thought,
like a frightened little girl sucking a lollipop, perhaps in a police station
where she had been taken after being found, lost, on the street.

 
          
“Ann,
do you
want
to see Reinhard Kissel?”
the psychiatrist asked. “Are you ready to see him? You don’t have to until you’re
ready, you know.”

 
          
Emmett
saw Ann’s eyes find him briefly and then look away; there was something almost
furtive in the quick glances. He was suddenly afraid to hear what her answer
was going to be. Then Kirkpatrick laughed, swinging them around to look at him
again.

 
          
“Baloney,”
the big man said. “I’ve been beat over the head with one senator and three
congressmen to make me arrange this; now you’re going to hear what the old man’s
got to say whether you like it or not.” The door hissed closed behind him.

 
          
There
was a small tinkling sound of breaking glass. Ann stood up, slowly and
carefully crushing into powder the stem of the thermometer she had spit out on
the floor. She walked to the end of the room, nobody moving, and stood staring
at the blackboard. Someone had been playing games with chalk on the board; the
crosses had won five straight, Emmett noticed, over the noughts; one game was
incomplete. Ann’s shoulders were shaking. After a while, Emmett realized that
she was laughing. He watched her apprehensively, remembering her hysterical
laughter of the night before. When the doctor and nurse started after her, he
said angrily:

 
          
“Goddamn
it, leave her alone!”

 
          
They
stopped and, after a pause, turned back; Helene Bethke idly kicking the smashed
remnants of the thermometer out of sight beneath the chairs. Ann had picked up
a piece of chalk and finished the incomplete game, the crosses winning again.
Emmett walked slowly down the long room to stand beside her. She drew another
grid on the board and marked a nought in the center box. He picked up a piece
of chalk and put a cross in the corner.

 
          
“Take
it easy,” he said without looking at her.

 
          
“Don’t
let him touch me again. Or her either.” She choked on a reminiscent giggle. “But
wasn’t he
funny
when that man said
baloney? Did you see his
face?”
The
giggle came back. She could not seem to stop it.

 
          
Emmett
put his hand on her wrist and drove his fingers cruelly into her flesh. He felt
her fight back the incipient hysteria; then her breath came easily again and
she tugged at his hand. He released her.

 
          
“Thanks,”
she gasped. “Now go away.”

 
          
He
glanced at her. She would not look at him. She had not looked at him directly
all day.

 
          
“Go
away,” she breathed. Her voice shrilled on the edge of uncontrol. “I don’t want
you here.
Go away!”

 
          
He
wanted to take her in his arms, but he sensed that she would either strike him
or burst into tears if he touched her again. He put the chalk back into the
trough and walked back to Mr. Nicholson. You could go to heaven with company,
he thought, but apparently you had to go to hell alone.

 
          
Mr.
Nicholson said, “If I’d known what this would involve, Emmett, I’d have told
you to go to hell. What does that G-man think we’re going to do, anyway? Blow
the place up and murder his pet scientist?”

 
          
The
nurse said, “Mr. Nicholson was carrying a cigarette case that set off some kind
of alarm on the door. Some kind of a cell, they said. Really, you never heard
such a noise. And then a soldier searched him…”

 
          
“Exactly
who is this man Kissel, anyway?” Dr. Kaufman asked. “I understood him to be
just another refugee scientist.” Emmett moved his shoulders in a shrug meant to
indicate that he did not know, or knew but did not care to tell, however they
wanted to interpret it. He was aware that Ann had turned to face the room
before he sensed the door opening behind him, and looked around.

 
          
The
man who came in was quite tall in spite of his stooped posture; he had thick
black hair streaked with white. He wore bifocal glasses without rims set on a
rather large nose that had been broken and thickened in the bridge, like the
nose of a boxer. He wore a dirty brown laboratory coat that reached below his
knees; and he walked with the aid of a heavy cane with a crook handle, resting
against it for a moment as he came in, locating the girl at the other end of
the room, and considering her and the path he would have to take to reach her;
then starting forward again. Something about the way he wielded the cane hinted
at swordsmanship.

 
          
Kirkpatrick,
who had come in behind him, closed the door and stood free of it. The big man’s
eyes had a curiously unfocused look, as if he were watching everything in the
room at once. His hands hung clear at his sides, and his feet were a little
apart. The old man walked deliberately away from him, limping, the cane
punctuating each alternate step. Waiting, Ann slowly tilted her head back as he
approached, looking up at him, tall above her, as he stopped in front of her.

 
          
Dr.
Kissel said harshly, “I never expected to see you again, Frau Monteux.” The
German title and the French name took them back to another place and time.

 
          
Her
lips barely moved. “No.”

 
          
“Five
years, is it not?”

 
          
She
nodded almost imperceptibly.

 
          
“And
you do not remember?”

 
          
She
shook her head.

 
          
He
said, “Some things it is better to forget, eh? Sometimes I wish I, too, could
forget.” The harsh voice did not quite slip into sarcasm, but the hint was
there.

 
          
Ann
was silent. Emmett, watching her, was aware of the sound of typing from the
outer office. It seemed loud and insistent. There was another sound, like the
whining of an electric clock. He glanced at the corner from which it seemed to
come and saw the machine there, half hidden behind the chairs, and understood
why this room had been selected for the interview; the microphones above the
table were recording.

 
          
“I
understand that you remember our meeting in the corridor outside my cell in the
Gestapo prison in
Paris
,” the old man said. “You have remembered my name. But that is all?”

 
          
Ann’s
lips formed the word, yes.

 
          
“But
you have no idea why our guards went through the elaborate formality of
introducing two scarecrows whom they never expected to meet each other again,
Frau Monteux? You were really not aware at the time that they were throwing
your name, and your husband’s record with the resistance, in my face? that they
were taunting me with the fact that a woman, a girl, had more courage than I? I
had just agreed to work for them.”

 
          
Ann
was silent, motionless.

 
          
The
old man went on, “I spent a great deal of the remainder of the war, Frau
Monteux, recalling the way your eyes had stared at me, I thought with contempt.
Perhaps you were the biggest factor in driving me to make the rather stupid
attempt at sabotage and flight that led them to send me to Glaubnitz. It is
strange how one’s own conscience can… And all the time you did not know and did
not remember!”

 
          
He
started to turn, using the cane as a pivot.

 
          
“And
I?”

 
          
He
paused, glancing at her. “There is nothing for you to look back on with
anything but pride,” he said bitterly.

 
          
“You’re
sure? How can you be sure?”

 
          
“We
had adjoining cells, you remember.”

 
          
“But…
you’re
sure?”
she breathed.

 
          
“Quite
sure.” He cleared his throat and said reluctantly, “I… took steps to find out.
It would have made me, frankly, feel better about my own weakness to know that
you had capitulated. But you did not speak in the prison. You did not speak in
the hospital to which you were taken, very ill, a few days following our
meeting. I could not trace you further, but I understand you were sent to one
of the eastern camps. What happened there I do not know; but by that time, by
using your name, the Gestapo had already tricked the information out of certain
of your associates, so it does not really matter.”

 
          
“They…
used my name?”

 
          
“One
of their standard practices,” the old man said. “To show one prisoner what
purports to be a transcript of another prisoner’s testimony. I have no doubt
the American police use it occasionally.”

 
          
“I
see,” Ann whispered. “Thank you.”

 
          
Dr.
Kissel glanced at her again. After a moment he took a fresh grip on his cane
and strode, limping, back to Kirkpatrick, who opened the door for him and let
it close again behind him; but they could hear the sound of the cane receding
through the corridor and outer office. Then it was gone. Kirkpatrick
straightened up, as if he had been listening intently and had heard something
reassuring. He walked slowly to the machine in the corner, threw a switch; and
the faint whirring stopped. He turned to face Ann.

 
          
“Congratulations,
Miss Nicholson,” he said. “I’ll have a copy of Dr. Kissel’s statement sent to
the
Chicago
police. It will at least give them
something to think about.”

 
          
Ann
reached behind her to steady herself; then her shoulders streaked the chalk
marks on the blackboard, as she crumpled to the floor.

 
          
Mr.
Nicholson walked down the length of the room with his hands deep in the pockets
of the jacket of his gray seersucker suit, drawing the garment tight across his
buttocks. “I tell you, Emmett, the evidence seemed conclusive. I find it hard
to blame myself…” His voice trailed off. He reached the streaked blackboard and
swung around and came back toward where Emmett sat on the big table dangling
his feet aimlessly, watching. Mr. Nicholson’s face looked redder against the
gray of his hair and suit. The room seemed to fit him, Emmett thought; you
could tell that he was a man at home in conference rooms. “Of course, I never
really
believed
my daughter could
have…”

 
          
Emmett
listened with a flat sense of anticlimax. Everything had been much easier than
he had anticipated. His fears of the day before seemed in retrospect
melodramatic and rather silly; no one had tried to trap them or hurt them. It
was hard to remember that a man had been murdered in
Chicago
. The nightmare quality of the situation had
been dissolved, as if by daylight; and it was hard to keep from wondering if
the whole thing had not existed only in the tortured imagination of a girl
obsessed with the question of an older guilt, now answered.

 
          
No
one had made a betraying dash for the nearest window, or been shot down by
Kirkpatrick in the act of drawing a gun. It seemed to Emmett that the federal
man must also have a flat and foolish taste in his mouth, after all his
precautions. The only flaw in the entire performance had been that the girl who
had been exonerated, instead of being radiantly happy, had fainted—which was reasonable
after the strain she had undergone. Kirkpatrick, the closest, reaching her
first, had picked her up and carried her out of the room. Dr. Kaufman and the
nurse had followed, leaving Emmett and Mr. Nicholson to wait.

 
          
Mr.
Nicholson paused in front of Emmett. “I can’t understand it. I tell you, I
checked every possibility. Except this one.”

 
          
Emmett
said, “Doesn’t what Kissel said explain what happened, sir? The Nazis arranged
for her to seem guilty; maybe they even made a deal with the person who actually
squealed to protect him by letting the records read that way. When your
investigators got to work, they found the phony records, and there you are.
Personally, I’d rather take the word of one eyewitness than any number of old
Gestapo dossiers and affidavits.”

 
          
The
older man frowned at him, then turned away again and strode nervously down the
room. “I was so sure. I thought I had done everything I could. I saw no valid
reason for risking having our shame made public by investigating further. I
thought I knew exactly what Kissel would say. If I’d only acted when I first
heard about him—!”

 
          
He
made a helpless gesture with his hand, indicating vain regret. Emmett could not
quite reach the source of the older man’s emotion; it seemed to him that he was
missing something, but he could not grasp it.

 
          
He
asked, “What are your plans for her now, Mr. Nicholson?”

 
          
Ann’s
father glanced around, his face hardening, as if anticipating conflict. “I
think that after her experiences a rest in a quiet sanatorium still wouldn’t do
her any harm. I’ll have to discuss it with Dr. Kaufman, of course.”

 
          
Emmett
said, “No.”

 
          
Mr.
Nicholson turned to face him. “Just out of curiosity, young man, not that it
makes a particle of difference, but why do you say that?”

 
          
Emmett
said, “She doesn’t need a sanatorium.”

 
          
“That’s
hardly a matter for you or me to decide, Emmett.”

 
          
“Listen,”
Emmett said, “that girl’s as healthy as I am. What people seem to forget about
her is she was tough enough to live through an experience that killed a
majority of people exposed to it. Now you want to wrap her in cottonwool for
the rest of her life and encourage her to brood about how sorry she is for
herself. Nuts to that.” He grimaced. “Look at the way she’s managed to pull one
out of the hat every time she’s needed it, so far. Stevens must have given her
a terrific shock, but she recovered and headed west to check on what he’d told
her; and when I met her a few hours later she was acting like a nice normal
person. That morning in Boyne after she is supposed to have tried to kill
herself she was scared stiff, yet she hung on long enough to escape from you
and the doctor; she remembered an address I’d only mentioned once, and had
enough left to put on a good act for the lady running the place. She didn’t let
herself come apart until she was as safe as she could make herself. And when we
went out of there she still had the shakes, but you should have seen her pull
herself together when she had to. The only trouble with Ann, Mr. Nicholson,” he
said, “is that everybody’s been encouraging her to have hysterics at the drop
of a hat. Sure she’s forgotten three months of her life; sure she’s been
worrying about it, but Kissel’s settled that. She can forget it. Or remember
it, if she wants to. She’s all set to go now, and you want to stick her in an
asylum and let her go back to being a helpless invalid! Nuts to that, Mr.
Nicholson.”

 
          
Mr.
Nicholson said dryly, “You rather fancy yourself as an amateur psychologist,
don’t you, young man?”

 
          
Emmett
ignored him. “As for Kaufman and the blonde menace, she hates them and is
scared of them. Whether she’s justified or not,” he said, making a concession
to the quick challenge in the older man’s face, “I see no reason why she should
have to have a doctor who makes her skin crawl.”

 
          
Mr.
Nicholson said, “You seem to have my daughter’s life all arranged for her.”

 
          
Emmett
glanced at him, hesitated, and said, “I ought to. I married her yesterday.”

 
          
He
watched the older man start, begin to speak, catch himself and turn away. Mr.
Nicholson walked to the blackboard before speaking.

 
          
“I
see.”

 
          
Emmett
did not say anything. Mr. Nicholson turned.

 
          
“I
could probably have it annulled.”

 
          
Emmett
remained silent.

 
          
“Do
you want money?”

 
          
“No,”
Emmett said.

 
          
“Then
why—?”

 
          
Emmett
said, “Mainly because I was afraid you’d try to pull a fast one on this
interview, Mr. Nicholson. I figured if I was married to her I had something to
deal with.”

 
          
Mr.
Nicholson smiled thinly. “You’re a smart young man, Emmett. I did consider
something like that. However, I would have had to ask Mr. Kirkpatrick to
cooperate, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to confessing that I was so
certain my daughter was guilty of treason that I didn’t even think it worth
while to let her… He cleared his throat. “Then you’re not in love with her?”

 
          
Emmett
said, “That hasn’t got much to do with the situation, has it?” He knew that his
voice had changed a little, and was annoyed at himself. “The fact is that I
have a legal right to a voice in her affairs; and if I should walk out that
door now, for instance, and find that she’d been slipped away and stuck into an
institution somewhere, I’d raise a stink from here to the coast. I wouldn’t
care who it made trouble for. She’s my wife and she’s not going to be put away
for anybody’s convenience.”

 
          
The
door opened, letting in the clatter of typewriters from the outer office.
Emmett stopped talking abruptly, surprised and somewhat embarrassed by his own
vehemence. Helene Bethke waited politely in the doorway, as if apologizing for
the interruption and waiting for him to finish.

 
          
“Mr.
Nicholson,” she said at last. “We’re ready to leave now, Mr. Nicholson.”

 
          
Ann’s
father looked up. “Is she all right?”

 
          
“Oh,
yes. Just a momentary reaction from strain, very natural. She’s waiting for you
in the car, Mr. Nicholson.” She held the door for him, and waited, as the older
man went on, for Emmett to pass her, before letting it close again. She walked
through the office beside Emmett. He glanced at her; today, for the first time
since he had met her almost a week ago, she was wearing a uniform, her body
armored in starched white cotton, her legs and feet institutionalized by white
stockings and flat white shoes. The shining yellow-brown hair was pulled into a
tight knot and partially covered by a prim nurse’s cap. She looked a little
sturdy and almost plain; and the heat of the day had already attacked the
crispness of her uniform, but he could remember her otherwise, and looked away
quickly before she could catch him watching her. He held the outer door for
her. “So you married her?”

 
          
Emmett
glanced at her again. “Yes.”

 
          
“Congratulations.”

 
          
He
did not say anything.

 
          
“Why
are you afraid of me, Emmett?” the blonde girl asked.

 
          
“Shouldn’t
I be?” he asked. “After that chloral cocktail you tried to feed me in Denver?”

 
          
“It
wouldn’t have hurt you,” she said negligently. “All we wanted was to learn
where she was.”

 
          
Her
eyes, watching him, were very blue and hard and unfeminine, and it seemed to
him suddenly that nothing was settled, nothing solved.

 
          
He
asked, “Aren’t you going to try to convince me that I imagined it?”

 
          
Helene
Bethke said quietly, “Don’t be clever, Emmett. You don’t know as much as you
think you do. You’re not as smart as you think you are. You’ve been luckier
than you deserve, and so has she. Be thankful for what you’ve got.” She patted
his cheek lightly. “Don’t try for the jackpot, little boy. Leave it alone, now.”

 
          
She
turned and walked away through the blinding sunshine toward where Dr. Kaufman
and Kirkpatrick were talking politely to Mr. Nicholson beside his car, a long
Buick.

 
          
Emmett
followed her slowly, but stopped as he came abreast of Ann’s car, opened the
door, and retrieved the sunglasses he had hung on the crossarm of the steering
wheel. On a sudden impulse he reached over and opened the glove compartment on
the far side, the car parked left side to the curb. The snub-nosed revolver he
had taken from the man who had been following them two nights before—if the man
had been following them—slid out into his hand. The weapon, quite hot from the
closed compartment, was a reminder that somewhere, presumably in a hospital, an
unexplained individual named Henry McElroy was waiting for a shoulder to heal.
Perhaps the police were already on the trail of the fawn-colored convertible
with the Illinois plates;
and if not,
Emmett asked himself,
why not?
Over a
day had passed. They had not been stopped along the road. It almost seemed as
if the man must be shielding those who had attacked him.
But why?

 
          
He
slipped the gun into his right hand slacks pocket, backed out of the car, and
straightened up to put on the dark glasses; then closed the door of the
convertible. As he walked toward the waiting group, he could feel the weight
and bulk of the revolver in his pocket, but he did not dare to look down at
himself. He felt awkward and conspicuous, as if he had lost a button from his
trousers.

 
          
He
was stopped by Kirkpatrick’s outstretched hand. “I understand congratulations
are in order, Mr. Emmett.” Emmett shook the big hand and made some response.
Kirkpatrick clapped him on the shoulder. “Take good care of her. The little
girl’s had a tough time, but it’s all fixed now, eh?” The big man turned to Mr.
Nicholson. “No hard feelings, sir? You understand, I’ve got a pretty big
responsibility. Kissel’s damned important to us. But I’m glad to’ve been able
to help you out, even if you did have to twist my arm to make me like it.”