Keeping Secrets (29 page)

“I don't go into that, and neither will you,” he said without turning around. “Mr. Tetzel keeps the key himself.”

3

By the end of the week I knew I was bound to get involved more deeply, because I had learned just enough to cause the BNA to want more. Sunday was a clear, breezy day with blue skies and white clouds crossing over like brush strokes. I sat out on a bench, enjoying the sun's warmth on my face. Within a couple of minutes I saw a man come from the front door of the Menger lobby, fold a newspaper under his arm, and cross the street. Certain to be him, I thought, then was surprised to see him stroll off toward the post office, passing me by. Just after, another man approached from behind and sat down on the bench. His complexion was light and his hands were long and slender, with prominent veins. His hat brim covered his forehead, so I didn't get a good look at his face or his eyes. Though he proved to be the man with whom I would have frequent and intimate meetings, I never did get a good view of his facial features.

I looked ahead. In a moment he said the code words, in a clipped dialect. I sighed and said, “All right, mister—what shall I call you?”

“My code name is Edwin.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything you have learned this past week.”

“Who do you report to?”

“Stobalt.”

I still couldn't look at him, but I knew he was smiling at my thoroughness in checking him out. I reported fully, playing up the fact that my evidence was very inconclusive, hoping the frailty of what I said would cause him to suggest we part company forever. Instead he nodded slightly, and replied, “Your next step will be to have a look at the general ledgers to see whether any unusually large amounts are being transferred regularly into individual accounts. I'll need a list of the names and addresses of these accounts, along with amounts and dates over the past three months.”

“Now see here, maybe Michael Stobalt didn't enlighten you on this, but I don't work with ledgers. I work for Mr. Tetzel directly. I couldn't possibly get my hands on them without arousing suspicion.”

“You will display a desire to learn all you can about the running of the bank, in order to be of more help to Tetzel by better understanding your job,” he said. I had an uncomfortable feeling Edwin had been reading my thoughts. He continued, “One day, you will ask to be taken to the room where the records are kept, and have a brief lesson from a bookkeeper or whoever is in charge. Then one night, after everyone has gone, you will find a way of getting back into the room to look around.”

I was aghast!

“It may take several nights, of course, to get the job done. By the way, have you got to go through the main lobby to get to the other floors?”

“No. There's an employees' entrance, with a separate staircase.”

“Is there a night guard?”

“One, but he stays around the main lobby most of the time.”

He nodded, and I thought the instructions were over, but I was mistaken.

“Oh, and we will need pictures of Tetzel and all his immediate staff, and as time goes by, anyone who proves to be involved with him in his espionage activity. There's a vest-pocket camera in the package I've brought along here. When I leave, you should pick it up. Instructions are included on how to use it. Of course, if you could find another way to get pictures—maybe you're a Kodak enthusiast—you could easily find excuses to photograph people. They don't have to know your reasons. Usually people love to have their picture taken.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, you must move into a private place. Find an apartment.”

“I can't afford an apartment—they're expensive,” I protested. At that point I was boiling mad, and talking louder, using my hands. Edwin put a finger to his mouth and folded his arms. I took the hint and said softly, “Do you expect your organization to pay the bills?”

“Unfortunately, we're a poor bunch of amateur spies. We don't have much money. Many of the top people in our outfit are spending from their own private funds. We aren't like our enemies, who have unlimited amounts to spend in this country. I'll try and get some extra cash for you, though, and maybe in a few weeks you could ask for a raise in pay.”

“I just got one.”

“Prices are going up everywhere. Use that excuse. It's for—”

“I know, a good cause.”

“Is there any way you could get access to that little compartment in Tetzel's safe—maybe you could search his suit coat for a key, or his desk—”

“Look, I always considered myself brave, even reckless at times. But do you realize you are endangering my job if I get caught? Do you know what kind of position you are putting me in?”

“Keep in mind that what you are doing might ultimately save not only the jobs, but the lives, of many innocent people. And if you act discreetly, no one will have reason to suspect you're up to anything.”

“At least tell me what you expect me to find in his safe, and in those confounded bank ledgers.”

“He may have some vouchers or invoices for the sale of arms or metals in his safe. As for the ledgers—just have a look and give me the information. I can instruct you from there.”

“Well he certainly wouldn't be stupid enough to carry on that kind of business through the records of the bank.”

“We have certain evidence ammunition is being sold to Francisco Villa, as it has been sold to Victoriana Huerta in the past. We want to find out whether any of these sales are channeled through Tetzel's bank, via other parties. Nothing would be shown on the bank's registers except amounts of money. From the list of names you get, we can check out the sources.”

I let out a long breath. “I'll do it, but you have to get me more money.”

“I'll work on that. Meantime, if you could also be put in charge of carrying outgoing mail—you might find an apartment with the post office between it and the bank, so you could feasibly suggest taking on the job of dropping it off—except that you also have to be in charge of posting it.

“You would slip it out unposted, steam open the envelopes, and take what is important to Sam's Print Shop at the address I have written down inside the package. Ask for Sam and tell him the papers are for Edwin. He'll duplicate them for you on a machine in the back.”

“What if he isn't there?”

“Usually he is, and after the print shop closes at six o'clock, you can knock on the back door. Normally he stays pretty late. But don't let anyone else handle the papers.

“After you have that done, reseal the envelopes, stamp and mail them. You must not unseal the envelopes once they've been posted.”

“Why not?”

“That's a federal offense.”

“Oh … I'm not sure I wouldn't rather run that risk than to do all these things you have planned for me. Besides, I doubt I can manage the mail. The International Bank is big. It has a huge mail room, and mullets—runners—take care of the mail.”

“I speak only of Tetzel's private mail. You might offer to take what there is at the end of the day, rather than have it wait till the morning. You are in the position to capitalize on your youth and enthusiasm for your new job. That can be your excuse for all the extras you do.”

“Up to now all my enthusiasm has been genuine.… Where and when do we meet again?”

“I've written down a telephone number where I can be reached between six at night and eight in the morning. Call me when you have something and we'll arrange a meeting.”

“If
I have something.”

“Sure. And thanks, Camille.”

When he was gone I sat awhile longer, wondering why in the world I let myself get mixed up in this and wishing my mother had not chosen to come to San Antonio when she did. Most of all, I wished Edwin had not said “thanks.”

During lunch hours all the following week I looked for an apartment which met the specifications, though the closest I could find, considering my small salary, was hardly more than a room. Located on Houston at River Avenue, the apartment building was at least fifteen years old. It was not between the post office and the bank, but close enough so that I could reasonably offer to drop off the mail on my way home.

The place was not fancy by any standard, and right away I knew I was going to miss the indoor swimming pool and gymnasium at the Y. However, it did have several redeeming features, which the manager was careful to point out. “This unit was painted last summer,” he said, taking in the main room, tiny private bath, and kitchenette of which it consisted in one sweep of his hand. “Formerly this whole floor was rented by one family of high means, and for that reason a kitchen was built at the other end, and this little kitchenette was added for the maid. You're lucky. These rooms are on the corner, so that you have a view of Houston and River Avenue both, and two balconies.

“There's a laundry room and storage space in the basement, and you're within a block of a small grocery store with a bakery and a good meat counter, back on River Avenue.”

“But you see, I have no furniture.”

“That's no problem, miss. I can have some brought down from a vacant apartment up on the fifth floor. Small bed, chair, couple of tables and lamps. One dollar extra a month. How about it?”

I gave notice at the Y and moved in by the end of the following week. My renting a private place seemed to shock Cecelia, but she soon recovered and picked a roommate who shared her tastes in leisure activities. When I loaded the last of my possessions and started out, she looked over the top of her book and said, “You ought to be careful. The streets aren't safe for women nowadays, remember.”

“That's the least of my worries,” I said.

When I was about halfway down the hall she suddenly hurried toward me with our sickly-looking ivy plant. “Take this as a going-away present,” she said. “It never grew very well in our room—probably not enough light. You could put it out on one of your balconies, but don't let it freeze.”

I thanked her, and as I had no extra hand in which to carry it, she put it in the crook of my elbow and said, “Well, good luck now,” and hurried away. Thanks a lot, I thought. What I needed was a sick ivy plant.

The furniture promised by the manager was waiting inside the rooms, and when I put everything down and sat on the edge of the little iron bed, I suddenly had an overflowing feeling of satisfaction. This was the closest thing to a place of my own I had ever had, where I would be the one to say when I'd come and go, and whether or not to fix a meal or leave a lamp burning late at night. I was possessed of a strong urge to bounce up and down on the bed, but then remembered it did not belong to me, so I got busy scrubbing and putting my things away in the chest provided by the manager and the small closet next to the bath.

I could get a bright-colored spread for the bed and some pictures for the walls, I thought. When I watered the ivy and set it out on the River Avenue balcony in the sunshine, I noticed the grocery store across the street and down the block. Butler Grocer Co. It reminded me I hadn't stopped to eat all day and it was nearly three o'clock. I decided to walk down and buy a few things for the pantry. As I descended the steps in the apartment hall, my spirits went in just the other direction. If one good thing came out of this whole spy mess, it was having my own apartment. True, it had no river view, but it was mine, and I was truly on my own at last. I went humming into the grocery store, past the pickle and cracker barrels near the door; I picked up a loaf of bread, a tin of George Washington Coffee—having no coffeepot, I'd have to make mine in a cup—a pound of butter, a wedge of American cheese, a can of Gebhardt's Chili with rice, a box of chocolates, and some grape juice. I didn't know how to cook so I skipped the meat counter and the produce section. Then I saw someone opening the pickle barrel, and made a quick detour to dip down and get a big juicy one for myself.

The young fellow who tallied my bill and boxed my groceries was tall and muscular with not quite but almost blond closely cropped hair. He had a strong, prominent jaw and a serious expression across his otherwise pleasant face. He put all the things carefully into the box, then looked across at me with eyes that were an almost startling shade of ocean blue. “We have green beans on special today—five cents a pound—and carrots a penny a bunch.”

“Thanks, I don't need any.”

“Do you need meat? Got some good beef for pot roast.”

“I don't cook much.”

“Can I carry these to your car, or deliver them?”

“I'm walking, but thanks anyway,” I told him and picked up the box.

“If you live nearby, I could walk you home and carry these.”

“Is that part of the service?”

“No, but I could get away for a few minutes.”

“All right.”

Out on the street he introduced himself as Keith Butler. His father had been in business on that corner for twenty years. He had an older brother, Kenneth, who'd become a dentist, and Keith went to college part-time and helped at the store. His father was the butcher, his mother ran the bakery and kept the books, and two other employees, with Keith's help, took care of just about everything else. From his description, they sounded like a wholesome, respectable group. We discovered we'd gone to the same high school, but he was two years ahead of me and we had never met.

“You live with your folks?” he asked when we got to the apartments.

“No, I'm strictly on my own.”

From his expression I wasn't sure if he was shocked or impressed. He offered to carry the groceries up, but I told him not to bother and thanked him for his help.

“You'll come by again, won't you?” he asked. “Mother's been baking special breads and pastries for a party we're catering tonight, but usually on Saturdays she makes butter streusel kuchen—the best in town.”