Keeping Secrets (47 page)

“Well?”

“Electra Cabot was a prostitute.”

My mouth fell open. I couldn't speak.

“The agency began their search in a Texas town. They had the name Leslie Weems. They lost her—she apparently dropped out of sight for a while from what I could tell—then they picked her up again under the name Electra, kept a line on her up into several eastern cities and finally across to Colorado. The letters indicated she was pretty classy—as night ladies go—and the little town near Denver may have been her last stop because she'd been there five years, longer than at any other place.

“It's a pretty unfortunate story. In her early twenties she had one of those … uh … abortions—evidently a real butcher job that nearly killed her.” He paused, then asked, “You all right, Camille?”

“Sure,” I said weakly. I felt dizzy, and was thankful for the chair underneath me.

“Anyhow, when they finally located her, Cabot instructed them to buy out what was left of her contract with the house madam where she was working, and meet her expenses to bring her to San Antonio. Buying her out cost twenty-five hundred, and the agency fee was another twenty-five hundred.”

“So that's where the five thousand went that he mentioned to Aegina.”

“Listen, somehow I'm inclined to believe you're right about Electra's motives, now that I see what Cabot did for her. But we've still got to find out what she's doing with Tetzel. With a past like hers, she could have any number of reasons for becoming involved in espionage, whether or not she's doing it willingly.

“Remember, she's paying somebody behind Cabot's back and there is that gap in her history that even Cabot may not know how to fill in.”

“I understand … any suggestions?”

“Not tonight. I'm too tired to think straight. I'll meet you tomorrow at twelve, near the rear entrance of the Gunter Hotel. Maybe by then I'll have an idea.”

For all I slept that night, I may as well have obliged Edwin by holding off any discussion of Electra until the next day. I stood out on my River Avenue balcony for a long while, watching the headlights of the few automobiles still cruising down the otherwise deserted street, thinking of her. At least a couple of riddles were now solved: the night she hinted to me that someone—a man—might be taking advantage of me, that I ought to be careful of attentions paid me; and the night she reacted too abruptly to my inference she might one day be a mother.…

How did she get into that sort of business? For her looks and polish, she could have been anything she chose … or could she? What options did she have as a young woman? It seemed to me then that all my mother fought for in her crusade for the rights of women made sense for the first time. I remembered once, before I moved away, Mother participated in some hearings in Chicago about the limitations upon women who had to make their own way, and I went along to watch and listen. This was at a point when she was trying her hardest to get me to join the crusade for women's rights.

A group of prostitutes testified in the courtroom that day, each one of them filing in, dignified, their faces hidden behind dark veils and their names withheld. I had been fascinated by their mysterious qualities, their soft, refined voices. Electra. Oh, it seemed so wrong … yet so right.

Next day Edwin laid out his plan. “I've composed a little note, offering her a job, which I will slip under her door.”

“That's dirty,” I told him.

“But quick, and hopefully effective. Don't worry, I'll take care of it.”

“Let me see it,” I asked him and, after reading it over, remarked, “It's very vague—‘business opportunity.' That could mean anything.”

“Exactly. She won't come down there unless she thinks it's her admission slip into the game. Remember Tetzel warned her about getting into ‘risky business.' On the other hand, if she isn't up to anything she'll assume someone who knew her in her former life has seen her here, and is trying to blackmail her. ‘Business' would have only one meaning for her, and Durango crosses Flores near the district. She'll recognize that and pitch it into the garbage, having no reason to fear it because Cabot already knows what she was.”

“But what if he sees it?”

“She won't let that happen if she's up to something of interest to us. Just to be on the safe side, I want to get it to her while he's out of town.”

“Why can't we just ask the postal clerk to put it in her box?”

“Because we have no way of knowing when she might decide to stop by and pick up her mail.”

I started to hand it back to him, then thought again. “Let me do it,” I said. “I want to think about it … maybe there's another way of—”

“Believe me, I've considered all the alternatives, and this is the best. You can do the job if you wish, but remember that time is not on our side. And let me know, so I can be waiting for Electra when the time comes.”

As we parted I felt a little better. Now that I was in control of the note I could put it off for as long as possible—Cabot would be gone at least through January, probably longer—and maybe, just maybe, something would happen to save me from having to slip it under Electra's door at all.

During this period Tetzel was away from the office a lot—for days on end—and when he was there, his manner was again quiet, and more and more withdrawn. I could now almost use Cabot and Tetzel as barometers for events to come, just by watching their behavior. Tetzel was letting bank business go undone. Mail piled up on his desk after he gave it a cursory glance once or twice a week. I took care of the items that I could handle without his help, but when I broached him about our need to write a certain letter, he'd wave a hand and say, “Another day. I have some business to tend to this afternoon.”

When I reported this to Edwin, he thought for a moment, then suggested, “Keep your eyes on the Cabot house, and deliver that note soon.”

“I'll do some watching,” I told him, but avoided mentioning the note. On a Wednesday night in January I walked down, without any expectations. Yet before I came within two blocks of where King William begins, I saw Cabot's car turn west on Durango. Walking down Presa, I got a good view of the automobile from the side. There was no mistaking it. I grabbed the first taxi I could find, and instructed the driver simply, “Go over to Durango as quick as you can.” The driver gave me a questioning glance, then sped on. Luckily this time I had more money in my bag. I'd just gotten paid, and had not yet handed the bulk of the money over to my landlord. Watching from the window, I kept thinking, Cabot's supposed to be gone … what's he doing here?

We were nearly to the South Loop before his car came back into view and I leaned forward eagerly. “Slow down,” I said frantically. I didn't want to overtake him. The driver gave me a suspicious glance, so I added, “The place I'm looking for is along here somewhere, I think.”

“You sure, miss? There isn't much out here except the asylum, and I think there's one of them tent meetings going on out here.”

We were too far out to be headed for the red-light district by now, and I thought, it would be just my luck Cabot's headed out of town. Finally we approached a big canvas tent off to the left, lit up like an amusement park on Saturday night. I saw Cabot's car turn off and enter the field close by in a line of other automobiles. After that I couldn't see it anymore, but it was clear we'd reached his destination.

“Stop here.”

The driver turned around, eyes wide. “I can't leave you here. You sure this is where you want to go?”

“How much do I owe you?”

“Let's see … fifty cents. You want me to wait?”

“No, I don't know how long I'll be.”

“I'll come back. It's a slow night downtown.”

I considered for a moment. “All right. It's seven-thirty. Come back right here at nine. I don't know how long these things last, do you?”

“Honey, why don't you go to one of them big churches downtown? These things aren't for people like—”

“Be back at nine,” I said, and hopped out.

21

I had never been in a gathering of so many people.

Throngs converged on the big tent, and I could hear the sound of gospel tunes being pumped out of an organ within. I was soon lost in the crowd, and I realized Cabot was just as likely to find me as I was to spot him. It seemed the people appeared from all directions. I saw many on crutches and in wheel chairs, being helped along by others. Old men, toothless and unshaven; younger men with searching, frightened eyes like escaped convicts, or even inmates from the asylum—perhaps some were; blind figures who depended upon companions to substitute for their eyesight; women, young and old, some dressed in rags, some dressed to the hilt and wearing thick rouge, their hair wiry from dye applications. I thought of Electra. Surely she could never have been a part of such a class of people. Then I thought, suppose she's here too? I pulled my collar up around my ears and looked both ways.

It was very hard to avoid becoming mesmerized by the milieu of faces and bodies clustering so near that at times the stench was unbearable. Just outside the tent opening a big banner had been driven into the ground with stakes. “Brother Billy Sanblack—Revival—January 7 through 13.” The words billowed out in the stiff winter wind. I must be crazy, I decided. I'll never find Cabot in all this.

Inside the tent seemed even larger than from outside. Wooden benches lined the sawdust floors. Kerosene lanterns hung from above. Up the big center aisle a platform with a lectern awaited. The music had stopped, replaced now by the sound of a bass drum being pounded by a big woman in a dark coat and bonnet. I took a seat near the back and looked around again for Cabot. No sign of him. The bench soon filled, and the woman on my right shifted closer as still more people edged in. The man on my left smelled so strongly of whiskey I nearly fell faint.

At eight o'clock the booming on the drum ceased, and the audience hushed. A woman wearing a mound of white flowers on one shoulder approached the lectern and introduced Brother Billy. When he came across the floor the people jumped up and cheered, whistled and wailed. I had never seen anything like it. The woman on my right, her face a study in deep ridges and age spots, pulled on my elbow. “Stand up, honey. It's Brother Billy.” He was a monumental figure in a dark suit, with a shock of silver hair. We were still standing as he raised his arms, Bible in hand, and began a round of robust hymns. He threw out his chest and reared his head back. His voice was deep and compelling. He carried his audience like a forceful wave in the surf. He walked around and smiled into faces, like a coach inciting his team to victory against impossible odds. They swayed and nodded, croaking at the top of their lungs. The sound rose and fell in mighty discordance. I looked at the lady next to me. Her eyes were raised to the ceiling; the veins in her neck stood out and quivered. Perspiration rolled down her face. If he has them this stirred up by Wednesday, think what a state they'll be in by Saturday, I decided.

As the hymns came to an end, and the big collection baskets appeared, it seemed as though my own mission was not to be completed. I glanced at my watch. Eight-thirty. The sermon was about to begin. Then, I suspected, there would follow a coming forward of poor lost souls hoping to be saved. If I waited out the whole process, my taxi driver would leave and I'd have no way to get home. Then I looked to my right, and there, several rows ahead, sat Nathan. I craned my neck to get a better look, and was immediately nudged back by my neighbor on the right. She wanted to get a full view of Brother Billy as he preached.

I knew then I couldn't leave, even if I missed my taxi and had to walk home. I was able to see there was no one familiar to me beside Nathan. My neighbor's hat kept obstructing my view of him, so finally I asked her if we could switch places. This she was glad to do. When she moved over, I noticed she was missing her right arm. Now, oblivious of the words belted out with so much conviction by Brother Billy, I watched Nathan closely. Throughout the sermon he sat with eyes closed, head inclined upward slightly, rocking back and forth with his palms between his knees. He looked very odd, and as I continued to scrutinize him I began to feel nauseated. It was the closeness of the people around me, the stench in the air of unwashed bodies, I thought dizzily. Yet I knew I would have been far less affected by these things if not for the fact I was seeing someone I knew in what appeared to be an almost catatonic state. Before that time I had never actually pitied Nathan. Now all the troubles he suffered inside were being paraded before me even as they were concealed. For the first time I removed myself from the situation which had forced my attention on him originally, and wondered what else might be bothering him. In trying so hard to ferret out the information required by the BNA, I had become totally blind to any other facet of Nathan's life that caused him to be as he was. Though I was not aware then, I know now that in all the melting pot of people present during that revival, there was not a soul more lost than he.…

I left just before the last of the individuals who'd gone forward to confess their sins returned to their seats. Nathan had not moved from his chair to join them. Outside the cold air was so invigorating I took several deep breaths before I looked for my taxi. After ten o'clock. I didn't think the driver would be around, yet he was. I couldn't imagine anyone worrying more over a person he didn't know, but as he explained on the way back to town, he had a daughter my age and he was by habit cautious. He also had at one time driven a streetcar in San Antonio. “I've seen my share of mischief,” he told me. “Young ladies belong at home after dark.”

He let me out at a cafe, where I ducked inside to phone Edwin and report. He didn't seem to believe it meant anything, as indeed it did not, in terms of espionage. By that time he was able to recognize Nathan, however, and offered to attend the revival if I thought he should.