Sustenance (17 page)

Speaking of the Coven, there is sad news there. Joe Allanby’s wife died, having never truly responding to attempts to revive her from the overdose of sleeping pills she took. That happened about a week ago. Joe didn’t come to our unofficial Thanksgiving dinner we had at Chez Rosalie, and we all understood why, or thought we did. His housekeeper found him the following Sunday, dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. He left a note, blaming the Committee and J. Edgar for Norma’s death and saying he couldn’t think of any reason to stay alive any longer. He was sorry he hadn’t arranged for a successor for the Coven. I think it’s just as well that we, the Coven, get a little time to debate among ourselves to resolve that problem. His brother arrived yesterday to arrange for transportation of the body back to the US. We’ve asked his brother if he would join us for a private memorial service here before he leaves, and we’re waiting for his answer.

On the subject of brothers, how is Corwin doing? Sorry I missed his graduation, for all manner of reasons. You said he might try for Cambridge for a year, to get a good start on his Masters with someone like Ronkowski or Haste. How’s that coming along? His work so far should open many doors for him. And what is he doing in the meantime? Don’t tell me he’s still playing brass with that jazz-band. All right, tell me if he is doing it, but let him know that he ought to be concentrating on studying; blasting away at Eubie Blake and Scott Joplin may be fun but it doesn’t support the assumptions of his devotion to math. Given Mama’s opinion of jazz, I must suppose he isn’t living at home now, in which case, where is he staying? He’s the most aggravating fellow I know, and I miss him like stink.

There. I’ve had my spasm for the month now, and I won’t cry on your shoulder any longer, at least not until January. Keep in touch as much as you can, give my love to the family, including Jim, and let me know how things are going for all our family. I don’t like to be away, especially not for the reason I’m away; hearing from you, and from Aunt Jenny, makes it a little less awful. So even when I growl, never doubt that I am almost pathetically glad to hear from you.

Your loving brother,

Happy (who isn’t)

P. S. I had a note from George last week—he says he’s been traveling. The note came from Ceylon—and he asked me to tell you that India is really beautiful and recommended you—and I quote—“bone up on it.” There. I have done it. Mission accomplished. I told him to write to you directly next time, but he probably won’t.

7

“
C
OME IN,
Broadstreet,” said the voice Lydell Gerold Broadstreet had heard often, one of those attention-demanding announcements that were unfamiliar to a quiet, sonorous voice that oozed with the power of the man, beneficent and sinister at once, making an omen that was hard to understand. “It’s about time we have a face-to-face, don’t you agree? Sorry I had to ask you on such short notice, but you got here in good time.” The invitation had come to Broadstreet in Baltimore yesterday afternoon at four, and was fairly sternly worded: he would be expected at one of the CIA satellite offices in Washington, DC, where he would meet with the Deputy Director for Clandestine Services at ten
A.M.

Broadstreet had dressed for the occasion in the same three-piece pin-stripe suit he had worn to testify before the Congressional Subcommittee on International Intelligence, his ivory shirt and foulard tie proper to the nth degree. Knowing he was presentable enough, he summoned up all the courage he could and opened the rosewood door, stepping into a surprisingly small, ascetical room: simple, paneled walls bare of ornamentation, two windows looking out on the rear entrance to a hotel, draperies without valances, three chairs, an old-fashioned oaken desk, a glassed-in bookcase, and a pair of filing cabinets—pretty meager for a man of Channing’s position. Broadstreet held out his hand, not daring to come too close to the desk, and saw then that Channing was in a wheelchair and that his left hand ended in a hand-like prosthesis. How the devil, Broadstreet wondered, had Channing come by such private calamities? Channing moved the wheelchair near enough that he could reach across the desk. Broadstreet remained utterly still until Channing raised his right hand to take Broadstreet’s, who gripped it heartily, inwardly grateful that he did not have to touch the artificial hand.

Channing held up the artificial hand. “Jimmy Riggs’ work. Some eight years ago.”

“His heyday, I’ve heard,” said Broadstreet with as much savoir-faire as he could muster, hoping to show his knowledge effectively.

“Sit down, Dell, and thanks for driving into DC; it’s a bit of an inconvenience for me to travel,” said Channing. He, too, was in a three-piece suit—his was of charcoal wool, his shirt was chalk-white, and his Prussian-blue tie had university colors worked into it just below the perfect Windsor knot. “That’s what your friends call you, isn’t it? Dell for Lydell?” Channing tried to lighten Broadstreet’s demeanor. “I’m assuming you’ve discovered who I am. I would have done so were I in your position.”

“You’re Channing. I believe your first name is Alfred.” He shivered a little, and he decided that the room was chilly—not surprising on this sleety day.

“Manfred, actually, but like Alfred, known as Fred,” Channing said, indicating a comfortable wing-back chair. “I’ll have some coffee brought in a bit later. You take yours with one sugar and a little cream.” Channing slipped his chair behind the desk more fully, and leaned forward, his elbows on his blotter-pad. “You’re here about that luncheon you had some weeks ago—that contact you went to meet before Thanksgiving … anything ever come of that? Or did it fizzle? Or was it a way to distract your attention from something else?” He gave Broadstreet no chance to answer as he laid his hand on the report that lay on his desk. “By the looks of it, you washed out there, but it might not have been a total debacle. I’ve gone over your report and your contact’s failure to present himself. Most disappointing. But if there’s hope of something developing, then it’s in our best interests to be patient. Anything more about D. G. Atkins from your more accessible informant?”

“Nothing solid; I want to get more information before I authorize Rothcoe or Leeland to put one of their men on it. You know how it is, and far better than I, when you have odd bits of facts but no notion on how to put them together.” He saw Channing’s brows draw together, portentous as storm clouds; he hurried on. “I don’t want to chase wild geese if we can help it, but I don’t want a Communist sympathizer running loose in the world with a head full of our secrets, so Atkins is my first concern. But Baxter seems to know something useful, as well, and it behooves my department to investigate thoroughly.” Broadstreet nodded stiffly, then sat down, feeling as if the well-padded chair were made of concrete. “I want to give the case preferential attention for the next couple of months.”

Channing was not convinced. “And how do things stand with your mysterious visitor? Have you found out who he is yet?”

“I don’t have solid confirmation yet, but I’m convinced that the man who came to my office was James Rutherford, Nugent’s brother-in-law. Isling in surveillance promised me a photo of him by the end of the week. That’s a bit tricky, since we aren’t supposed to be operating in St. Louis—or anywhere else in the US—but there’s going to be an opening of another car dealership, and the press will be there in force. If Grant Nugent is really James Rutherford—and I am reasonably sure he is—then we’ll know soon enough.” He paused, aware that he had lost Channing’s attention. “That’s what Rutherford does: he sells cars, new ones, used ones. He started out as a Pontiac salesman, then branched out. Now he owns three dealerships and a pair of used-car lots. He’s doing quite well for himself. He brings in about twenty thousand a year, Rutherford does.”

“And you say Nugent’s sister is in contact with him? Nugent, that is. Do they exchange letters frequently? I assume she and her husband see each other quite regularly.” This attempt at levity was not successful. Channing cocked his head like a perplexed hound in search of a scent.

“Yes, at least enough to send him—Nugent—money on what appears to be a regular basis,” said Broadstreet with a moue of distaste. “It’s always difficult when a brother has to ask for help from a sister, isn’t it? It seems less than manly to impose on a female that way.”

“Is this sister older or younger?” Channing’s lips were turned toward smiling rather than his more habitual frown.

“I don’t know. I’d guess she’s older, but I can’t confirm it. Does it matter? I can find out if you think I should. Her name is Meredith, by the way, but Nugent calls her Mimi.”

“Older sisters often take good care of younger brothers,” said Channing with a look that was very like nostalgia. The intercom buzzed; Channing tapped it on, all traces of nostalgia vanished from him. “Yes?”

“There’s a call from Miller at State,” said Channing’s secretary. “Do you want to take it now?”

“Not now. Tell him I’ll call back in an hour.” He clicked the intercom off and stared at Broadstreet; this was an improvement on the interview’s first omens. “About the age of the sister.”

Broadstreet neither knew nor cared, but he did his level best to agree. “I hadn’t looked at it that way, sir. I’ll find out who’s older, and get back to you.”

“What else do you know about her?” Channing inquired. “She may be more important to this than we thought.”

“She may be,” he said at once, not believing for an instant that her importance was anything more than minimal. “I’ll send Wehkind to St. Louis and ask him to find out as much as he can about the family. We have all the basic material on Hapgood Nugent, and from what we can tell, it all shows that there is strong support for examining the possible ramifications that everyone is aware of, but there has been no reason at this point to look further into the family. Well, it didn’t seem that important, did it? since we’ve assumed from the start that—” He realized he was babbling, and stopped.

“Any other siblings, or don’t you know?” Channing asked, and Broadstreet knew this was not just an idle question.

“There’s a younger brother, one of those surprise babies: the mother was almost forty when she had him. He’s just graduating from college. He took honors in mathematics—I guess it must run in the family.” This attempt at mild jocularity brought only a glower from Channing. “He’s settling on a graduate school now. He is considering Stanford and Cornell.”

“I’ll want all the family particulars by tomorrow. Vital statistics, school records, financial statements, the lot. We need to know how Hapgood gets along with all of them, and to target some pressure on them that way.”

“From what Grant Nugent told me, that’s been done already. His children—Grant Nugent’s children; Hapgood Nugent doesn’t have any that I’m aware of—have been watched and the schools they attend have been informed of the possibility of anti-American activities on the part of the family. Nugent wanted it stopped in return for his cooperation. I’ve sent a notice to the schools in question, informing them that the family is no longer of interest to the government and that the children and their parents are no longer regarded as possible wrong-doers.” He could feel his pulse racing, hoping he had done what Channing would approve.

“Which means we can continue our observation, but clandestinely.” Channing nodded. “Much the better way. We’ll have fewer chances to be caught off our reservation. It saves us the tedium of having to winnow out the gossip and rumors from useful intelligence, or at least we can minimize the extent of the damage such idle speculation can do to our case.” He leaned back in his chair as much as it would allow. “Oh, these civilian zealots! Certain that if there are Communists, they must be coming after them, as the good capitalistic patriots they are. They have no idea how our enemies target us, or why, and they want to think that of all this country has, the Communists want to control its sum; the crux of the matter is their city, their town, their institutions.” He rubbed his hand through his short-cut hair. “It’s a kind of civic pride, thinking the Commies are after you.”

“I’m still going to send Wehkind,” Broadstreet said tentatively. “He comes from St. Louis and can use his contacts advantageously.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Best to put him on it today. Have him pack up and take a plane. Rent a car in St. Louis. You don’t want DC plates to draw attention to him, do you?”

“Of course not,” said Broadstreet a little too quickly. “I’ll give Wehkind his orders as soon as I leave here.”

“I’ll arrange for hazard pay for him. That should stop any reluctance to travel so near to Christmas.” He chuckled, contemplating the windows. “The weather is really turning nasty. If there are delays in flights or road closures, I’ll extend your deadline appropriately, but don’t try to make it an excuse if you cannot complete your assignment in the time allowed.”

“My Aunt Mildred says a storm is coming, and she’s rarely wrong,” Broadstreet said, in order to show he was listening. “I always call her before I travel.” This was not quite the truth, but it was enough to get Channing’s attention.

“Is she more reliable than the weather service?”

Broadstreet hitched up one shoulder. “The family thinks so.”

“How fortunate for her, and your family,” said Channing.

“I don’t think she sees it that way,” said Broadstreet. This mention of Aunt Mildred made him think for a few seconds that he really ought to call upon her before Christmas Eve, and do something nice for her. She lived only twenty minutes away from him and was his father’s last living sibling. But the thought of her relentless cheerfulness and Bible-quoting seemed more than he could endure, and the impulse faded as rapidly as it had come. “What would you like me to do about Baxter? I am prepared to wait, and I think it would be a wise idea.” He was beginning to hope that he could get a trip to Europe as part of the investigation, if only he could keep the story believable. He would have to make up his mind about Baxter over Christmas, find some way to make him more crucial to what was happening than he had imagined at the start of all this.