Through Waters Deep (22 page)

“I wish.” Quintessa let out a long sigh.

“Me too.” Mary found her spot in her notes. “Here we are. September 19. That's when Mr. Kaplan was arrested. Mr. Fiske was there, calming the men down. He told the agents he sent Mr. Kaplan to the handling room on the day the gun was installed and later before the
Atwood
shipped out. That bit of evidence tipped the balance.”

“Convenient.”

“I'll say.” Mary glanced up to the ceiling. “Mr. Fiske was happy for a while. There was an uproar again. But it didn't last long, and that made him mad. I remember. He must have realized his plan had failed. He'd successfully framed an interventionist, but public opinion about the war didn't change. He needed more. That's when he shifted to his second plan and found another interventionist to frame—Mr. Winslow.”

“Is that when all this stuff with the blueprints started?”

“Yes, in mid-October.” Another line. “The bolts didn't fit. Mr. Fiske took the blueprints to Agent Sheffield, showed him how the construction followed the blueprints perfectly but wasn't correct.”

“And they started looking at Mr. Winslow.” Quintessa had such a gift with names, which certainly helped with sales.

“Yes. Then the FBI received a tip, went to his house, found the bomb—” She clamped her lips shut. They'd also found the crate of equipment, but she didn't feel at liberty to discuss that with anyone else. “And they arrested him.”

“Then they discovered O'Donnell's blueprints didn't match Winslow's plans, and they started looking at him—and at Yvette.” Quintessa's eyes lit up, as if having a saboteur under their roof would be the grandest adventure ever.

“It isn't her, I'm sure.”

“Blueprints can't be altered after they're developed, so they had to be altered in the drafting room.”

“Mr. Fiske visits the drafting room, visits with O'Donnell. He knows his friend's schedule, when all the draftsmen take lunch break. And Mr. Fiske is the man who reads the blueprints and puts them into action. He'd know exactly what modifications to make.”

“Why would he want to frame his friend? Aren't they both isolationists?”

“Yes.” Mary made another mark for the meeting at Filene's. “A hole in his plan. He didn't mean to involve Mr. O'Donnell. He didn't realize the draftsman would look guilty. That's why he's calling attention to Yvette and her friends. But that's a leap of logic, linking Yvette's pro-French crowd with Winslow's pro-British crowd. Mr. Fiske is desperate, and with each twist he gets sloppier and his plans get wilder.”

The doorbell rang.

Mary startled. For one second, she thought of Jim, but he was at sea.

“I'll answer the door,” Yvette called from the living room.

The front door creaked open, and a male voice sounded. A familiar voice.

“That's Agent Sheffield.” Mary closed her notebook and laid it on the bed.

“How exciting. The FBI in our own apartment.”

Mary tilted a smile to Quintessa. “That isn't good.”

She stood and tugged on Mary's arm. “Let's see what's happening.”

Out in the entryway, Yvette stood with Agents Sheffield and Hayes.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Mary's nerves shivered. “Am I under investigation?”

Agent Sheffield chuckled. “Well, we did receive an anonymous tip that you were up to something fishy, but no, we have a search warrant for Yvette Lafontaine.”

“Why?” Yvette pressed a hand to her chest. “I have done nothing wrong.”

“I need to see your purse, miss.”

“All—all right. That is the purse I take to work.” Yvette pointed to the coatrack, then she opened a drawer in the mail table. “The other three are in here.”

Mary clutched Quintessa's arm. What were they looking for? And what would they find?

Agent Hayes opened the brown shoulder bag on the coatrack, while Agent Sheffield pulled out the purses from the cabinet and dumped the contents from a black handbag.

“I thought so.” Using a handkerchief, Agent Sheffield lifted a pen. “I was told I might find this here.”

“What is that?” Yvette's voice crimped.

Mary peered closer—a pen, but a strange one, with a wooden handle stained dark brown at the end, two tips, and a screw to adjust the distance. She knew exactly what it was.

“Is that—” Yvette frowned at it, her eyes frantic. “Is that a drafting pen?”

“Yes.” Sheffield examined the pen with a smug expression. “I believe we'll find this pen matches the marks on the incorrect blueprints. And I believe this stain is the same color as the chewing tobacco favored by Mr. O'Donnell, and that these tooth marks will match his bite. And I believe we'll find the pen wiped clean of all fingerprints.”

Yvette's chest heaved. “You think—I could not. I did not.”

However, the agent's tone and words didn't sound accusatory, merely satisfied. He was up to something. Mary rubbed Yvette's shoulder. “I know you didn't.”

“That—” Yvette fluttered her hand at the purse. “I do not take that to work. It is too dressy.”

“No.” A cold rock formed in Mary's throat. “But it is the purse you took when we went shopping at Filene's this weekend. When we ran into Mr. Fiske.”

Horror flashed through Yvette's brown eyes. “He held my purse.”

“He was wearing gloves.” Mary's eyes drifted shut, bringing the memory into focus. “I thought it was strange to wear heavy leather work gloves in a heated department store.”

“So he wouldn't get fingerprints on the pen,” Quintessa said.

Mary locked her gaze with Agent Sheffield. “There was a black ink stain on the right forefinger. Not a smudgy stain like you'd see with grease, but crisp. His reports are always in blue ink, not black. I know, because it bothers Mr. Pennington.”

Agent Sheffield bowed slightly to Yvette. “Miss Lafontaine, I need to take you in for questioning.”

She gasped and gripped her hands together. “But I—”

“Didn't do anything. However, this is a game of chess, and he's an excellent player. I'm pretending to fall for his move.”

“That makes sense, Yvette.” Mary rubbed the tense muscles in her friend's shoulder. “You'll be safer too. If the FBI doesn't take you in, he might get desperate enough to hurt you.”

“You'll keep her safe, won't you?” Quintessa asked.

“Of course. Grab your hat and coat, Miss Lafontaine.” Agent Sheffield tipped his fedora to Mary and winked. “Fiske doesn't realize it, but I control this game. The next move is mine, and it'll be good. Just watch.”

Mary nodded but wrapped her arms around her middle. As long as she didn't have to watch anyone get hurt.

South of Iceland
Monday, November 24, 1941

Jim followed Arch through his routine in the engine room, partly to kill time before midnight when he took the mid-watch in the gun director, partly to learn the job, partly to chat with his friend, but mostly to keep warm in the toastiest compartment on the ship.

This convoy escort had been cold and stormy. No ships had been lost, but several sound contacts and depth-charge attacks kept the destroyers hopping and alert. Tomorrow morning TU 4.1.5 would pass Convoy HX-160 to the Royal Navy and escort a handful of ships to Iceland, then later they'd meet up with Convoy ON-41 and return to Halifax.

Jim ducked around the deaerating feed tank, memorizing connections and positions. Durant planned to rotate the junior officers when they returned to Boston so they could learn other duties.

Arch tightened a valve. “This new escort-of-convoy policy works well.”

“Makes more sense, that's for sure.” The earlier policy required the escorts to stay within two thousand yards of the merchant ships, which allowed the U-boats to sink ships while outside the range of the destroyers' sonar. Now they kept station up to five thousand yards away.

Arch made a notation on his clipboard. “We should be back in Boston before Christmas. If they give us leave, will you go home?”

That depended on Mary and Quintessa's reactions to his declarations, and on their plans. Either he'd be avoiding both ladies or enjoying a romantic week with Mary. “I hope to.”

Arch worked his way around a complex of steam and fuel oil pipes. “Any chance I could join you?”

“Sure. Don't you want to go home?”

“When I'm unattached? Not if I can help it. Mother will try to attach me to the daughters of all her acquaintances. Silly snobbish girls who talk of nothing but redecorating the parlor and their troubles with the help.”

Jim followed his friend. “Middle-class women can be superficial too. So can men, by the way.”

“I know.” Arch rubbed the back of his neck. “But I want more.”

“I'm sure there are plenty of bright, down-to-earth ladies in your society.”

Arch sent him a wry look. “If there are, the ladies hide it well.”

“Well, you're more than welcome in the Avery home. Plenty of room.”

“Plenty of people too. I don't know how you keep them all straight.” A huge smile lit his friend's face. “But thanks. I can't handle my parents right now.”

“I under—”

The alarm clanged general quarters.

A sailor stationed at the engine telegraph turned and shouted, “Sound contact. Increase to flank speed.”

“See you.” Jim clapped Arch on the back and headed out at a brisk pace for the gun director. He followed the mass of men moving in a calm deliberate pattern to their battle stations. All motion went forward and up on the starboard side and aft and down on the port side to prevent sailors from crossing paths and jamming passageways and ladders.

Durant required the men to wear their life vests at all times in a combat area, but Jim checked his anyway and felt for the sheath knife and whistle on the lanyard around his neck and the flashlight in his left trouser pocket. He pulled his gloves from his right trouser pocket and put them on since he'd be out in the elements.

Some of the men were tempted to be lazy and leave their survival gear in quarters, but you never knew when a torpedo could come out of the blue.

The
Atwood
picked up speed, jolting over the waves, but Jim had his North Atlantic sea legs and scampered up the ladder to the deck and forward to the bridge superstructure.

A cold clear night, a half-moon, moderate wind, fair seas—a good night to patrol. And maybe to hunt down a U-boat. No American ship had sunk an enemy sub, and the men longed to avenge the loss of the
Reuben James
and the damage to the
Kearny
.

The destroyer made a sharp turn to port. Jim braced his legs to keep his balance. What was going on? They never deviated from course when chasing a sound contact.

Men shouted and pointed to starboard.

Something pale and phosphorescent streamed toward the
Atwood
.

Torpedo!

Jim grasped the lifeline and watched in horror and fasci
nation, willing the ship to turn faster, harder, to swing the bow out of the way.

But a slimy green feeling filled his stomach. Every calculation of vectors and speed told him they'd fail.

“Hold on!” he shouted. “Brace yourselves!”

The torpedo slammed into the bow below the number one gun mount.

With a sickening shudder, the ship heaved up, settled down. Jim gripped the lifeline, set his feet wide, his heart hammering.

An explosion pummeled his eardrums. A ball of orange fire lit the sky.

“The magazine!” The torpedo must have hit the ammunition stash for the forward guns. “Oh, Lord. The men.”

Flames ripped through the bow area. The ship's bell sounded rapidly, and the bugle sounded “fire quarters.”

But every man on board already knew they'd been hit.

As the damage control party raced forward, Jim scrambled up to the gun director, his face tingling from cold and fear. How many men had been killed? Wounded? Could the
Atwood
stay afloat? How many more men would perish tonight?

Boston
Monday, November 24, 1941

Mary put the finishing touches on her Boston cream pie. Yellow cake, custard filling, chocolate glaze—what could be better? Only two more weeks in this city, and Mary wanted to savor everything.

Magda Bauer said Mary didn't need to bring anything for dinner, but Mary insisted on providing dessert.

What a strange evening it would be. For Agent Sheffield's big chess play, he'd released both Ira Kaplan and Weldon Winslow on Thanksgiving Day, citing insufficient evidence. Today, some at the shipyard claimed he'd released the turkeys.

This morning Mary had made a casual visit to the docks without a notebook. Everyone was in an uproar, arguing whether justice had been done or justice had been violated. Mr. Fiske seemed calm, but Mary didn't trust him one whit.

She untied her apron and hung it by the door. In the afternoon, Ira Kaplan came to Mr. Pennington's office to speak to Mary. Heinrich Bauer had visited him in prison, and the men had come to preliminary amends, with Mr. Bauer refusing
to press charges for Kaplan's attempt to frame him. Mrs. Bauer had invited Kaplan to dinner to further make peace. The men decided to invite Mary too because she believed in both of them and had tried to help them. Mary had a hunch her presence was also desired as a neutral buffer.

She set the covered cake plate on the mail table and checked her hair in the mirror. Besides, her other option was to dine alone with a can of Campbell's tomato soup. Yvette had a meeting with one of her French groups, and Quintessa was working late setting up Christmas show windows at Filene's.

The clock read six-thirty. She didn't need to leave for another fifteen minutes. Perhaps she could stop at the store if Mrs. Bauer needed something. With two small children at home, shopping would be difficult.

She pulled her notepad from her purse, found the Bauers' phone number, and rang it. “Hi, Mrs. Bauer. It's Mary Stirling. I'm running early, and I wondered if you needed anything from the store.”

“No. Thank you, no.” Her voice carried an even heavier German accent than her husband's. “I am glad you called. Mr. Bauer is not here. Maybe another night for dinner?”

“He's still at the Navy Yard?” With the union watching over things, working late was rare.

“He went back fifteen minutes ago. Mr. Winslow called and said Heinrich must come.”

“Mr. Winslow?” Mary stared at her own puzzled expression in the mirror. “Why would a naval architect need a welder?”

“I asked Heinrich. He was not happy. Mr. Winslow said he must talk to a welder. A problem in the—how do you call them?—the papers?”

“The blueprints?”

“
Ja.
He wanted to ask a welder in private. It is strange.”

Strange? It was downright fishy. Mary rested her hip against the mail table. “Why did he want to talk in private?”

“He said he was at Dry Dock 2 and something was wrong, but he needed to ask a welder about it. Heinrich asked why him? Why not Mr. Fiske? He is leadingman. But Mr. Winslow said he didn't trust Mr. Fiske.”

Neither did Mary, but right now she didn't trust Mr. Winslow either.

“He said he'd pay Heinrich fifty dollars to come in.” Mrs. Bauer's voice wavered. “Heinrich said he sounded scared.”

“Scared?”

“I—I am too, but Heinrich said he must go. He thinks something is happening, and he wants it to end now. He has been beaten and framed and almost arrested. And Mr. Kaplan was arrested when he was innocent. Heinrich says it needs to end.”

Yes, it did. But what if Mr. Bauer had walked into a trap? “Thank you, Mrs. Bauer. Please let me know if you hear anything. I'm going to make a phone call.”

After she hung up, she flipped through her notepad for the FBI's number. Agent Sheffield had given her a number to call day or night, just in case.

She paused and frowned. Why would Mr. Winslow be at the dry dock? He never went to the work site. Something wormed around inside, niggling her.

Mary grabbed the phone book and scanned the
W
section until she found the number for Mr. and Mrs. Weldon Winslow. Her hand hovered over the receiver, but then she grabbed it and dialed.

A woman answered. “Hello?”

“Hello. This is Miss Stirling from the Boston Navy Yard. May I speak to Mr. Winslow? I have a question for him.”

“He isn't at home,” she said in a crisp British accent.

Mary worked her finger through the coil of the phone cord. “Is he working late?”

“No, he had to return for—for an item he left at the office. He should be home any minute.”

Any minute? But he'd just called Mr. Bauer. “Perhaps you can help me solve a little mystery. I was just talking to Mrs. Heinrich Bauer. Her husband is a welder at the shipyard. Fifteen minutes ago he received a phone call from your husband summoning him to the docks so he could ask a question.”

“That can't be. He went in for only one reason and promised he'd be home immediately. He's a man of his word, Miss—Miss—”

“Miss Stirling. I know he is. That's why it seems odd to me.”

“Oh dear. With everything happening at the shipyard, I don't like the idea of him being there alone at night. Someone worked hard to arrange his arrest, and he must not be happy that Weldon's been released.”

Mary twisted the cord around her finger. “If you wouldn't mind, would you please tell me why he went in?”

Silence hummed on the wires. Then Mrs. Winslow cleared her throat. “His pills. He has a—a condition, and he needs to take pills regularly.”

Mary murmured sympathetically.

“Oh dear. He always keeps one bottle at home and one at the office. This morning I received a call from his office saying his bottle at work was empty, and would I please bring the other bottle to the gatehouse?”

“You said the call came from his office, not that your husband called.”

“I didn't think anything of it. I know how busy he is, but Weldon is not happy with me.”

The fishy smell grew stronger. “He didn't make the call, did he?”

“No. The man had—well, I thought it was a German
accent, but thinking about it, I realize it sounded like the bad German accents the American actors use in the cinema.”

The cord tangled into a knot between Mary's finger and the phone. “Could you tell? Was he young, old, middle-aged?”

“Middle-aged, I think.”

Like Mr. Fiske, although half the men at the yard were middle-aged.

“I did as he asked.” Anxiety tinged Mrs. Winslow's voice. “I put the bottle in a lunch bag with a sandwich and brought it to the gatehouse. That sounded like something Weldon would ask. He's a private person.”

“I understand.”

“The guard took the bag and set it on a bench with several other lunch bags.”

“And Mr. Winslow never even knew.”

“No, he didn't. When he came home this evening and needed to take a pill—well, he was quite cross.”

“How long ago did he leave?”

“Oh, it must have been a quarter to six.”

Almost an hour ago. “How long should it take him?”

“We don't live but ten minutes away. He—he should be home by now.”

Yes, he should. In Mary's mind, the situation changed from fishy to alarming, and she yanked her finger free from the telephone cord. “Excuse me, Mrs. Winslow. I'm going to make another phone call. I'll call you back if I hear anything. And please call me if you hear something.” She gave her phone number and hung up.

The FBI. Mary could scarcely rotate the dial, her finger shook so much. Finally the phone exchange answered. “Hello, this is Mary Stirling from the Boston Navy Yard. It's imperative that I speak to Agent Paul Sheffield or Agent Walter Hayes immediately. Something is terribly wrong.”

“Mm-hmm.” The woman on the other end sounded bored.
“What is your number, please? I'll tell Agent Sheffield you called, and he'll get back to you in the morning when he comes to the office.”

Panic pressed on Mary's throat. “That'll be too late. This is an emergency. Please, ma'am. I've worked with them on the sabotage case at the shipyard. Agent Sheffield gave me this number and promised I could reach him night or day.”

“Yes, ma'am. But I'm not allowed to bother the agents except in an emergency.”

Mary took a long, trembling breath. “That's why I said it was an emergency.”

“Ma'am, if I had a dollar for every emergency I hear about, I wouldn't need this job.”

“Two lives are at stake.” Her voice came out thick. “Does that qualify as an emergency?”

An annoyed sigh. “I'll let Agent Sheffield make that decision—”

“Tonight? You'll call him immediately?”

“I'll call him and tell him to call you.”

“No. That'll take too long. Tell him Mary Stirling called. Take this down, please. It's important he knows all of this. Tell him Frank Fiske has made his move. He's lured Weldon Winslow and Heinrich Bauer to the Navy Yard. Tell him to meet me at Dry Dock 2.”

She gasped. “You're not going there, are you?”

“If that's what it takes to bring in the FBI, then yes, I am. Right now I'm the only person who knows these men are in danger—or cares. If you care too, you'll call Agent Sheffield right this instant.” She hung up.

What was she thinking? Her face looked pale in the mirror with twin red spots high on her cheeks. She wasn't a police officer or detective. She didn't own a weapon and wouldn't know how to use one.

If only Jim were here. Her eyes drifted shut for a moment.
Jim was no longer her undercover partner. He belonged to Quintessa.

She was alone, and she was the only one who could act right now. What if the dispatcher didn't call Agent Sheffield? What if the phone was busy or both men were out? Even if they did come, Mary could get to the dock faster.

The local police wouldn't be able to help on a military base, but there were guards at the gate. They could help. She wouldn't be dashing into danger alone like some silly movie heroine. She'd alert the authorities. It was the right thing to do.

Mary grabbed her red coat from the rack. Her old brown coat lay underneath, quiet and unassuming. She switched coats. Tonight invisibility might come in handy.