To Catch a Spy (16 page)

“Yes,” said Gunther. “He said he was going to write a poem about the search. I am not of a creative bent of mind. I can see no poetry in what we did today.”

“I bought a radio,” I said, holding it up. “I also found another body.”

I placed the stack of papers on the desk next to one of Gunther’s open books. On top of the stack was the photograph of Volkman and Cookinham.

“They’re both dead,” I said.

I told him everything that had happened and what I had learned.

“The way I see it,” I went on. “Cookinham and Volkman were making secret recordings of a group of Nazis or Nazi sympathizers. They were probably part of the group. Maybe they wanted the recordings for protection. Maybe they wanted to work some blackmail or sell them to the highest bidder, or maybe they just planned to make a deal with the FBI if the group ever got caught. Somehow they found out Grant was interested in finding Nazi sympathizers. They knew he had money. They made a deal. The bad guys found out, killed them both.”

“George Hall,” said Gunther.

“Looks that way,” I said.

“What can I do?” Gunther asked.

“You can look through that pile of Nazi flyers and stuff I got from Volkman’s apartment. Some of it’s in German.”

“I will do so immediately,” he said. “You look tired.”

“Guess I am,” I said.

My neck and shoulder had settled into a steady, tolerable ache.

“I think I’ll lie down for a while and listen to my new radio.”

And that’s just what I did.

The Longines Symphonette was playing something with no melody, which was fine with me. I didn’t pull out my mattress, just laid down on the sofa with my head on the “God Bless Us” pillow Mrs. Plaut had made when I had first moved in.

It took me about five minutes to find a position where my head didn’t touch anything and my neck and shoulder weren’t annoyed. Then I slept. Dreamless, vaguely aware of the music.

I slept till I was awakened by the knock at my door. I opened my eyes and said, “Come in.”

Gunther was there. He had something in his hand and he was clearly excited.

“I know where to find George Hall,” he said.

CHAPTER

11

“It is an irony worthy of Gogol,” Gunther said.

He was sitting in the wooden desk chair in his room.

I was sitting in his firm, low-legged armchair.

“Worthy of Gogol,” I agreed.

I was holding the three-fold brochure for the School of Performance at Caroll College. Gunther had circled something on the back page under a small photograph of the building where I had talked acting with Jacklyn Wright.

“Andrew George Hall,” I read.

“It is a place, not a person,” said Gunther.

I had called Cary Grant when Gunther had told me the news no more than five minutes earlier. Grant had never heard of Caroll College. He said he would come to Mrs. Plaut’s as soon as he could get there.

And so Gunther and I waited, trying to come up with a plan or two for Grant when he arrived. We couldn’t go to the police. All we had was the name of a building on a college campus. And we couldn’t walk in and accuse anyone of anything. We had no evidence. What we did have was the information that Jacklyn Wright had told me about Bruno Volkman taking night school acting classes with her under a fake name. She had also told me she didn’t know who George Hall was when we were standing inside George Hall.

“I’ve got an idea,” I said, standing up and plunging my hands into my pockets in search of change. I found Mountain’s tooth and some nickels, dimes, and quarters. I asked Gunther if he had more. He removed a stack of change from the center drawer of his desk and handed it to me. “Be right back.”

With the brochure in my hand, I used the boarding-house pay phone to call the number neatly printed on the back.

“School of Performance Arts,” came the voice I thought belonged to the woman I had met in the school office.

“Good afternoon,” I said, trying for a refined tone. “My name is Spaulding. I have one of your brochures about your acting program. I would be very much interested.”

“Full-time, part-time, or evening school?” she asked.

“Evening,” I said. “I work days.”

“You have any acting experience?” she asked.

“A little. Community theater in Portland. I played the mayor in
Our Town.
The local paper said I was adequate. I knew my lines, which was more than could be said for some of the others in our company. I have a passion for the stage.”

“Tuesday nights at seven,” she said. “Stop in the office with a check for twenty dollars. You have the brochure, so you know this is a six-week course. The course started last week, but Professor Wright can give you and other late enrollees an extra session at the end.”

“Fine. Fine,” I said. “Is that the only evening acting class you have?”

“We have an ongoing class for advanced students,” she said.

“Can I try that? I do have experience.”

“That’s a closed class. Only regulars till the session ends.”

“And when does it end?”

“It doesn’t,” she said. “It continues.”

“Are there many people in that class?”

“Nine,” she said, “but you really can’t.…”

“I understand,” I said. “I understand. I’m just excited by the thought of doing more acting.”

“Your name?” she asked flatly.

What name had I given her? Right.

“Spaulding, Melvin Spaulding.”

“Be here just before seven, Mr. Spaulding. Check or cash for twenty dollars.”

She hung up. So did I. I went back and reported to Gunther. We were considering more options when the doorbell rang downstairs.

“I’ll go,” I said.

I was getting used to the throb in my neck and shoulder, and my scalp, where the stitches were, had begun to itch.

Mrs. Plaut beat me to the door. I was halfway down the steps. She was standing in the open doorway, looking at Cary Grant in light gray slacks, a tieless white shirt, and a perfectly pressed charcoal sports jacket with a white handkerchief peeking out of the pocket.

“Good afternoon,” he said with a smile, glancing up at me.

“Relatively,” Mrs. Plaut said. “I opened a jar of pickled avocados just minutes ago, but they were spoiled.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Grant said, looking to me for help as I hurried down the stairs.

“I have one room left,” she said. “That’s why the sign is in the window. Room and Board.”

“He’s not looking for a room, Mrs. Plaut,” I said, getting to the bottom of the steps. “He’s here to see me.”

Mrs. Plaut gave me a slight glance and looked back at Grant, who smiled.

“I know you,” she said. “You’re in the newspapers sometimes.”

“I’m afraid so,” Grant conceded.

“You’re the fire commissioner,” she said.

“Right,” I jumped in.

“Why is the fire commissioner here to see you?” Mrs. Plaut asked me.

“I’ve volunteered to help organize the firemen’s ball,” I said.

“Is that true?” she asked Grant.

“The fire department is grateful for all the help it can get,” said Grant. “Suppose the Japanese sent a fleet and started firing cannons at the city.”

Mrs. Plaut shook her head.

“The Japanese are running,” she said. “They’re not the ones to worry about. You see a Japanese and you know he’s Japanese unless he’s Chinese or something else from over there. You see a Japanese and you’re on the ready. No, the ones to worry about are the Huns. They look like us only smarmy. They could sabotage.”

“They could,” Grant agreed, once again looking at me for help.

“We’ve got to do some planning now, Mrs. Plaut,” I said.

“Where?”

“In Gunther’s room,” I said, heading for the stairs with Grant behind me. He was looking back at Mrs. Plaut.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said. “May I say you remind me of my mother?”

“You may say it if the reminder is a positive one,” she said.

“It is,” said Grant.

At the top of the stairs, Grant said, “She does remind me of my mother back in England. She’s a little …”

“Unfocused,” I supplied as we moved to Gunther’s door.

“Yes,” said Grant. “Unfocused.”

Gunther got out of his chair to shake Grant’s hand and offered his guest the armchair where I had been sitting. Grant sat and I moved to the small sofa against the wall in front of the ceiling-high bookcase.

I handed Grant the brochure and told him about George Hall and my call to Caroll College.

“Volkman was in that advanced class?” Grant asked.

“Jacklyn Wright told me he was,” I said.

Grant sat thinking for a while, rubbing the fingers of his right hand across his lips.

“Try this,” he said, sitting forward. “A Nazi cell. They meet every week as an advanced acting class. Doors closed. They pay their tuition, make their plans, maybe turn in whatever it is they know and get their orders.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Volkman said George Hall,” Grant said. “His dying words.”

“It is possible,” said Gunther.

“Sure it is,” said Grant. “Volkman knew what room they met in every week. He and Cookinham set up equipment to record their meetings. Blackmail, protection.”

“Why come to you?” I asked.

“Maybe they got the idea that someone was suspicious,” Grant said, standing up and pacing now as he thought. “They knew I’d pay for the names of the people in the group. They wanted to get out fast, maybe take their transcriptions with them, try to blackmail the group or maybe try to sell them to me.”

“Why would they think you would be interested in purchasing such material?” Gunther asked.

“I’m an American,” Grant said. “I became a citizen a little over a year ago, but I still have my roots in England. From time to time I pass information on to British Intelligence, information I get from other Brits in the industry who keep their eyes and ears open.”

“You’re a spy?” asked Gunther.

“Let’s say I’m involved in helping the Allied cause in any way I can,” Grant said. “I tried to enlist in the American army. They said I’d be more help doing U.S.O. shows and visiting veterans’ hospitals. So that’s what I do, but it’s not enough.”

“I understand,” said Gunther.

“So,” I said. “What do we do? I’ve got two FBI agents wondering what I’m doing. I could talk to them.”

“You might try it,” Grant said with no great enthusiasm. “I say we get more information, a list of names of people in that so-called acting class, something the FBI or my contacts can check on.”

“And how do we do that?” Gunther asked.

I knew the answer, but I let Grant say it.

“What name did you give the woman over the phone?”

“Melvin Spaulding,” I said.

“Right,” Grant said, halting his pacing. “Melvin Spaulding has to show up for that advanced acting class tonight.”

“I can’t,” I said. “Jacklyn Wright knows me. And you can’t. Everybody knows you.”

“I could do it,” said Gunther. “I have acted, been on the stage.”

“Gunther was in
The Wizard of Oz,
” I said.

“You were? What were you?”

“A Munchkin soldier and a flying monkey,” Gunther said, straightening his vest. “It was not a pleasant experience.”

“I don’t like it,” Grant said. “Maybe I can get someone through my contacts.”

“We have but a few hours,” Gunther said, looking at his pocket watch. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, and with my knowledge of German I might discover something of value. There is one advantage in being a little person. People look at you, but they do not fear you. I do not blend in with the crowd, but I am often ignored at its center.”

Grant and I looked at each other. We both nodded.

“Good,” said Gunther. “I will go, and attempt to enter the group and find a way to get a list of names.”

“Better idea,” I said. “I’ll wait till you’re in the class and get into the office, try to find a list.”

“I’m going with you,” said Grant.

“You think that’s a good idea?”

“The truth? I don’t know,” said Grant. “I do know I want to be there.”

The door to Gunther’s room sprang open.

Mrs. Plaut stood there with a tray. On the tray was a teapot, cups, and a platter of neatly cut in half sandwiches. She moved to Gunther’s desk, placed the tray on it, and turned to Grant, who stood next to her.

“You are not the fire commissioner,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You are Warren Harding’s son,” she said. “I recognize you now.”

“I’m working with the fire commissioner,” Grant said.

“What?”

“I’m working with the fire commissioner,” he said louder.

“I like you,” she said, touching his arm, “but you are not much of an actor. You are fibbing. Why you are fibbing, I do not know. Perhaps in time you will all see fit to take me into your confidence. I descend from a loyal American family, as Mr. Peelers can attest.”

“Very loyal,” I said. I could have added that they were also eccentric, violent, confused, and constituted a historical threat to the nation.

“All right,” said Grant with a sigh. “I’m Cary Grant, the movie actor. We’ve stumbled on a nest of spies. They’ve already killed two men. We plan to stop them.”

“The three of you?” she asked.

“The three of us,” Grant said.

“That is a silly story, which insults my intelligence,” she said. “I have made you dark tea and cucumber-and-butter sandwiches and you tell me stories. I wash my hands of this trio, I can tell you. Personally, I think you’re planning to rob a bank.”

She closed the door behind her.

“I like that woman,” said Grant. “I’m not always sure what she’s talking about, but there’s something likable about her.”

“We know,” I said, “but when you live under her roof, she can make you very tired very fast.”

We had three cars. We decided to take two, mine and Grant’s. When the evening was over, Grant could go home and so could Gunther and I.

Before we left, Gunther said he had to make a phone call.

“It should take me no more than a minute,” he said.

Grant and I ate cucumber-and-butter sandwiches and drank dark tea until Gunther returned and said he was ready.