Assignment — Stella Marni (6 page)

"How is he, Doctor?"

"Not very good. We've done what we can."

"What are his chances?"

"Perhaps one in five. By all reason, he should be down in the morgue with his brother right now. But he's stronger than he looks. We'll do whatever is possible, Mr. Durell, but he was hit hard. Some of the bone splinters were driven in rather deeply. Has he a family?"

Durell thought of Rosalie's warm, happy face and the tightly knit family circle into which Art had drawn him and made him feel at home. "Yes, I'll notify them."

"Don't let it go too long."

"Has he been conscious at all?"

"I'm sorry, no."

"Any chance he might be able to talk tonight?"

"Hard to tell. There's deep coma now, of course; he might come out of it briefly, and maybe not. If he does, he probably won't be rational. Best chance will be if the coma changes to natural sleep. I understand the FBI is keeping a man and a tape recorder at his side."

"Right," Durell said.

"Nothing more you can do, then, is there?" The doctor gave him a tight, meaningless smile and walked away.

The nurse said: "Please. Mr. Durell."

"All right, I'm coming now."

The hospital corridors were cloaked in a postmidnight hush as he followed the nurse's white, slithering uniform down to the board room that had been set aside for a conference. Dickinson McFee was there, which did not surprise Durell. Blossom sat with several young FBI agents in a small group at one end of the polished conference table. There were also several uniformed cops, a homicide inspector from Center Street, and Blossom's second in command, Tom Markey. Markey was a short, balding man in his fifties, slow-spoken, calm, with brown eyes reflecting all the unwanted wisdom gleaned in his profession.

"Sit down, Sam," Markey said. "We've been waiting."

"Good morning, General." Durell said to McFee.

Dickinson McFee nodded curtly. He was a man of short stature, dressed in neutral gray, yet the force of his personality dominated any room he occupied. His powers as head of K Section went beyond any known definition, but he wore his responsibilities easily, with a mind that was cool, as retentive as an electronics calculator, and objective in all things. One glance at McFee's stony face convinced Durell that he was in trouble. Blossom looked smug, his narrow face turned like a wedge toward him. his mouth curved in a smile without meaning, his eyes glittery with a faraway vision of triumph.

Blossom's thin voice filled the room. "We're going to have this out right now. The Senate Internal Security Subcommittee works with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and jurisdiction in this matter of the Reds' repatriation campaign lies entirely within the province of the Attorney General's department. We are the police agency in this matter, and I trust that fact is clearly understood by all present."

No one said anything.

"We are particularly interested in Stella Marni." Blossom went on. His eyes were pale and glittering. "We have worked hard on this case. I have given it all of my personal attention. Do you suppose for one moment that the disappearance, within the past two months, of dozens of Hungarian. Polish, and Bulgarian nationals, not to mention a few handfuls of other expatriates from satellite countries within the Soviet orbit, has gone unnoticed by us? We have our own leads, our own sources of information. We know the sudden rise of disappearances and repatriation are the direct result, not of a loosely organized coercion campaign from abroad, but of the activities of a ring right here in New York. Personal contacts, not threats in the mail from abroad, have been made in all recent cases. It's a small ring, tightly organized, efficient, deadly, powerfully armed with facts on all the victims. I know the names of some of the members of that ring. But it you ask me for that information. I must regretfully decline to give it to you. We are building a case that might have been ready to present today, if it had not been for Durell's interference, which led to the homicide he claims to have discovered."

"Claims?" McFee repeated. "Do you doubt Durell's statement?"

"His interest in this matter is not official, and therefore it is bound to be distorted by personal motives and emotions. I cannot accept anything Durell has told us. For example, you may wonder how an amateur like Frank Greenwald came close enough to this ring I spoke about to get himself murdered. You may think this implies an amateur has done more than the FBI." Blossom smiled thinly. "What Greenwald discovered, or thought he had discovered, has been known to me for weeks. We haven't moved because our case hasn't been legally air-tight, that is all. And, of course, Greenwald has been intimately connected with these people through his infatuation with Stella Marni. He was accepted by them simply because of his amateur status. He was familiar with that studio in his building, naturally. He came to know Stella Marni when he saw her entering and leaving the place, months ago, when she first started to work as a photographer's model for the man who leases the studio up there. That studio was not unfamiliar territory to Stella or Frank Greenwald. She visited there often. And in spite of Durell's statement, we know that she was there last night. But Durell denies this."

"Do you, Sam?" McFee asked quietly.

Durell said: "I have nothing to discuss with Blossom."

McFee said: "Just because you don't get along with Mr. Blossom..."

"He's the wrong man for this case," Durell said flatly. "I told him so this afternoon. He might as well be working for the other side, for all the good he accomplishes. He uses terror and hate to get these frightened people to talk. But nothing he can threaten them with can equal the blackmail that induces these people to go back home to death and imprisonment. They need sympathy and understanding, not more threats. They need intelligent help. Blossom gives them bigotry and a kick in the teeth. He doesn't belong in this."

Blossom's face was pale. "I can afford to overlook your remarks. Just answer the question. Was Stella Marni at that studio tonight?"

Durell said nothing.

McFee spoke in a voice like iron. "Sam, your silence implies that you are withholding information the law needs. This isn't our baby. Senator Hubert called tonight to make that clear, and so did some of the Joint Chiefs. I've conferred with the Attorney General. It's not our business. Whatever you may think of Blossom has no bearing here. You are to co-operate with him by giving him whatever you know and then come back to Washington with me."

"Is that an order?"

"Yes."

"Sorry," Durell said.

A faint rustle went around the conference table. Tom Markey looked dismayed. McFee's face was inscrutable, his gray eyes resting on Durell's angry face. Blossom made a small sound of satisfaction.

"So far, Durell, your meddling has got one of our key witnesses, Frank Greenwald, killed. And our primary target, Stella Marni, is missing. We had her covered like a blanket, but thanks to your interference, we've lost surveillance since eight o'clock this evening. She knows what we must know in order to break up this thing; she knows names, dates, and places. And finally, your meddling has put one of your own men in a dying condition right here in this hospital. Yet you have nothing to say?"

"Not to you," Durell said.

"Then make your report to me," McFee snapped.

"No." Durell stood up. "Not here and not now."

"Do you know where this girl is?"

"I can find her."

"Did she kill Frank Greenwald?"

"I don't think so."

"But you are not sure?"

"I can't prove she is innocent, if that's what you mean. But I know this: I know she is frightened because her father is missing and she's afraid to talk to Blossom because Blossom doesn't give a damn about these political refugees and he hasn't made any real effort to find Albert Marni. He's in love with Stella Marni and she won't have anything to do with him. Because of that, Blossom hates her and is out to smash her."

Blossom lurched to his feet, his face paper-white. A cord of muscle stood out in his throat, and a pulse beat raggedly in his temple. He started toward Durell and Tom Markey jumped up and said something in a hurried undertone, shooting a glance at Durell, and pushed at Blossom's chest to force the FBI man down.

"Those are all lies," Blossom whispered. His breathing was ragged. "Every one of them."

"Do you deny trying to force your attentions on Stella Marni?"

"Yes. Do you believe her word against mine?"

"Do you deny that you haven't made any real effort to find her father?"

"I've got men on it"

"Turning up anything?"

"That's our business. We're not ready to discuss the case at the moment"

McFee stood up. For the first time since Durell had come to know him, he showed anger through his usual objective calm. The anger was directed at Durell. "Sam, this is too much. I don't understand what's eating you. Mr. Blossom has been with the FBI for much longer than you have been with us. His record is spotless. His percentage of case convictions stands higher than that of any other man in his district. There has never been the slightest criticism of his methods or his personal habits. Your remarks are too serious to be dismissed lightly." McFee swung to Blossom. "I apologize for Durell. Do you have any objections if I take him with me back to Washington?"

Blossom looked down at his hands, flat on the table, and shook his head. "We want the information he possesses. He is a material witness to the murder tonight He's also made serious charges against me, impugning my integrity in this case. I want that cleared up. An apology from you, General, is hardly enough."

Tom Markey cleared his throat. "I think, gentlemen, we have all gone overboard with our tempers. I have known Sam Durell for many years. I realize he is upset because his friend is seriously injured, perhaps dying. I'm sure he will give us everything he can to help settle the matter when he has had time to think it over."

"Don't apologize for me, Tom," Durell said. His anger, he knew, was now suicidal. He knew that the best thing to do was to shut up, keep quiet, let it all ride for now. But he couldn't help himself. He had the greatest respect for the FBI and the unselfish men who devoted their lives to internal security. He knew that Blossom was one exception in thousands. He knew that, in a way, Stella Marni had confused his thinking as much as she had twisted Blossom's perspective in the case. There was no reason why he should believe Stella against Blossom. Yet he did. He could not help himself. Every ounce of rational thinking and training urged him to co-operate, to apologize, to work with these men and do what he could, to turn in Stella Marni and go back to Washington with McFee and forget it. But it was impossible. He knew the dangers of a wild crusade for vengeance, but this went beyond a desire to satisfy himself personally about Art, if Art should die.

It was the girl.

He could see her, sense her, and feel her, and hear again the desperation in her words, whispering to him. There was a feeling in him of something left undone, of something still to be explored and settled between himself and Stella Marni. It had been something beyond her despair and terror and beauty, something he could not explain. How can you explain what makes you walk by a hundred women and suddenly feel yourself come alive at a single meeting of the eye, at the glimpse of a proud face, a knowledge of the way one walked, alive with pulses singing and a feeling of being incomplete suddenly, unless you could be with this particular one, this one out of all the hundreds?

He felt as if Stella Marni had somehow possessed him.

And knowing this, he suddenly felt less bitter toward Blossom.

The conference went on for twenty more minutes. Durell tried to be more amenable. But what he had learned from Stella and the few leads he intended to follow he kept to himself. The tensions at the board table relaxed slightly, and Dickinson McFee's quiet manner contributed to it as much as Durell's change of attitude. Blossom was not in the least satisfied; neither was Tom Markey, his second in command. There was a telephone call from Senator Hubert at the end of all the talk, and Blossom listened and replied perfunctorily while McFee seemed to be thinking of something else, and then Blossom pushed the phone away and stood up.

"That's all for now, gentlemen. Durell, you're to go back to Washington with the General and stay out of it. Understood?"

Durell nodded.

"Well need a statement from you, of course," Blossom was cool and businesslike now. "That will be enough, for the present, provided you don't meddle in this any further."

McFee stood up. "I'll take Durell with me."

They left the hospital building a few minutes later. It had stopped raining, and the East Side streets looked washed and clean in the early-morning hours. Durell lit a cigarette gratefully and they walked a little way in silence. The wind was cold. There wasn't much traffic. A few cabs cruised by, but McFee made no effort to hail one.

"Well, Sam," McFee said. "You pulled out all the stops on that one."

"I suppose I did."

"Are you right about Blossom?"

"I'm willing to bet on it."

"I respect your judgment as a gambler, Cajun. As a matter of fact, I talked in Washington about Blossom — pretty touchy, considering he's in another department and I could be considered impertinent — and I also discussed him with Tom Markey. Markey is intensely loyal to Blossom, but both sources are disturbed. Blossom hasn't been himself. Not since he met Stella Marni. All at once, according to Markey, Blossom changed. He's kept most of the data in this case to himself: even Markey is in the dark about a lot of it. Blossom knows his business. His past record puts him pretty high in his department. But even the best of us has a weak spot, an Achilles' heel, Sam. In Blossom's case, it might be his years of confirmed bachelorhood suddenly meeting up with an irrational infatuation for the Marni girl. Anyway, Markey is completely at a loss over the sudden change he sees in Blossom."