Front Page Affair (19 page)

“I read an article.” Kitty waited for him to answer.

“Well, you're correct. Without Julian's supply, I'd have to close down my factory. In the short term, you see, it's much more lucrative to use phenol to make explosives.”

A wide smile split across Kitty's cheeks. “Well, that's tremendous.” And here she had been thinking her father sold the stuff to take lives, not save them.

“We stand to make a killing by '17,” Maitland continued. “Everyone needs ASA, especially all those injured men coming out of the battlefront. Not to mention anyone with a garden-variety fever or headache.”

“And your operation requires a large quantity of phenol?” All that remained was to check that her father sold his full supply to the Canadian.

“Yes, it does.” Maitland stared at her in amazement. “I'm sorry. That word sounds strange coming from your lips.”

It felt strange too, Kitty thought, and after tomorrow, she hoped never again to have to repeat it.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Nothing could dampen Kitty's ebullient mood when she entered the apartment.

“How was the outing?” Julian Weeks called. He sat in his study, chewing on the end of a Cuban cigar and tapping his foot in time to the lively rhythm of the Clef Club playing on the gramophone.

“It was lovely, just lovely.” She perched on the arm of his settee.

“And Maitland didn't talk your ear off?”

Kitty took a deep breath. “He told me that you're working with him to manufacture ASA in Canada.”

Julian Weeks's foot stilled. He put down his cigar, rose, and lifted the needle from the phonograph record. The room went quiet.

“I hope you're not angry with him,” Kitty said. “It was I who asked.”

Julian Weeks poured himself a drink. “The world has become too complicated.” He took a large swig. “It's all right for Maitland—he's Canadian—but I'm participating in the production of a drug that's still under patent in the United States.”

“As far as I understand,” Kitty said carefully, “he's neither producing nor selling it here. So your participation shouldn't be a problem.”

“That's what my lawyer tells me.” He sat back down, his mouth twisted in a grimace. “I'm an old-fashioned man, and I like to do business the old-fashioned way. Buy something cheap in one place, sell it for more elsewhere. I hate”—he almost spat out the word—“to depend on legal niceties that I must have interpreted for me by specialists.”

One small matter troubled Kitty. “Why did you go to the Edelweiss Café?”

He looked puzzled. “Why do you keep going back to that?”

“I'm just curious. Does it have any connection to the phenol?”

“Who said anything about phenol?”

“Mr. Maitland did.” Kitty spoke quickly to cover up her slip.

“That man talks too much.”

“Are you buying the phenol from Dr. Albert?”

“Doctor who?”

“Ah.” Kitty panicked. “Dr. Albert,” she repeated, as though the name was common knowledge.

Her father glared at her. “I've never heard of him. Who is he?”

“He…” Kitty scrambled for an answer. “He's in the papers. I wanted to check something with you, so I peeked into the restaurant and saw him there. I recognized his face from a photograph. I thought you knew.”

“No, I don't know.” He seemed honestly surprised.

“He's Dr. Heinrich Friedrich Albert,” Kitty said as nonchalantly as she could manage. “The German commercial attaché.”

Julian Weeks's brow darkened. “Out,” he thundered. “Right now. And close the door.”

Kitty did as she was told but waited outside in the foyer. She heard him pick up the telephone and speak to the operator.

As quietly as she could, Kitty picked up the earpiece in the hall.

“Schweitzer,” she heard him say.

“Good evening, Mr. Weeks.” The man at the other end of the line spoke with a thick accent. “What can I do for you today?”

“You can tell me the truth for starters—”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Who is this Dr. Albert who can be recognized from his photograph in the papers? You told me that we would be meeting a colleague of yours from out of town. Now I find out he's Germany's commercial attaché?”

After a pause, the voice replied, “I apologize, Mr. Weeks. It was not my intention to deceive you.”

“But you did.”

“You see, the problem is”—Schweitzer sounded nervous—“Dr. Albert—”

“So I did meet this Dr. Albert.”

“Dr. Albert,” the other continued, “is very particular. He wanted to make sure that you could be trusted.”

“That
I
could be trusted?” Kitty would have heard her father's bellow without the telephone. “Who is this man? What right does he have to vet me?”

“He's the one who is paying for the phenol, sir.”

“Come again?”

“I can't afford to advance the money for the purchase of surplus phenol from Mr. Edison's factories. As you know, they are one of the few firms in the United States capable of producing it—and they do so in order to be able to continue to manufacture their own gramophone records.”

“Yes, yes. Go on.”

“Dr. Albert put up the money for the purchase and used me as an intermediary, since Mr. Edison never would have sold to him. But since it has become almost impossible to send anything safely back to Germany, he, in turn, wanted me to find a buyer who could be guaranteed not to use it for the production of munitions that might fall into the enemy's hands. You see, I don't have much to do with it. I'm just the middle man.”

“I gave you my word, Schweitzer. Pharmaceutical production in Canada, nothing else.”

“And I told Herr Doktor that. But he insisted on meeting you in person. It was his idea that you should not know his identity.”

“If I had,” Kitty heard her father say, “I might have backed away.”

“Now you know everything, sir. I promise there will be no further surprises.”

“I hope not.”

“Mr. Weeks?”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry, may I ask you a question?”

“Make it quick, Schweitzer. I must say I'm not in the best of moods. I'm still tempted to call this entire business off.”

“May I ask how you recognized the commercial attaché from his likeness in the papers? I inquire because Dr. Albert goes to great lengths to avoid any kind of publicity. To the best of my knowledge, he has never been photographed.”

• • •

Kitty helped herself to a handful of salted cashew nuts from the glass bowl in the living room. A few seconds later, she helped herself to some more. A pile of the latest issues of
Photoplay
,
Good Housekeeping
, and
Vogue
littered the sofa. It had been an hour since her father finished his telephone conversation, and she'd heard the front door slam behind him as he'd left the apartment.

She told herself that he would be back soon. Just a short while ago, she had doubted him, and now, what must he think of her?

Grace came in to ask whether Mr. Weeks would be home in time for dinner.

“Of course he will,” Kitty snapped, “and please make sure that Mrs. Codd prepares his favorite chicken dish—the one with the apricots.”

The telephone rang, and Kitty rushed to answer it. It was only Amanda, calling to thank her for visiting Mrs. Basshor.

“I don't think I accomplished much,” Kitty said. “But I appreciate your taking the trouble to telephone.”

“That you went so soon after I asked is enough. Bessie Basshor called Mama and told her you were the first person who really listened to what she had to say and that you understood her.” Amanda's voice cracked. “It seems you have a talent for newspaper work, Capability, and if that's what you want to do, then you should do it. Don't worry about what the rest of us might say. But you ought not to have made a fool of me at the YWCA. It only makes matters worse when you pretend that you haven't made up your mind.”

Kitty didn't think it would help to explain that at one point, she hadn't been certain she would refuse and that her choices, at the moment, were far from clear-cut.

“I put myself out for you,” Amanda said, “and you let me down in front of my friends. I can allow bygones to be bygones once, but if it happens again, people will ask why I keep giving a girl from the wrong side of town another chance. You know that kind of thing isn't important to me—”

“But it is important in your circle.” Kitty didn't have the strength to argue. “I appreciate the warning, Amanda.”

“I don't mean it that way. Just make up your mind, and everything will be all right.”

Coming from a long line of Vanderwells, it was easy for Amanda to say everything would be fine. She didn't need to worry about proving herself or her family's lineage. Kitty excused herself and hung up the receiver. She couldn't bear to be cooped up any longer, so she asked Grace to call downstairs for the Bearcat.

It was past seven, and Kitty had never driven alone at this hour. She headed toward Forty-Sixth and Madison. She thought her father might be at the Ritz-Carlton with Mr. Maitland, and she could bring him home. Or, if not (and Kitty didn't want to admit this to herself), she hoped that Mr. Maitland would make her troubles go away, as he had done this afternoon.

Kitty's hands trembled on the wheel. Her father used to call her his little Violet and tossed her in the air when he came home to their shady bungalow with the garden of palm trees and bougainvillea. When she made a mistake or did something reckless, he would correct her with a few well-chosen words or a smack on the hand, but he never walked out in disgust. He only started to call her by her first name, Capability, when she stepped off the gangplank in New York. Everyone else called her Kitty while she was growing up.

What had happened? Did she really know anything about him? They must clear the air between them. It had been far too long since they'd had an honest and open conversation.

“You will find Mr. Maitland in the Palm Court.” The concierge replied to her query in hushed tones. If he thought it was unusual for a young lady to come in on her own, he didn't give it away in his manner or in his voice. “Would you like one of the bellboys to accompany you, madam?” he asked.

“That's quite all right.” Kitty followed his directions and spotted Mr. Maitland at the far end of the glass-covered court. He was deep in conversation with a lady in an ostrich-feather hat.

He said something, and his companion threw her head back and laughed. There was no sign of Mr. Weeks, and Kitty turned to leave, but Maitland noticed her across the room and beckoned her over.

There was something about Mr. Maitland, perhaps his size combined with his intelligence, that exerted its own gravitational force over Kitty. She found herself drawn toward him, weaving her way through a field of circular tables.

There were couples in conversation to the right and left of her and, all around, the clinking of crystal glasses and silver knives and forks.

Mr. Maitland introduced her to Mrs. Cordell, recently arrived from Biarritz. His friend said something pleasant and then excused herself; she had to make sure that her packages had arrived.

“So how can I help you?” He pulled a chair back for Kitty. “Don't tell me you have more questions about acetylsalicylic acid, or phenol, or some other chemical compound?” He smiled.

“I thought I might find my father here.” Kitty glanced at the two glasses of wine, the half-eaten plate of mushrooms on toast bread, and Mrs. Cordell's napkin tossed on the table.

“He wasn't home when you arrived?”

“He was.”

“I see.” Mr. Maitland folded his arms across his chest. “Then I'm sure he will be back.”

Mrs. Cordell reappeared. “John,” she called, “Lester's forgotten to deliver my music box.”

Kitty stood. “I'm sorry to have disturbed your tête-à-tête.” She felt stupid for not having recognized at once what she had interrupted. A man of the world, Mr. Maitland evidently had an eye for women, and they for him. “I should be on my way.”

She left the hotel and climbed into the Bearcat. She was better off by herself.

Chapter Thirty

“Where have you been?” Mr. Weeks demanded from his study.

“I might ask you the same question.” Kitty handed Grace her purse and gloves.

He had his back turned to her when she came in and then sat, having poured himself a tumbler of bourbon.

“Perhaps I made a mistake,” he said. “Perhaps it was wrong of me to put you in a position where you had to ask my business colleague what I was doing. I still think of you as an eight-year-old, but I'm willing to change. Go on, ask me whatever you like, and I'll do my best to answer.”

“Anything?” Kitty had expected a fight, not this laying down of arms.

“Within reason, yes.” Mr. Weeks allowed himself a smile. “I won't pretend that I've changed overnight. But I do see that we can't allow this state of affairs to continue indefinitely, or it could easily spin out of control.”

“Can we turn on some music?”

“No, let's talk. That's what you want, isn't it?”

The clock in the corner struck the quarter hour and kept ticking, its pendulum swinging back and forth.

Kitty laughed guiltily. “I don't know where to begin.” She smoothed her skirts. “Do you have any questions for me?”

“Ladies first.”

“All right, who vouched for you on your passport?”

She could tell that the question surprised him. But to his credit, he didn't flinch and replied at once, “I paid a stranger ten dollars for the favor, which he's probably already drunk through.”

“Why do you need someone you don't know to lie for you?”

Mr. Weeks breathed in sharply. “I could tell you that it was the most expedient solution, but the truth is that I've spent years putting miles between myself and my past. I see no reason to undo that in order to satisfy some nitpicking requirement.”

“What do you mean?” Kitty pressed him, eager for an answer. She had always suspected he was running away from something and that was why he never remained in one place for too long. She used to imagine him having committed some noble crime—killing a sailor in a barroom brawl, for instance, in order to protect a woman's honor.

“Did you do something wrong?” she said. His confession would explain his tight-lipped silence on certain subjects and his lack of childhood stories or mementos.

“No. Unless you consider it a misdemeanor to be orphaned.” He cleared his throat. “Or perhaps my parents are still alive. I don't know who they are, so I can't be certain.”

“But I thought—”

“I know what you thought, or rather, what I allowed you to think. But you should know what really happened. There were no parents who died when I was a boy and left me to be raised by uncaring relatives.”

The image that Kitty had held in her mind for all these years dropped and shattered into a million pieces.

“I was abandoned on the doorstep of a crumbling convent when I was an infant and was raised by unforgiving nuns. My name was Peter then.”

Peter?
Kitty looked at him.
Peter?
She couldn't believe it. The words kept coming.

“We had three Peters, three Pauls, and five Gabriels, their favorite. Whenever they called a name, whichever ones of us had it had to come running. If you didn't run fast enough…” He shook his head at the memory. “Let's just say that their reed switch would help remind you to run faster. As far as I'm concerned, my story begins when I escaped and stowed away on a vessel sailing out of Baltimore.”

At least she had heard this part before.

“Before then, I was no one. I became who I am on the ocean.”

Kitty's wrenching relocation to Switzerland when she was eight hardly compared to his plight.

“I was about thirteen at the time. I'm not sure of my exact age, because no one knows it. When the ship's cook found me hiding behind a sack of potatoes and asked my name, I told him ‘Julian,' after Caesar.”

“Why?”

“I decided it was time for a change. Then I stole a look at the onion crate beside me and chose my surname in honor of Weeks & Co. Fresh Produce. Don't worry,” he said, amused. “We may be named after root vegetables, but I don't feel sorry for myself, and you shouldn't either.

“The other boys weren't allowed to leave the confines of that cold, bleak place,” he continued while Kitty hoped he had no more surprises. “I escaped, and I traveled the world. I don't know if you can understand what that means after the childhood I've given you, Capability, but for a boy like me—with nothing to look forward to—it was heaven on earth.

“And somehow, after starting without two pennies to rub together, I've managed to amass a tidy fortune. I've done business in Russia, China, Mongolia, and Malaya. I've crossed paths with Cossacks and petty potentates and Burmese traders, and I don't owe my success to anyone. So now you know why I don't have a birth certificate or some document showing whether my father is ‘native' or ‘naturalized.' I don't know if he was ever married to my mother—from the way the nuns treated me, I suspect not.”

“You're a bastard,” Kitty said.

“What does that word mean?” He shrugged. “In the end, it's his inner compass that gives a man his bearings. And for the first time in ages, I haven't followed mine—”

“By making that fellow sign for you on your application?”

“No.” He seemed surprised by the question. “I'd do that again in a heartbeat. My past is no one's business except mine—and now yours. It's my venture with Maitland that bothers me. I swore that I'd never undertake a dealing that I didn't fully comprehend, and this business of transporting phenol across the border turns out to be much more complicated than I thought.

“It's not just the difference in laws between the United States and Canada—which I will admit troubled me. But also that I appear to be buying phenol from someone who took pains to conceal his identity from me.”

He put down his tumbler and leaned forward in his seat. “How,” he said to Kitty, “did you recognize Dr. Albert?”

The world went still. Kitty could hear her own heartbeat. Two forks in the road in one day: the first, whether to join Amanda and her friends; the second, whether she should tell her father that
she'd
been concealing things from him for a while.

The clock struck the half hour, giving her a few seconds respite. In those seconds, Kitty realized, she would be making the most important decision of her adult life.

“The Secret Service,” she said when the last chime died down.

“What?”

She started at the beginning—how the agents confronted her outside the docks and what they'd asked her to do. Mr. Weeks frowned when she mentioned looking through his diary, but she didn't let that stop her and plunged ahead.

When she finished, she closed her eyes, ready for the ax to fall. But instead, he laughed.

“What's so funny?”

“You outsmarted them.” He thumped his palm against his knee. “You discovered what they wanted to keep secret—American Secret Service men tailing a German diplomat. If it was printed in the paper tomorrow, no one would believe it.”

Kitty recalled Soames's words. “They told me it would cause an international incident.”

He nodded. “That sounds about correct.”

“Why take the risk?” Kitty said. “If the result of being exposed for tailing Dr. Albert could be so serious, why do it at all?”

Mr. Weeks stared at her blankly.

The answer dawned on Kitty. “They must think he's up to something dangerous—the question is what?”