Keeping Secrets (38 page)

I found it easy to convince him I'd fallen prey to his charms, though he was painfully short on them. Yet I had to give my all to unraveling him because he was the closest person to the Cabots and probably the only one with any knowledge of their lives. I was soon convinced he was privy to all important matters concerning Cabot, but was to change my belief back and forth as I tried to pinpoint his loyalties.

As we got acquainted over those first few weeks, I could tell he thought the whole world revolved around Electra Cabot. He told me all about what a cultured, knowledgeable lady she was, that she attended the symphony and art exhibits with a distinguished old English gentleman named Woodstone. He said she was a widow before she married Cabot.

Between our conversations I was feeding all this information back to Edwin, yet for a very long time it led to nothing. I could get Nathan to say much less about Cabot himself, and at the time could not understand why. He seemed to have almost an unhealthy attachment to the man, like an oath in blood. Perhaps, in a way, you could say that was the case.

Obviously, the man was lacking romantic attachments, so I batted my not-so-long eyelashes at him and tried to appear all goggle-eyed whenever we were together. Yet he didn't seem to take to that bait. He wanted to tell me more of how wonderful Electra was, that he built her a summerhouse and they sat together when Cabot was away and talked for hours, and she depended upon him for comfort and condolence in her loneliness. Actually he could say an awful lot without relating much, and after a while I began resenting the time wasted on him. It seemed there was not an hour of the day left when I was free to do what I wanted to do. Apparently Keith was tired of waiting around for me because lately he'd kept his distance. Likely he had found another girl, I supposed, one of those uppity finishing-school types that college men like. And here I was, literally giving away my lunch break to the BNA, sitting across from a young man I could scarcely talk with, and normally wouldn't bother.

Still I kept at Nathan persistently, though he was too close-mouthed to help until the end. Then of course he was telling a great deal that I was unable to make any sense of until it was too late.…

Oh, how I drove the poor man. I used to think up ways of finding out what made him react, not to mention keeping a mental list of subjects at hand that I could use should there be an empty silence between us. There often was. About the only time he talked at length on one subject was when he began reminiscing about his boyhood home in Mill Springs. Very often this would lead him into comparing his own widowed mother with Electra. I could see he held the two women on almost equal pedestals.

Regardless of what other topic I mentioned, he remained noncommittal, his expression changeless. Though I tried in every possible way I could think of, I never could satisfy myself as to whether he knew exactly where Cabot's copper was bound, and, indeed, how much he knew about Cabot's business altogether. He remained an enigma, at least for a long time.

Obtaining information—important, vital facts—from Electra Cabot proved less difficult. She was more open, especially in the beginning. Yet before I met her face to face I came across her in another place, following the day I watched her buying strawberries at Butler's.

One day at lunchtime I was sitting on a bench across from the post office awaiting a rendezvous with Edwin. I had picked up some more invoices from the safe compartment during Tetzel's brief absence from town, and had to return the originals that afternoon because he was due back in the office on the following day.

Electra came from my left, becomingly dressed in a pale pink suit with matching scarf frothing gently from the neck to the top button of her cape-collared suit coat. On her head was one of those huge Gainsborough hats, with deep pink flowers around the crown. Except for a small handbag and a closed parasol, she carried nothing in her gloved hands. For her looks and bearing, she might have been a queen about to be handed into a royal carriage.

I watched her go by purely out of admiration, my head full of fantasies, before I started to wonder what she might be doing at the post office. As she disappeared inside I decided she must be picking up a package too large for delivery at her home. Yet when she returned a few moments later, she was holding a small envelope. Still that could have led to no end of simple explanations. But when she reached the bottom of the stairs she suddenly stopped and looked quickly both ways, folded the envelope, and tucked it into her handbag.

Before she was out of sight, Edwin had approached from behind, and when I pointed her out to him he said, “Good-looking lady.” After I explained what happened he said, “There's no way we can get into a post office and snoop around. Just keep your eyes open and see what develops.”

Nothing came of it at first, though I did see her repeat the little trip from time to time both before and after we met. Several months passed before I was actually introduced to Electra, and in the meantime the Mexican General Huerta's so-called friends from the German underground seemed abruptly to lose interest in his welfare. His plans to cross the border, join his compatriot Orozco, and stage his return to power by the forces awaiting him, courtesy of German money and ammunitions, were supposedly laid with great care. Yet he was quite handily intercepted in El Paso by United States agents and died before he felt the soil of his own country beneath his feet again.

The failure of the plot was blamed by each German agent on the other. Von Rintelen blamed Boy-Ed and von Papen, whom, he vowed, scuttled the plan from the beginning because they resented his coming over here and meddling in their business. Edwin had called that one correctly, and so had Tetzel.

Regardless of who was at fault, the BNA agents were shadowing Huerta from the time he first reached New York, and after the matter was concluded a few months later, there was a very interesting conversation between Tetzel and Cabot, which I listened to from the storeroom while the recording machine rolled merrily and futilely along:

“You see, my friend, I told you Huerta would be taken care of,” Tetzel said. (I could almost see his self-satisfied smile through the wall.) “Von Rintelen will be sent home like a bad boy, one the less thorn in my side. Now, how goes it from the other side of the border?”

“Propaganda is being circulated; everything is going forward as planned.”

“Good. Now, with Huerta out of the way I can easily begin stockpiling munitions in Detroit for Barrista.”

“But we still have to keep Villa on our side for a while. He's keeping my mines open. I'm going to need some more money to keep him happy. And he needs arms.”

“All right. We can see to that. The stronger we keep Villa's forces, the longer it will take the Pan-American countries and the United States to mediate peace; and the busier they are kept working out Mexican problems, the less likely they are to interfere with our plans in Europe. All goes well. Why do you look so glum?”

“I just don't want a rock slide to begin on my mountain before I'm well out of the way.”

12

One Saturday afternoon at the beginning of summer, I stopped by Butler's to pick up some groceries. I didn't really need anything, but I did want to see Keith.

Because I could never tell him why I was so often unavailable, he'd finally become convinced I had another suitor. The last time I saw him he invited me out for oyster rolls at the Manhattan. I almost accepted, then remembered a meeting scheduled with Edwin, and stumbled over a silly excuse. There was resignation in his reply: “Well, see you sometime.”

I'd watched him walk away, seething. But I had stupidly expected him to ask me out again, and when he didn't I tried to convince myself it was just as well if he was spending his time with someone else. After all, he was only a friend. And yet …

I pulled a pickle from the barrel and drew up to the counter across from him. “How've you been?”

“Busy,” he said, pretending to study a list of specials. “You know how it is, end of the school year, exams and so forth.”

“Sure … but it's all over now, isn't it? I'm free tonight if—”

“Oh? That's too bad. I've already made plans.”

I was sure my face was turning as green as the pickle in my hand, so I left a coin on the counter and said meekly, “All right, 'bye.”

I was nearly to the door when he called, “How about tomorrow?”

“Sure.” I smiled back, and right then I made up my mind I was going to put Keith in front of the BNA more often. Edwin would just have to suit his schedule to mine for a change.

Keith arrived the next afternoon in his father's automobile. We weren't together five minutes before I was laughing and enjoying myself, and wondering why I hadn't realized that seeing him made it easier for me to face the daily burdens of BNA work.

That Sunday we attended a municipal band concert. It was such a hot day that the hint of breeze in the air brought people out of their homes in search of relief, and the crowd was so large at San Pedro Park that we had to leave the auto nearly a quarter of a mile from the bandstand. Keith's mother had packed a lunch—my inability to put meals together was a fact largely recognized—and after we ate we sat close to each other on the ground and listened to a cornet solo of “Love's Old Sweet Song” and a good rendition by the whole band of the “Blue Danube Waltz,” one of my favorites, played upon request by someone in the audience. As the sun went down and the crowds began to disperse, Keith and I sat above the creek. He threw pebbles into the water while the descending sun cast dim light on the ripples. The breeze was soft and gentle, soothing as it fondled my hair. Keith looked almost handsome as his strong profile became more and more a well-defined silhouette against the darkening sky.

“I wish I could see more of you,” he said at last.

I brushed the hair from my cheeks and looked toward the water. “I know … but you have other girl friends, don't you?”

“No one special.”

“Neither have I.”

“Then, why—”

“It isn't the way you think, Keith,” I interrupted. “I just can't—settle down yet.”

“Maybe you're right,” he said with a shrug, and threw one last pebble into the glassy pool. Then he rose and helped me to my feet, and held on to my elbow for a prolonged moment. He looked as if he might kiss me, then changed his mind and led me toward the car. We rode all the way back to my apartment in silence, and when we reached the door I said, coyly, “I had such a good time today … wonder if there's another concert next Sunday?”

He looked half amused and said, “We could plan on taking a drive there just to find out.”

I closed the door and leaned against it. How nice it was to know someone who really cared, even if he seemed to have a lot of growing up to do. I wished at that moment I could confide in him, tell him everything that I was involved in. I was so alone in this whole mess. Talking to Edwin was not to be confused with confiding. Apart from our work in the BNA, we had nothing in common as far as I knew. We were like two machines designed for exchanging information with nothing built into our parts for expressions of sympathy or comfort. I always had the feeling when this thing was over he'd tip his hat and disappear in a cloud of smoke.

Mother was of no help either. My last letter from her had arrived in July, and consisted of a lecture on the value of observing “sacrifice week” for the suffragettes. “I know you have few luxuries, dear, but cut expenses wherever you can. Women are giving up everything from trips to the hairdresser, clothes and new shoes and stockings, to using the streetcar and eating dessert. Savings will help to pay the pledged quota of the state association.”

I'd thumbed my nose at the paragraph when I read it, but the letter did have its effect—every time I started to reach for a box of sweets, I wound up pulling back. At the end of the week I had twenty-five cents to contribute. Mother also mentioned she'd be in New Jersey in October, where V. for W. was to go before the polls. This was especially important because New Jersey was the President's home state and he was expected to vote in our favor. It was hoped his personal feelings would sway other voters.

I wrote to tell her of my savings, and wish her luck in New Jersey, then thought, if I didn't know so much about Emory Cabot I'd be wishing myself into Electra's shoes … being married to a man who could afford any luxury—no sacrifices necessary.

As it happened my feelings about the Cabots were altered before the summer was over. I still cannot explain the way I began to feel or why, yet I was faced with one more example of the bitter part of the work I was doing, which often led me to wonder what kind of man or woman could choose to make a career of espionage work. Watching, analyzing, and smoking out the Cabots was for me worse than being a youngster again, standing by helplessly as my older brothers captured a beautiful butterfly and stuck a pin through its body, stilling its majestic wings forever … a death mask mounted on a wall, put there for the purpose of a science project for school.

One afternoon Mr. Tetzel mentioned he and his wife planned a big celebration in their home for their wedding anniversary. I offered to address the invitations by hand, so that I could have a look at the list. After glancing over it I was convinced I had to be at that party, somehow. Not only would the Cabots be invited, but also the Stuttgarts—who had thus far remained an elusive pair.

“My penmanship isn't much compared to Giddeon Sparks', but I'll take care to be extra neat,” I told him.

He looked puzzled for a moment, then said, “Of course,” and laughed.

“I could help with table settings, or arrange flowers, too,” I said.

“No, we'll have plenty of help with that.”

“I could serve at table.”

“That's already been taken care of. It's kind of you, Camille, however—”