ONCE HOME HE suddenly realised how tired he was. When the phone rang he was half-asleep on the sofa, with the radio playing from Radio City Music Hall in New York. It was Nessheim, finally calling back.
‘About time,’ said Guttman crossly. ‘Didn’t you get my message from your room-mate?’
‘I don’t have a room-mate.’
‘She sure sounded like one.’
‘I thought my personal life was my own, Harry.’
‘It is,’ he said grudgingly.
‘That’s big of you. Thanks.’
Guttman suppressed a sigh. The last thing he needed was a quarrel with Nessheim right now. ‘So, anything to report?’ he asked.
But Nessheim had little news, other than to say that the project at Stagg Field was progressing quickly, and that Fermi was now hoping for a result well before his previous deadline of New Year’s.
When he’d finished telling this, Guttman said, ‘There are a couple things I want you to check.’ He explained them, while Nessheim listened in silence. Finally Guttman said, ‘You still there?’
‘Just writing it all down. Bergen at Fort Sheridan and Fermi about Grant. Anything else?’
‘That’s it. But ASAP.’
‘I’m on the case.’
Guttman hung up, annoyed and wondering why he felt that way. Was he cross with Nessheim for not being with Annie? No. So what was it? And then he realised: Nessheim was happy. Like a child who wasn’t, Guttman didn’t think this was fair. At the office in the morning, Marie was cheerful, polite, demurely dressed and slightly aloof. His heart sank as her conversation touched on every topic under the sun except that of the night before. Oh, Marie, Guttman thought, why couldn’t you have left things as they were – my work confidante, my doorkeeper?
He had to say something. When she came into his office again he was about to speak, but something in the set of her lips stopped him. He decided he would wait a minute and then try, but Marie was already talking. She handed over an envelope, saying, ‘This is from the Chicago Field Office, but by registered mail. Highly confidential.’ She sounded simultaneously sceptical and cross. ‘Not by telex,’ she added significantly. Normally anything urgent from the office there would come that way. She looked at Guttman. ‘You want to tell me what’s going on?’
‘Nothing’s going on.’
‘Then why do you keep sneaking in and out of the office? Why are you making mysterious calls and receiving confidential letters? And why did Tolson want you up in his office?’
‘Honest, nothing’s going on,’ he said plaintively.
‘Okay, don’t tell me if you don’t want to,’ she said with a sigh, and retreated to the anteroom, closing the door behind her.
What the hell, he thought. He picked up the envelope, noticing the embossed Chicago Field Office address on its back flap, and wondering why they were communicating this way. He occasionally received the odd loony missive, easily dismissed, not even filed, but had never had one forwarded from a field office.
He extracted a single page and saw that it was typed on letterhead. Looking down, he found the signature of Eloise Tate, aka Tatie, and when he read what she had to say he thought his blood would turn cold.
Oh, Nessheim, he thought bitterly, how could you do this to me? The questions that had been plaguing him were starting to have answers, but there was little consolation in that. Nessheim had fallen for the oldest trick in the book, and he had taken Guttman with him.