THEY LEFT THE Quadrangle Club, with Guttman leading the way. It was only once they turned the corner at 58th Street that he spoke, his breath sending little puffs of white into the air with every word. It was numbingly cold. ‘You know I don’t like Hoover, and Hoover doesn’t like me.’
‘That’s pretty obvious,’ said Nessheim.
‘Yet Hoover leaves me alone. He’s scared of what I know, and I stay clear – since I’m scared of what he’s capable of. Instead he lets Tolson pick away at me. It’s like having a scab that never heals. I think they both hope I’ll get sick of it and resign.’
‘You figure Tolson knows about T.A.’s doings?’
‘No, I don’t – that’s the point I was coming to. Whatever Hoover is, and Tolson for that matter, neither one of them’s a spy. You could show me a picture of the Director sitting on Joe Stalin’s lap, and I still wouldn’t believe he worked for the Russians.’
‘I’m sure that’s right.’ There were certain conspiracies that needed to be rejected out of hand; certain lines drawn, or else you became infected with a persecution complex that was ultimately paralysing.
Guttman said, ‘T.A. is a different kettle of fish. The guy’s a master manipulator. Tolson seems to hold him in “great affection”, shall we say, and T.A. can wrap him round his little finger. Women fall for him too, in a big way. Think of that picture – Marie looks … what’s the word?’
‘Besotted?’
‘That’s it. I thought she might be a little bit interested in me – I’ll tell you why another time – but I realise now that Adams must have put her up to it. He’s a clever, clever prick, this guy.’
‘Do you think Marie’s a Red?’ It seemed preposterous.
‘No. I think she’s a dope who’s fallen for a bad guy who is a Red. Adams spent some time in Hollywood, and Stephenson thinks he was probably recruited there, possibly by your old Russian friend Elizaveta Mukasei. So I think he is a foreign agent, and I think he was Kalvin’s controller. Or one of them anyway – T.A. couldn’t get out here very often or Tolson would start wondering why. There must be somebody based here who runs Kalvin day to day.’
They were nearing the Cloisters at the corner of Dorchester Avenue. It was a big square thirteen-storey building with four tiers of apartments. Crossing the street, Guttman suddenly turned and looked behind them. Past the adjacent playing field, seen through its iron spiked fence, were the hulking shadows of several Gothic buildings, whose blue-grey granite shone in the weak moonlight like the edifices of a ghost story. ‘What is all that?’ asked Guttman.
‘It’s the Lab School. Where the faculty kids go. John Dewey founded it.’
Guttman rubbed a finger across his lips, looking pensive. ‘The Dewey Decimal System, right?’
‘One and the same. Congratulations.’ It seemed almost grotesque to stand here bantering with Guttman.
‘Sheesh. You’re supposed to be the small-town boy and I’m the city sophisticate.’
‘Only according to you, Harry. I’ve never seen it that way myself.’
They entered the tall doorway into the apartment complex, and as they passed the doorman’s little room, which had a window to watch the entrance, a Negro man inside stood up from a high stool. He was tall, with a thin narrow moustache, and wore a blue suit with a captain’s peaked hat. Seeing Guttman he waved and sat down again.
‘I squared him this afternoon,’ said Guttman. They walked along one side of a cloistered walkway, which surrounded an open courtyard that had a shallow rectangular pool running down its centre. At one end, water burbled from the mouth of a dwarf-sized stone cherub in a passable imitation of an Italian fountain. At the back of the courtyard they crossed to the north-east tier. As they waited for the elevator, Nessheim said, ‘It’s a fancy building, Harry. How does Kalvin manage this?’
‘He’s subletting from some doctor who’s gone off to stitch the wounded in the Pacific. The university owns the building, and they fixed it for him.’
They got off at the seventh floor, and Guttman took out the keys he must have got earlier from the doorman. He opened the door and they stepped into a little hall; Nessheim saw through an open doorway a magnificent view of the downtown skyline. You could even see the Palmolive Building up on North Michigan, and the sweeping beacon on its roof, used to keep aircraft from flying into it. A mile south, the dark bulk of the Loop’s buildings loomed like rectangular cut-outs in a cardboard game.
Guttman switched a light on in the hallway. ‘Okay, let’s be careful,’ he said. ‘Everything you move, move it back again before you look at anything else.’
They worked together, going methodically through the rooms, switching a single light on at a time, switching it off before turning on another one. They weren’t looking for Fermi-like hiding places – there simply wasn’t time – but hoping that Kalvin had grown overconfident and careless.
In the kitchen, they checked the drawers and icebox and cleaning cupboard, which was full of dust. The dining-room sideboard contained the china and silverware which the usual tenant had left behind. The living room held a collection of curios on the built-in bookshelves and there were more bibelots on the mantelpiece, which Guttman examined and shook vigorously to no effect. They lifted the pillows of the sofa and felt under the cushions of the armchairs, but the only thing they discovered was that the room needed a good clean. They inspected the bathroom, and Guttman frowned at the lotion bottle for thinning hair, but otherwise the items they found were unremarkable. The linen closet contained a motley collection of sheets and towels and pillowcases, but nothing else.
At last they came to the bedroom, which was as gloomy as the rest of the place, but messier – the bed was unmade and there were used socks and underwear strewn on the carpet. The blinds were down, but Kalvin had left a light on here, which cast a yellow glow that made the room seem especially seedy.
Guttman gently nudged some of the underwear on the floor with his shoe. ‘You have to laugh.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ said Nessheim, who had never felt less inclined.
‘Here we are – I’ve lost my wife, you’ve lost your gal. And what do we do but sneak into some schmuck’s apartment to see if there’s a microdot in his boxer shorts.’
There was a suit jacket hung around the arms of a stiff-backed wooden chair, the trousers draped across the seat. Kalvin must have changed before dinner with Fermi. Nessheim carefully patted the pockets of the suit. No wallet, which Kalvin would have kept with him, but in the waist pocket of the jacket he found a small diary, with a stub of pencil shoved between its spine and pages.
‘What have you got?’ asked Guttman.
‘His diary.’ Nessheim was already paging through it.
‘Anything there?’
‘Nah. M.L. three o’clock. M.L. five o’clock.’
‘Who’s M.L.?’
Nessheim thought for a minute. ‘It must be “Met Lab”. That’s the code name for the project. And every Wednesday has an E.F. at four o’clock. That would be Fermi.’
‘Let me see,’ said Guttman, and Nessheim handed him the diary.
‘What’s this M.S.I.?’ he asked after a minute.
‘When was that?’
‘There are two of them. One back in August – one at the beginning of November.’
‘When in November?’
‘The fifth,’ said Guttman.
Nessheim suddenly understood. ‘The Museum of Science and Industry. That’s where he met with T.A.’
Guttman handed the diary back to Nessheim and started going through Kalvin’s dresser. Nessheim looked at the recent pages of the diary, which had times marked on a few of the most recent days. He realised these were probably the train times for Kalvin’s trip to New Mexico and back. Groves didn’t want any of the scientists taking airplanes; flying was both too risky and too intimate.
Nessheim turned more pages, looking at the days ahead, and found nothing but a few more Met Lab meetings and appointments with Fermi. Except for one item, on the very next day; it had been pencilled in and then erased. He could just make it out: ‘5 p.m. Tea House’. He said nothing, but felt his pulse pick up, for he had found the link he had suspected.
‘Better put it back,’ said Guttman. He looked at his watch. ‘And we’d better get out of here. Fermi warned me that Kalvin’s a fast eater.’
‘Are they having supper at Fermi’s house?’
‘Nah. He picked some eating house on Fifty-seventh Street. Funny name – the Tropical Hut.’
They checked the place to make sure there was no sign of their intrusion, then left and took the elevator down. As they came around the far side of the decorative pool, Nessheim tapped Guttman’s shoulder and gestured for him to wait. They stood there, watching as a couple moved along from the entrance towards the other east tier. Nessheim had his back against a pillar until the couple left, then breathed a sigh of relief as the elevator door closed on the figures of Professor and Mrs Fielding.
‘What’s the big deal?’ complained Guttman as they continued towards the entrance.
‘It was one of my teachers.’
‘So?’
Nessheim didn’t want to explain Fielding’s role in Stacey’s life. He said instead, ‘The last man I want to see. I’m late with an assignment.’
Guttman shook his head. As they reached the entrance the doorman emerged and Guttman handed back the keys to Kalvin’s apartment. ‘We weren’t here, Mr Smith, okay? But I thank you for your assistance.’
Smith’s eyebrows arched, like a parent waiting for a child to confess. Guttman sighed, then dug into a pocket and brought out a crumpled two-dollar bill. When he shook Smith’s hand, the bill disappeared.
Smith said, ‘Always happy to help the war effort, sir.’ Guttman walked with Nessheim as far as 57th and Kimbark. As he hived off north he said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll remember to feed the cat.’
‘What cat –’ Nessheim started to ask, then he smiled for the first time. ‘Will you be at Stagg Field tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘Yes. What about you?’
‘No. I’ve got to help with the arrangements for Stacey’s funeral.’ Nessheim told himself it was a necessary lie. He clenched his jaw, determined to keep his feelings in check for one more day.
‘I’m sorry you’ll miss the climax of the project.’
‘Fermi says a needle on a machine will pass a certain point and that will be it.’
Guttman said, ‘That’s fine by me. Success in my book means that nothing dramatic happens.’