THE MUSEUM WAS almost empty that early in the morning; the extreme cold seemed to have deterred the usual school visits. Nessheim walked down from the entrance into the main hall, then moved right towards the Whispering Gallery. He was not surprised to find two sawhorses blocking his way, and a sign saying ‘CLOSED FOR REPAIR (reopening in January)’. Part one of his deductions had been proved right. He could only pray that he was also right about the Tea House.
He took his time going back to the club, walking along the Midway in order to avoid the Stineway drugstore on 57th, where some of the scientists liked to sit in the window booths and have coffee. He was meant to be on the North Side by now, helping with the funeral arrangements. He turned on Woodlawn, cut down an alley, then came through the club by its back entrance, passing the private tennis courts covered in snow.
Back in his room, he changed out of his suit, then lay down and tried to take a nap. When he realised he was never going to sleep, he picked up the copy of the Tribune he’d bought at reception, reading very slowly to kill time, and to take his mind off Stacey Madison and what he was about to do.
In North Africa, a column of American Army tanks was travelling over a hundred miles a day through Tunisia in order to join up with the British Eighth Army; their navy counterparts in the Pacific had sunk five Japanese vessels. The United Press reported that Mussolini had taken to his bed and was suffering from heart disease. On the home front, the President refused to comment on the suggestion by a British Minister of Production, Oliver Lyttelton, that the war might be over by June 1943. And to Nessheim’s cynical amusement, the Secretary of the Navy promised to reveal the ‘full story’ of what happened at Pearl Harbor on its anniversary in five days’ time.
When he finally got up he dressed in the thick woollen trousers he had first worn when he used to clear snow so his father could drive his ancient Model A into town. He also put on a T-shirt, a flannel shirt and a sweater two sizes too big that let his arms move freely. Taking his gun from the drawer where he’d put it under his dirty clothes so as not to frighten the maid, he carefully tightened the shoulder holster, though he kept the gun loose in the holster cup so it wouldn’t stick if he needed it. He was hoping he would.
He put on his boots, since where he was going wouldn’t have been cleared, ploughed or salted, and tied the laces carefully. Finally he put on his long woollen Chesterfield and left the room, locking it out of habit more than need.
He went out the back way of the club again after returning the room key. Outside, the sun was just setting, a pink glow diffused in stripes through the low-lying clouds. He moved east on 59th, and passed the university’s cathedral-sized Rockefeller Chapel, which looked cold and forlorn, unsurprising in this most secular of institutions, then walked past the Lab School, dark now that its pupils had gone home. To his right, he noticed someone running on the Midway, a small flash of white punctuated at regular intervals by the dark background of the elms. A sailor, probably in blues but wearing his white cap, keeping in condition for the war he expected to fight in the Pacific.
He reached Harper Avenue, its wooden houses tucked away against the steep bank of the Illinois Central line, and went through the long underpass beneath the tracks. He crossed Stony Island Avenue, then cut and juked through the traffic of the Inner Drive, drawing a horn blast from a Checker cab.
Reaching the southern edge of the Museum of Science and Industry, he slowed to a walk, looking around. No one was following him. Ahead, the museum was shutting and a large group of schoolchildren had come round from the main entrance to their waiting bus. Their teachers were the only adults in sight as Nessheim moved around the west side of the Basin, then crossed the thin steel bridge that took him on to the Wooded Island.
It was a tree-shrouded oval spit of land, sandwiched between two fish-filled lagoons. A leftover from the 1893 World’s Fair, which Olmsted, the landscape architect of Central Park in New York, had designed as a wooded retreat for visitors to the great exhibition. Under pressure, he had agreed to let the Japanese build a Ho-o-den, or Phoenix Pavilion, on its north side: three redwood lacquered buildings connected by a covered walkway represented the head, body and wings of the mythical bird. Over time the structures had decayed, but were rebuilt in time for the Century of Progress Fair in 1933, joined this time by a traditional Japanese tea house that had been imported from Japan, built by hand at the cost of $20,000. The Tea Garden had been forced to close after the Japanese proprietor had been arrested by the FBI the day after Pearl Harbor and branded an enemy alien. The only visitors to the tranquil island now would be the most intrepid fishermen, willing to risk the ice on the shallow waters of the lagoon in order to fish for perch and catfish. There were a few footprints visible in the snow, and one set looked as if someone had been dragging something.
Nessheim moved along the uncleared central path. With each step his boots crunched through the crust that had hardened on the top layer of snow, like hard icing on a soft cake. He stopped to go through the decorative torii gate to the Japanese garden and followed the curving paths of snow-topped gravel, passing the double pond, which in summer was filled with a mass of flowering water lilies, and a miniature waterfall with its artfully placed rocks. The carved Japanese stone lanterns at the edge of the water were dusted with snow. He saw the Tea House itself now in the last remaining daylight. It was a small bamboo building, slightly elevated above the ground, with low upturned gables that reminded Nessheim of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Robie House less than half a mile away. Except that the Japanese had got there first – centuries before.
There were more tracks in the snow here, and he stopped to take off his gloves, then put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat to keep them warm. He was about fifteen feet from the wooden building when a voice called out.
‘Professor Kalvin?’ The voice was Midwestern, and familiar.
‘Nope,’ Nessheim called back. Now he understood the funny prints in the snow.
There was silence for a minute. Then the voice said, ‘Who is that?’
He climbed the three steps to the doorway. A candle in a Japanese stone lantern at the back of the room gave enough light for him to survey the place. It was the size of a large living room, almost square, completely bare but for simple wooden benches along the back wall. On one of the benches, Winograd sat with his bad leg extended straight out. Next to him sat a thick stick, maybe four feet long, propped up against the wall.
‘Nessheim,’ he said in astonishment. ‘What are you doing out here?’
‘I like to walk by the lagoon,’ said Nessheim, masking his own surprise. He had never liked Winograd but he saw at once that the man had played the part brilliantly. The bumptious, slightly obnoxious classmate, interested in jazz and girls – anything but politics. No one could conceivably have taken him for a Communist. Nessheim said, ‘What’s your excuse?’
‘I like walking here too, pardner.’
‘Sounded to me like you were expecting somebody.’
‘Did it?’
Winograd said nothing for a moment, but he was incapable of sustained silence. He said, ‘Professor Kalvin and I don’t know each other very well. We both like walking out here, and I think we ran into each other in the museum once. He’s an interesting man – he’s been through a lot. He’s a refugee, you know.’
He stood, picking up the stick which he held loosely in his right hand.
Nessheim said, ‘Why don’t you sit down again?’
‘Why’s that?’
‘We have things to talk about.’
‘Couldn’t we do it some place warmer?’
‘No. You stay right where you are.’
‘Is that an order?’
‘It’s an order.’
Winograd made a show of indignation but sat down. ‘Since when did you become a cop, Nessheim?’
‘I think you know the answer to that.’
‘If you had something on me, you’d be putting me in cuffs and taking me downtown.’ He shook his head. ‘So I’m going.’
He stood up again lazily, still holding his stick. Suddenly he had it in both his hands, and had taken a quick hopping step towards Nessheim, who was already reaching for his gun. Nessheim ducked to one side as Winograd swung the hickory cudgel with incredible speed; he heard the whoosh as it cut through the air where his head had just been.
Failing to connect, Winograd stumbled and dropped the stick. When he regained his balance and straightened up, Nessheim had the .38 pointed right between his eyes.
‘Sit down,’ Nessheim said, barely controlling a sudden surge of rage. He kicked the heavy stick into the corner of the room.
Winograd fell back on the bench. ‘You going to shoot me?’
‘I will if I have to. Ask your comrades – I’ve got a track record in that department.’
Winograd swallowed, then said, ‘I’m not going to squeal on anybody.’ Nessheim could see that Winograd was scared but determined not to show it.
‘Sure you are,’ he said coldly. When he moved the gun, Winograd flinched. Nessheim said, ‘Let’s start with Kalvin. We’ve got enough to get him out of the way, so he can’t do any damage now.’
‘Damage?’ Winograd said, nonplussed. ‘That’s the last thing he wants. He wants success at Stagg Field – the sooner the better. Anything to beat the Nazis.’
‘Why infiltrate him into the project, then?’
Winograd looked at him with disbelief. ‘Why do you think? Because Russia needs the weapon too.’ He was leaning back, both shoulders pressed against the wall. ‘It’s knowledge the Russians want – knowledge how to do it. Any sane person would want that to happen.’
The Russians must have realised that American progress towards a bomb was unstoppable. So the Russians had decided to piggyback on the work America did.
‘If it’s all so benign, then why have your people been watching me?’ Nessheim said.
‘They liked knowing where you were.’
‘They did more than that. Did you leave the “We know where you are” note for me?’
‘What do you think?’
Nessheim took this for a yes. ‘I guess you wanted me to think the Bund was on my tail. But how did you know about Rossbach?’
Winograd shrugged but said nothing.
Nessheim said, ‘And it must have been your men who broke into my apartment one night. What I don’t understand is how they got in. I had a key hidden, but it hadn’t been touched.’
Winograd said, ‘Go figure,’ but he looked uneasy.
Nessheim stared at him, trying not to lose his temper. Then he saw it. ‘It was the Communist philosopher in my building. He had my apartment before he moved upstairs. I never changed the locks, and he must have kept a key. Is that right?’
Winograd’s eyes were locked on Nessheim’s hand. Nessheim was still pointing the gun right at his head and he extended his arm slightly. Winograd promptly nodded.
‘What secrets was I supposed to have?’ Nessheim asked.
‘They weren’t looking for secrets.’
‘Of course – that was Kalvin’s job. But if they were looking for me, why didn’t you tell them I would be out that night? You knew that – you’d asked us to your party, but Stacey told you that we had another invitation.’
Then he realised what the plan must have been. Just as Winograd said, the Russians weren’t looking for secrets; they were looking for him – or rather, waiting for him to come home from the party. He and Stacey would have got back, tipsy and careless after an evening spent drinking punch; they’d have been easy meat for the Russians, who would have killed them both with silencers on their guns. But Nessheim had spoiled things by coming back early to get records, when there was a sole Russian in the apartment – he’d fired at Nessheim and missed, then panicked and run to the car in the alley.
Winograd stayed silent.
Nessheim asked, ‘Why were they going to kill me?’
Winograd spoke at last. ‘The Russians don’t let enemies of the State go unpunished. You killed an agent in Los Angeles – that’s not something they’d forget. And you were proving a worry here. We didn’t know you had cottoned on to Kalvin, but you were trying hard enough to find out. Along with your boss, the guy in Washington – we had good information about both your activities.’
‘From Adams?’
Winograd looked at him quizzically.
Nessheim said impatiently, ‘Your source in the FBI. He met with Kalvin next door in the museum about a month ago.’
Winograd exhaled. ‘I never even knew his name. You’ve figured out a lot.’
‘That’s how you knew about Rossbach, yes? T.A. would have checked the files.’
‘You win,’ said Winograd, though Nessheim sensed he might say anything to keep Nessheim from shooting him.
‘Okay,’ said Nessheim. He took a deep breath, trying not to show his urgency, then he said, ‘Tell me what happened to Stacey.’
Winograd sighed, then winced as he moved his knee. ‘There was a real chance that what she knew would get out.’
‘About Trotsky?’
Winograd slowly nodded. ‘It could have been very damaging to the Russian war effort. Half the capitalist governments are looking for any excuse to distance themselves from the Soviet Union. Even though it’s the Russians who are keeping the Germans at bay.’
‘Who rigged things to say Stacey had rejoined the CP?’
‘That was my idea.’
‘Yes, but who did it?’
‘I told you, I won’t squeal.’
‘You have five seconds to do precisely that.’
It took Winograd only two seconds to reply, once Nessheim put his index finger through the trigger guard. ‘We had comrades on the Coast add her name to the Party roster, then your colleague – T.A., is it? – slipped it into the Bureau files.’
How ingenious, thought Nessheim bitterly. The Bureau was used to people trying to conceal their Party memberships; it would never dream that anyone would want to invent a membership. The play had worked; it had been the piece of evidence presented by Guttman that had first persuaded Nessheim that Stacey was working for the Communists.
‘What exactly happened in Stacey’s apartment?’ He was struggling to sound matter-of-fact. He knew if he didn’t stay calm he would kill Winograd before learning what he wanted to know.
Winograd seemed to sense this, for he shrank back against the wall. When he spoke, his voice was thin with fear. ‘When I came to see you that afternoon, the plan was to have the Russians take care of your girlfriend. Then after you and I’d had a few beers, they’d come over and deal with you. It was going to look like a homicide/suicide – you killed your girlfriend when you discovered she was a Communist agent, then went home and in a fit of remorse killed yourself. The Russians would take the gun they used on Stacey, use it on you, wipe their own prints and stick it in your hand.’
‘What went wrong?’
‘You did – you kept showing up early. I had gone over there to warn them you were coming in an hour or two. That was okay – it just meant they would have to kill you there as well. But then you rang the buzzer.’
‘And?’
‘Stacey suddenly went bananas. Somehow she got the window open and started to call out to warn you. We were desperate to shut her up and the Russians tried to pull her back in. She was like a wildcat. Finally they managed to get hold of her and then …’ Winograd paused and took a deep breath. ‘They lifted her up and threw her right out the window.’ He slowly lifted his eyes and looked at Nessheim. ‘I didn’t want that to happen. That’s the God’s truth.’
‘I thought Communists didn’t believe in God,’ said Nessheim.
Winograd was silent.
‘So what happened then?’
Winograd swallowed nervously. ‘We couldn’t wait for you – we had to get out of there fast before the cops showed up. Even so it was a close-run thing. We heard you coming out of the stairwell just as we got into the elevator.’
Winograd was starting to look exhausted. There was a thin line of sweat coming down one side of his face. Nessheim felt sick, wondering whether if he had got to Stacey’s building even earlier things might have been different. But then he would have been killed, too. There was nothing he could have done to save Stacey that day; instead, by screaming she had saved his life.
He knew Winograd would probably get off scot-free. There would be nothing to link him to Stacey’s death, even if the police got lucky and caught the Russians.
‘You’re not planning to stick around in Chicago, are you?’ he asked Winograd.
‘What, and not finish Torts? What would Professor Fielding think?’ He laughed weakly, but stopped when he saw Nessheim’s face. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be gone tomorrow.’
Good, thought Nessheim. He had had enough: if he listened to much more he would kill Winograd; he was sure of that. He said, ‘I’m going to leave now. For your sake, I hope we don’t meet again.’ He was about to holster the .38 when he thought of something. ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand. Why didn’t the Russians kill Stacey before I got there?’
‘They should have. But –’ Winograd stopped. There was an appalled expression on his face, like that of a man who finds he’s stopped two feet from the edge of a cliff.
‘Go on,’ Nessheim commanded. Winograd shook his head until Nessheim pointed the gun at him again.
Winograd wouldn’t look at him now. He said, ‘When I got over there, I expected to find Stacey dead. But instead they had her in … the bedroom. They were very pissed off when I showed up – they had just started to play around with her.’ He glanced anxiously at Nessheim.
Nessheim wanted to close his eyes, hoping that would get rid of the images in his head. He looked hazily at Winograd, who said, ‘I’d told them not to fool around with her, Jim. But they’re Russians, after all. And you have to admit she was a tasty-looking piece.’
‘What did you say?’ Nessheim asked sharply.
Winograd gave a small involuntary laugh. ‘I said, you have to admit she was a –’
The sound of the .38 fired in the confined space was deafening. The bullet hit Winograd in the foot of his good leg – or what had been his good leg. He doubled up and fell off the bench, rolling on to his side and clutching his bleeding foot with both hands. He opened his mouth to scream, but the pain was so agonising that he could only whimper.
Nessheim looked down at the shuddering man on the floor. ‘You’ll live, Winograd, and people will be out here in the morning. I’ll make sure they find you. That’s more than you did for Stacey.’