TWO WEEKS AFTER starting at the White House, Nessheim took a trolley car one Thursday after lunch to Washington Circle. It took forever; when he got off and followed the conductor’s directions to Dumbarton Avenue he had to run, straight into a harsh western wind that was keeping winter alive. Even so he was late, and found Guttman pacing impatiently on the cobblestoned sidewalk. It was a narrow street, shaded by lines of mid-sized maple trees.
‘I’m sorry,’ Nessheim panted. He realised he was getting out of shape.
‘I’d better assign you one of the pool cars. You’re going to be moving around too much to rely on the trolleys.’ Guttman gestured to one of the townhouses set back from the sidewalk. ‘Let’s go in.’
The house was tall and thin, its brick painted a milky yellow, with dark blue shutters on its windows. The ground level was occupied by a garage, with an adjacent flight of steps that ran up to the front door. They climbed them and Guttman knocked.
A young woman answered the door. She was dressed for business, in a short wool jacket and a calf-length skirt. Her face was striking rather than pretty, with deep-set eyes but a small crooked nose, and her dark straight hair was cut in a forbidding bob. But she smiled politely enough, and led them through to a sitting room, where a small wood fire was burning on an iron grate. A door at the far end was half-open, revealing a book-lined study.
The woman said to Guttman, ‘Justice Frankfurter is waiting for you in there.’
‘Take a seat,’ Guttman said to Nessheim, pointing to a stuffed armchair by the fire. ‘I won’t be long.’ He went into the study and closed the door behind him.
Nessheim sat down awkwardly, then saw the woman had stayed in the room. She was quite tall, he realised, thin, almost wiry. Now she sat down behind a small desk by the room’s front window.
‘Don’t mind me,’ she said. ‘We’re a little short of room, so I have to make do with this for my office.’
He nodded, but inwardly he was annoyed. Why had he been brought along if he was being excluded from the meeting?
The fire crackled, and an ember suddenly shot out above the guard, landing on the carpet. He reached down and flicked it back towards the hearth, then looking up saw the woman staring at him.
‘Your nose looks out of joint,’ she declared, eyeing him carefully.
‘What do you mean?’ He leaned back in his chair and stared at her.
‘Just what I said.’ She gestured at the closed door. ‘Were you expecting to be in there?’
‘I don’t expect. I’m just the bottle washer.’
‘Oh, I thought maybe you were the bodyguard,’ she said tartly.
‘G-men don’t need bodyguards,’ he said, trying not to smile.
‘Of course not. How dense of me. So what are you here for?’
‘To protect you, of course.’
She laughed and her face broke into a smile, surprising because up to now her countenance had been severe. She said teasingly ‘Do you really need to carry a gun in your line of work?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
You couldn’t brush this woman off, he realised. ‘On whether you need one.’
‘You’re ducking the question,’ she said confidently. He shrugged, thinking of Danny Ho. Suddenly she seemed to realise why he might not want to answer. She said, ‘I’m being tactless aren’t I? Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Most agents never have to fire their weapon. It’s just the luck of the draw.’
‘So to speak,’ she said. When he grinned, she seemed to regain her confidence. ‘I know your name’s Nessheim, but do you have another one?’
‘Jimmy,’ he said. ‘And yours?’
‘I’m Annie Ryerson.’
‘Are you from around here?’
‘Is anybody? I’ve been here two years – I started for the Justice last winter after his appointment was confirmed. You don’t sound very local yourself.’
‘Small-town Wisconsin,’ he said.
‘Me too. Small-town, that is.’
‘So what brings a country girl to Washington?’ He was making conversation, but he found himself interested, and she looked like she was enjoying herself.
‘Small-town, not country. I grew up in New England.’
‘I’ve been there.’
‘To see the colours in autumn?’ she asked. There was a hint of gentle mockery.
‘Nope. I was working in Vermont.’
‘Right,’ she said, but her tone was chilly enough that he wondered if he’d said something wrong.
‘You know it there?’ he added mildly.
‘It’s where I grew up. So, where were you at law school?’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘Aren’t all FBI men lawyers?’
‘Not all.’
‘Where’d you go to college then?’
‘Northwestern. But I didn’t finish.’ He felt he was being checked out by an examiner. He said sharply, ‘They taught me to read but I had to leave before they let me put it into practice.’
‘I wasn’t trying to be nosey.’
‘Sure. Where did you go?’ Somewhere snooty, he decided. Vassar, or Bryn Mawr. He felt slightly disappointed.
‘I didn’t go to college,’ she said coolly. ‘Things got in the way.’
‘Money things?’ he said.
‘Something like that.’
‘Me too. Dad owned a store. He lost it in my junior year,’ he confessed.
‘I’m sorry.’ It sounded genuine. ‘Mine’s hanging on. Just.’
He was surprised, and realised he had pegged her wrong. ‘General store?’
She nodded. ‘There used to be six in town. Now there’s only three.’
It seemed incongruous, sitting in this fancy sitting room, to be talking about small-town storekeeping. But as their conversation continued, Nessheim found it completely natural. Something about this woman attracted him. She wasn’t obviously sexy, some men wouldn’t even have found her pretty, but he found himself wanting her to like him. He told her the story of his father’s financial decline, and he liked how she listened sympathetically but without a trace of pity. When she talked in turn it was clear she knew the same territory of near-despair, but she didn’t harp on the hard times, and made him laugh describing her father, whose Yankee parsimony she sketched in simple, devastating tones. Then she changed the subject.
‘Where in Vermont were you working?’ she asked.
‘Near Woodstock,’ he said, and she looked startled.
The door of the study opened, and Guttman and the Justice emerged. Nessheim got to his feet. Glancing at his watch, he was astonished to find an hour had passed.
Guttman spoke first. ‘Agent Nessheim, this is Justice Frankfurter.’
A little man, not much more than five feet tall, stepped forward. He said, ‘Pleased to meet you,’ then vigorously shook Nessheim’s hand. The voice was warm, with a hint of New York. His grey hair was combed straight back, revealing a broad forehead, beneath which jutted a wrinkled, prominent nose. He wore spectacles, but behind them he had deep thoughtful blue eyes that also managed to sparkle, as if life sobered and amused him in equal measure. His elfin stature belied an obvious energy that made Nessheim feel he had suddenly been thrust into a more active orbit.
Frankfurter said, ‘Nessheim, eh? A German name.’
‘That’s right,’ said Nessheim.
‘Where do you come from?’
‘Wisconsin.’
Frankfurter chuckled. ‘I meant where in Germany.’
‘Oh,’ said Nessheim. ‘A few from Bavaria, the rest from the North.’
Frankfurter nodded. ‘I came from Vienna myself – back when Austria was its own master. Though I suppose Herr Hitler would say it should always have been part of Germany.’
‘I’m on your side with that one,’ said Nessheim softly.
Frankfurter turned to Annie. ‘You know, I think Mr Nessheim here would enjoy one of your aunt’s soirées. Don’t you think?’
‘He might,’ she said neutrally.
‘Why don’t you ask Sally to invite him?’
‘What’s your address?’ Annie asked impersonally. It was as if her easy chatter with Nessheim just minutes before had not taken place.
‘Actually—’ he began, then stopped, not knowing what to say.
‘Jimmy’s only just arrived in town,’ Guttman interjected. ‘He’s looking for a rental – a room rather than an apartment. He may not be in D.C. that long.’
Frankfurter said, ‘I might be able to help with that. Some of my ex-pupils stay in a house that belongs to a friend of mine. He’s a widower, no children, and it’s a big place – so it makes sense for him to have boarders. Let me give you his name and address. Better still, I’ll give him a call.’
Nessheim’s heart sank at the prospect of more boardinghouse life. Another landlord to add to his list, no doubt a ‘character’. Communal facilities – the joy of other people’s shaving kit on the basin each morning, a shared telephone and a shared kitchen. The smells of linoleum floors washed down with carbolic soap.
His feelings must have shown, for Frankfurter said reassuringly, ‘I think you’ll like it there.’
When they left Guttman seemed in high spirits; he was whistling. Nessheim still felt disgruntled.
Guttman said, ‘Well done. You got an invite lots of people would kill for.’
‘I’m not big on parties.’ Stacey Madison had dragged him to countless shindigs all over Chicago, but it was not something he would have done on his own.
‘I want you to go to this one.’
‘Are you telling me it’s part of the job?’
Guttman said without hesitation, ‘Yes.’
‘Why don’t you go in my place?’ Nessheim said half-facetiously.
Guttman gave a thin smile. ‘Not my cup of tea, as you very well know.’ He stopped suddenly on the pavement, waiting until Nessheim turned and looked at him. He saw Guttman’s point: his boss was a burly balding figure in a suit that didn’t fit, a tie that was loosening at the knot, and darkbrown Florsheims which, though polished to a high shine, managed to look as though they’d been worn by several other pairs of feet.
‘It’s not exactly mine either, Harry. What’s so important about this lady anyway?’
Guttman was serious now. ‘This girl’s aunt is called Sally Cummings. She knows everybody. Her own political sympathies are a little suspect.’
‘Is she a Pinko?’ He hoped he wasn’t back to tracking Communists.
‘More like brown-ish – as in Brownshirts.’
‘Really?’ He wondered if Guttman had been watching too many movies.
‘That’s why I want you to get as close to her as you can.’
‘I’m not sure her niece even liked me,’ he protested, thinking of how Annie Ryerson had turned frosty.
‘Make her like you then,’ said Guttman shortly, and Nessheim saw he wasn’t joking.
‘All right, I’ll go to the lady’s soirée, or whatever it’s called. But I can find my own lodgings.’
Guttman shook his head. ‘Sorry. That’s part of the job too.’
‘How?’ Nessheim found himself growing impatient.
Guttman had drawn alongside Nessheim now, and they were walking east towards the centre of D.C. The senior agent said disarmingly, ‘I learned long ago that you can’t explain a hunch. But don’t look so glum. The Justice assures me that it’s not your average boarding house.’
It wasn’t, Nessheim soon realised, unless one’s idea of an average boarding house was a three-storey brick home in newly fashionable Georgetown. His bedroom was on the top floor, with a view of a tall beech tree and the lawn that constituted the back yard. The room was small and low-ceilinged, and he shared a bathroom with someone he only heard down the hall, but it was quiet and homey, with small rugs on the wooden floor, prints of Washington landmarks on the wall, and a bookcase full of English detective novels.
He slept well on his first night there, and came down to breakfast to find two men at a long table having a furious argument – so fierce in fact, that Nessheim wondered if they were going to come to blows. The bigger of the two, lighthaired and with a handsome face that reminded Nessheim of Gary Cooper, acknowledged Nessheim’s presence with a nod, and passed him a big jug of black coffee, before starting to shout again at the other guy. ‘You think that because it’s quiet over there for now, someone’s going to wave a magic wand and the Nazis will just waft away.’
‘They may withdraw.’
‘Try telling that to the Poles. Or the Czechs for that matter. No one in their right mind thinks Hitler would give up an inch of territory – what about Lebensraum? The whole point is he wants more space. Christ, the bastard wants the whole world if we let him.’
The fair-haired man looked up at the wall clock. ‘Damn, I gotta go.’ He added mildly, ‘See you at Sally’s tonight.’ He went out of the room.
Nessheim sat in silence, a little stunned by this exchange. The remaining man was unusual looking: he had a long face, with a thin brittle-looking nose and high cheekbones, and eyes the colour of a watery sky; his hair was brown, short on top but bushy on the sides. Though he sounded entirely American, there was something foreign about this mix of features that Nessheim couldn’t place. He wondered if he was a Finn, thinking of the immigrants he’d known in Wisconsin. They’d usually first come over to work in the tin and ore mines of Northern Michigan, then moved south to find less punishing jobs.
‘What’s the matter?’ the man demanded.
Nessheim realised he had been staring at him. ‘Are you two guys friends?’
‘Sure.’
‘Oh,’ said Nessheim doubtfully.
‘What, you think we’re enemies because we argue?’
‘“Argue”’s an understatement.’
‘Nah. We’re always like that. You’ll get used to our ways. Think dialectic.’
‘I am. It’s synthesis that’s lacking here.’
‘Hah,’ said the man appreciatively. He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘I’m Dubinsky. Welcome to the House of Youth.’
‘How’s that?’
‘It’s just a joke the Justice made.’
‘You mean Frankfurter?’
‘Who else? I’m his law clerk this year, but we’re all connected to him. Aren’t you?’
‘He’s the one who recommended this place.’ Nessheim didn’t add that he had met the man for all of ninety seconds.
But Dubinsky wasn’t listening. ‘When the Justice was young he lived in a boarding house on 19th Street – Walter Lippmann was his roommate for a while. The talk there was pretty highbrow, and so were the visitors – Oliver Wendell Holmes used to drop in on his way home from the court. Some wag labelled it the House of Truth. The Justice said if they had truth on their side, at the very least we have youth.’
‘How many of you live here?’
‘Just four,’ said Dubinsky, ‘and that’s including you. Otherwise, there’s me, and Plympton – you just saw him in full flow.’
‘Is he a clerk for the Justice too?’
‘Nah. He was his student at Harvard Law, and the Justice put him onto Harry Hopkins. That’s when Hopkins ran the WPA. Now that he’s at Commerce, Frank’s moved with him. Not much change to his job – he’s away at least half the time. Hopkins isn’t well, so he sends Frank.’
‘Who’s the fourth?’
‘Miss Davidson, though don’t get too excited. She’s fifty if she’s a day and there’s a reason she’s a Miss – face like a moose pat. She typed for the Prof years ago, though she works at the Treasury Department these days. You won’t ever see her because she doesn’t “take breakfast”.’ He said this in the voice of an old woman, and Nessheim laughed. Dubinsky too suddenly looked up at the clock on the kitchen wall. ‘Got to run, we’ve got draft opinion reviews at ten. But I’ll see you around.’
Nessheim soon got used to the arguments at breakfast, which were the norm rather than the exception – and found he fit into the House of Youth easily, thanks to Dubinsky, who was friendly and a mine of useful information: there was a cleaner but no cook in the house, and Dubinsky told Nessheim how to eat cheaply in the neighbourhood and which Chinese laundry would wash his socks and underwear as well as do his shirts. Plympton was friendly too, but less in evidence. When he was present at breakfast the arguments with Dubinsky were always fierce, but Nessheim realised it was a purely verbal form of take no prisoners. No one hit anybody, no one stalked from the room.
His own working days were busy, as he went through the security files of the President’s voluminous acquaintances. Often in the afternoon Guttman called him over to the Bureau’s headquarters, where most of the time he was set to work looking at yet more files – those of German sympathisers rather than White House intimates, and the less interesting for their distance from power.
But sometimes Guttman just wanted to shoot the breeze. Nessheim supposed it was a way of getting to know his boss, but he couldn’t really make the man out. Guttman was friendly enough, but tight-lipped about what he hoped Nessheim would discover. It was as if he didn’t trust Nessheim, and there was even an occasional glint of resentment.
Once when Nessheim tossed a wadded-up ball of paper towards the waste-paper basket in the corner, Guttman reached out and caught it in mid-air with one hand.
‘Not bad,’ said Nessheim.
‘Some of us played ball, too. Even if we weren’t all-American.’
‘You played football?’
‘Yeah, though just the first two years of high school. Why, you think city kids don’t play the game?’ he asked sarcastically.
Nessheim felt awkward. ‘Not at all. And I wasn’t real all-American. Second team – not that big a deal.’
Guttman snorted. ‘Bull. If you’d spent high school with your nose smushed against the cinders of P.S. 57’s track, you’d understand why I’m impressed.’
‘Why’d you stop playing?’
Guttman looked sheepish. ‘My mom. She was scared I might get hurt.’
For once Nessheim felt more experienced than Guttman. ‘She was right.’
Two days later, an embossed card arrived at Nessheim’s new residence. It read At Home, and invited him to cocktails at the home of Mrs Sally Cummings a week from Friday.