| |
––––––––
October 17th, 1927 The Hotel Ngaio
MATT and Page split up in the lobby. He strolled up to the reception desk while she sailed across the carpet toward the dining room. Page had declared her intention to indulge in a full afternoon tea after the ordeal at the bank, but she would do so by herself. Having found himself in the middle of a bank robbery, being threatened by gun-toting thugs, and almost having been blown into tiny pieces had been bad enough. Page had been in the same peril. And then they’d spend most of the day there, first being interrogated by the cops and then taking care of assorted business with the bank manager, which had been even worse. So Matt didn’t really feel like dining in public. What he wanted was to go straight to his suite and take a shower. And order a sandwich from room service.
Of course the day clerk had seen him and Page coming in and rung the bell right away to bring Michael out of the manager’s office. The man glanced at Page as she disappeared into the dining room before turning an expression of disapproval on Matt, no doubt upset that they’d vanished for three years again. And this time without warning. At least the man was still here and hadn’t resigned his position in protest or something.
Matt gave him a sheepish grin. “We had no idea we’d be leaving the city so abruptly, otherwise we’d have gotten you word.” Probably. Though Michael must’ve been wondering where they could’ve gone, that they wouldn’t have been able to send him some sort of message. But even if Matt could’ve come up with an explanation, he was fed up with explaining things today. So he didn’t even try.
The hotel manager exuded an air of gentle disappointment but didn’t ask for clarification. “Certainly, sir.” Then the man smiled. “Everybody will be relieved to know Miss Reader has returned to us alive and well. She is in good health?”
“As good as always, if not better.” Suppressing a flash of irritation, Matt told himself the hotel employees preferred Page to him because of her generous ‘tips’. “And hungrier than ever, but I think one of our afternoon teas will fix that.”
“I presumed she was entering the dining room for that purpose, sir. As for your suites, I have had them regularly cleaned—not knowing when the two of you might return—but if you’d been able to send word ahead even by half an hour, I could have seen your clothes cleaned too. And had your rooms prepared properly.” There was a whiff of complaint to the man’s tone, not undeserved.
“I don’t care about my stuff.” Likely enough he wouldn’t have noticed even if no maid had touched his rooms in three years. “But you should still have plenty of time to take care of Miss Reader’s clothes and suite while she’s chowing down.” Though Page would be buying herself a brand new wardrobe just as soon as she could, since the outfits she’d left behind would be three years out of style. “And in the future, Michael, we’ll let you know when we’re coming and going, so we don’t cause you so much trouble.” Assuming they knew themselves. And he had to be honest with the man. “At least, we’ll try to.”
The manager only nodded. “As you like, sir. Is there anything I can do for you?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Matt saw a familiar face enter the hotel. The man who had tailed Hawthorne that night six years ago, and who had taken the taxi right behind the one Page had hailed when they had left the bank a few minutes ago. The nondescript fellow crossed the lobby to sit down on one of the couches, then unfolded a newspaper and began to read. Or pretended to. Not particularly subtle, but maybe it wasn’t intended to be. Maybe the man meant to be seen.
Thankfully Cross had warned him, but as there was nothing he could do, Matt turned his attention back to Michael and gave him a grin. “I have got to take a shower right away, but I’m also quite hungry. If you could have the chef prepare something, send it up to my suite, I’d be eternally grateful.”
“Of course, sir.”
“And you can tell me if there’s a good show on, something Miss Reader might enjoy seeing.” They had both nixed the idea of having a ‘date night’ tonight, being far too tired from the day’s adventures for that. And last night too, had been pretty draining, from Matt’s point-of-view.
“I understand a palatial new theatre for motion pictures has opened off Times Square. The Roxy. I understand it’s a beautiful building. And for those who enjoy images of actors on a screen rather than real people on a stage...”
“Sounds great.” Matt thought he’d heard about the place before, but that could have been in the future. “Miss Reader likes movies, but we both enjoy a good Broadway show as well.”
Michael merely nodded again. “Yes, sir. There is a new film that just premiered about a week and a half ago, ‘The Jazz Singer’, which I’ve heard many good things about. I haven’t seen it myself, but my understanding is they actually have the actors’ dialogue recorded on a phonograph and play it. While the pictures move. A modern marvel, apparently.” And the sarcasm in his tone was so slight, Matt had barely heard it.
“What will they think of next?” He wondered if that was what was playing at the Roxy. He’d check the paper to see, but there wasn’t any rush.
Nodding at the manager, he hurried toward the stairs and up to the fourth floor, thinking along the way that Page would probably want to go shopping tomorrow and try to drag him along with her. And have him carry her bags. But at least he had a suggestion ready to offer for evening entertainment, if she should ask. Unfortunately, he’d felt too rushed at the time to do anything but set his watch for the default three-year hop into the future, or he’d have programmed their landing for a couple weeks earlier. So he could catch this year’s World Series. And see the Murderers’ Row in action. He was tempted to Travel back a couple weeks on his own right now—well, after his shower and a snack—in order to do just that, but that would be a frivolous use of time-travel technology. And he didn’t know what sort of problems he might cause by doing it. And if something went wrong and he were separated from Page again...
With a sigh Matt dismissed the idea and strode up to the door to his suite, thinking he’d at least get that shower and snack and maybe a nice nap before Page needed him again. After she’d taken that Parker down a peg at the bank, she had left Matt to get the stipend from the Travelers’ Trust and the funds transferred to their accounts. And going over every little detail with the bank manager fussing all along the way had taken forever. It hadn’t been an enjoyable experience, and he was ready for a rest.
Such prudence was probably why the tiny bank still existed in the future, when many must’ve gone under over the next decade. And Matt was grateful the institution had been there to take Page—
He’d unlocked the door to his suite with a sigh of relief that his key still worked and sauntered into his sitting room and then jerked to a halt. Because there was already someone there, sitting in a chair where he could face Matt as he came in. A middle-aged man with a bit of a paunch. Who was wearing a navy blue suit with a red tie, horn-rimmed glasses, and a faint smile. “Mr. Walker. I’m glad you’ve finally made it back from the bank.”
Matt glared at him. “Who are you, and what do you want?” Though he thought he knew already.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, the man took a black leather folder out and flashed his credentials at Matt. “Special Agent Wolfe, Department of Justice, Bureau of Investigation. And I’d like to talk to you.”
“You mean you want to ask me questions. And ones I’ve already answered, most likely. But I want to know how you got into my rooms.”
The federal agent shrugged. “The door was left open, so I came in to check things out. And I knew you wouldn’t mind if I sat down and relaxed while I waited for you. What took you so long by the way? The local detectives finished with you long ago.”
“I had a lot of business at the bank.” And Matt considered the man’s lie. Nobody had left the door standing open. Wolfe had either picked the lock or persuaded one of the maids—bribed or threatened them—to open up for him. Not Michael. The manager wouldn’t have unless he’d been forced. And in that case he’d have said something, or found a way to hint if he hadn’t been free to say it, to warn Matt. “And since you seem to know so much, why ask me any questions? I think you already got my answers from Lt. Cross.”
He wondered if there was somebody waiting in Page’s suite for her, or approaching her in the dining room, but it was too late to try to warn her. He doubted they were interested in her though. Wolfe hadn’t mentioned her once, and Matt wasn’t going to bring her into the conversation, hoping he could keep her out of this entirely. Whatever this was. If she would just linger long enough over her food before coming up...
The agent shook his head. “I’m afraid we have problems with the statement you gave to the police. There were holes and contradictions. I would have thought you’d want to clear up any confusion right away.”
“What needs clearing up? The cops were satisfied.” Of course Cross hadn’t pressed Matt on a lot of points, and if this man desired more details, that could be a problem. Matt couldn’t tell the truth, especially to this man, and making up answers would be dangerous. “And after all, I helped save the day, didn’t I?” In other words, lay off.
“Did you? There’s another interpretation. You were one of these terrorists. Sent a telegram to the police to brag about what you were about to do, you and your comrades. Perhaps you got cold feet, and that’s why you decided to disarm your own bomb.”
“You should write books.”
Wolfe leaned forward. “Or perhaps it was part of the plan for you to make yourself look like a hero so we would trust you. As for coming up with a story, I think the tale you told the police sounds more like fiction than what I just said.”
Matt stifled a snort, because he couldn’t afford to antagonize this man, then realized Wolfe hadn’t said he’d believed his own words. Hadn’t sounded like he believed Matt was a terrorist either. So what was the man’s game?
“I’m sure some of what I said can be checked.” Not the broken drainpipe at the warehouse, not after three years, but surely something. And if Cross was as thorough a cop as Matt thought, probably he was already confirming what he could.
“If it’s a cover story, you or your associates will have taken care of that, won’t you? To lend authenticity to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative.” Then Wolfe held up his hand to prevent Matt from protesting. “Or maybe it all happened as you said. If so, you’re a bright boy, daring and quick on your feet. And we could use your help. So we’d like to know, one way or the other.”
“How?” Warily, Matt walked to the chair opposite the agent and sat. “I mean how I can prove I’m telling the truth?” As far as it went. He didn’t want to ask about how the man might want his help, but he was afraid he’d hear anyway.
“Well, if you’re really a hero and a patriot, who doesn’t want to see these radicals blowing up something else, then you’ll help us stop them.”
“I’d do what I could to stop somebody from getting killed if I had the chance.” But let the radicals blow up all the unoccupied buildings they want if it gets it out of their system. “But I’m not usually in a position to do something like that.” Though he did find himself in such situations far too often. Which was Page’s fault.
“Fortunately you are in a position to be of help. You volunteered for Hawthorne’s charity and got to know a lot of the people associated with it, and now that you’re back in town, it would be natural to pick up where you left off.” The federal agent smiled.
“You want me to spy on them?” That was what he’d been doing on his own three years ago. “And I assume report to you whatever I find.”
Wolfe shook his head. “No, I want you to infiltrate their organization. Just let slip a couple comments that show you’re sympathetic to their cause—how you feel for the poor immigrants’ plight and some criticism of the government—and I know you could get them to recruit you. Then you could pass on to us detailed information about their organization.”
“In other words, become a double agent.” Matt didn’t like that idea one bit. For one thing it would consolidate the government’s hold over him. They could say he was a real radical if he didn’t continue to play ball, and there would be no stopping unless the feds wanted it. “I don’t think so. Probably they already know how I foiled their plans for the bank, but if not, I bet they’ll find out soon enough. It’s far too dangerous.”
The man leaned back with a wider smile on his face. “Just think about it a while, won’t you? You’d have a chance to prove you’re not one of the radicals and serve your country at the same time. And I imagine a little danger means nothing to an adventurous lad like you.”
Matt tried to keep his face expressionless. The whole business sounded unpleasant, dirty. Regardless of the fact that people committed to violence as a means of change should be stopped, it wasn’t his job to do that. And he didn’t trust this Wolfe or the federal government. “No. These terrorists or anarchists or Bolsheviks, whatever you call them, that’s your work, dealing with them.”
“Yes, and that’s why I’m approaching you. We did a little digging, you know.” The man’s look was hard. “Into your past, or what there is of it. Other than a bank account and the Ngaio, you haven’t left much of a paper trail, and it’s hard to find anybody who knows you well. So if it came to a trial for subversive activities, you might have a hard time proving you’re even a real American rather than a cover identity for a spy. And don’t count on Miss Reader for help—she’s as much of an enigma as you are.”
“Alright. I’ll think about it.” How he kept from gritting his teeth, Matt didn’t know.
Wolfe relaxed again into a smile. “You do that, son. Maybe you don’t know, but the reds are using the anarchists to try to stir up trouble, as a prelude to their ‘revolution’, so you really would be helping people. Even if you don’t like the how.”
How could he answer that? Of course he wanted to help his country, but while he agreed in principle with the aims, he had serious concerns about the feds’ methods. There had to be a better way.
Then there came a knock at the door, soon followed by a waiter shouting ‘room service’, and Matt called back, “One minute.”
The welcome interruption propelled the federal agent out of the chair and out of Matt’s sitting room to open the door and stalk out past the waiting waiter with a last meaningful look at Matt.
The man in the hotel uniform spared no attention for the departing ‘guest’ but glided on into the suite with a tray, which he set on the coffee table in front of Matt. With a flourish the man lifted the lid from a domed silver dish to reveal a huge ham and cheese on a Bulkie roll. Apparently the Ngaio had a new chef who wasn’t a culinary snob, and of course Michael knew what Matt liked. A glass with ice and a bottle of ginger ale sat next to the plate on the tray. Looking at the half pound of succulent ham and the thick slices of yellow cheddar made Matt ravenous. The shower would have to wait.
The waiter took a bottle opener from his apron and popped the cap on the soda. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“Thanks, no.” Taking a dollar bill from his shirt pocket, Matt handed it to the man with a nod and a smile, then turned to his food as the waiter took his leave.
Chomping down on the massive sandwich and chewing over his encounter with Wolfe, Matt found he didn’t care for it any more than he had that first time through. Thanks to Cross, the New York cops were seemingly satisfied, but as long as the federal government thought Matt might’ve been part of the bank robbery and one of the radicals responsible—or pretended to think that—he was in a perilous position. But he wasn’t about to take Wolfe up on his ‘offer’ to clear his name by becoming a mole for the BOI. As far as Matt could see, that left him with only one option.
He would have to expose whoever had been behind the bank robbery and anything else the people meeting in that warehouse had been up to. And do it soon, before Special Agent Wolfe decided he had to apply some more pressure, or follow through on one of his threats. The question was how. Whatever the answer, Matt imagined it would involve him putting himself in danger again. One way or another. And he would need Page’s help.
Thinking of her helped him harden his resolve. He’d do what he had to do, as soon as he could figure out what that was. But the first thing he’d have to do was finish his sandwich, because his fainting from hunger wouldn’t help anyone. Then he would have to postpone his shower, no matter how much more he needed it after that talk with Special Agent Wolfe. And go over his room and Page’s with a fine-toothed comb.
Matt knew the ability to wiretap existed in this era, but he doubted they had listening devices. But that was based on what was commonly known, and who knew what the government was really capable of at this time? Better to be sure before he began to tell Page what had happened and enlisted her help. So he would check the phones, of course. And he’d also go over every square inch of their suites searching for bugs, as remote as that possibility seemed.
After that, he really would need a shower. And then he and Page could tackle this problem together. Between them, Hawthorne, Hendricks, or whoever had been behind the bank robbery didn’t have a chance.