| |
––––––––
October 19th, 1927 The Office of the City Clerk
SPECIAL AGENT SIMPSON had shared a cab with his new partner to follow the subjects from the Midtown South precinct house to their hotel. Then later when they’d left the Ngaio together, he’d again taken a taxi ride with Thomkins at his side, following them first to a jewelry store and now to the city clerk’s office. And between the blushing and beaming countenances of the couple, the buying of rings, and the snatches of conversation he’d overheard, it was obvious what the pair was up to. They were going to get hitched.
Of course it could be some sort of dodge, he reminded himself, but if so they were certainly going through an elaborate charade. He’d have to be vigilant, just in case.
The new orders and the new partner had come in the middle of the night. Now it wasn’t just Matt Walker that needed a tail but also Page Reader, the apparently soon-to-be Mrs. Walker. He didn’t understand it, but then he didn’t need to understand, only obey orders. So regardless of the events of last night, which he’d seen some of for himself and gotten a fuller report on from Thomkins, Simpson was supposed to keep following this Mr. Walker. While his new partner, a lucky man, had been detailed to tail Miss Reader.
So if the subjects split up, Simpson and his new partner would also go their separate ways, but now the two were together, and that made things easier. It only made sense for the two agents to join forces, sharing cabs and helping each other keep an eye on the pair. So while Thomkins paid the driver, Simpson climbed the steps to follow the subjects into an old building that had opened to the public a couple minutes earlier. Those two were certainly in a rush to tie the knot.
No surprise that the place was mostly empty at this early hour, which made it simpler to follow the couple, but it also made it more difficult to remain unobserved by the subjects, who he wasn’t to think of as suspects. Since as far as Simpson was aware, neither of them were actually thought to have done anything wrong. But they were radicals about who the Bureau knew little and needed to find out much more. So their orders were only to watch and then report in detail. It would be somebody else’s job to read those reports and determine if the two were a threat of some sort, but he couldn’t see it. The pair had helped the cops catch some anarchists. Which wasn’t a crime—quite the opposite. It wasn’t illegal to get married either, even if it was probably a very bad idea.
Thomkins entered as Simpson was sitting on a folding metal chair at the back of the room, watching Walker and the woman as they stood at the end of a short line to apply for their license. His partner took a seat on the far side of the room and yawned. Well, they had been up all night. And with no relief in sight. Thankfully they didn’t look out of place, as there were other ‘wedding watchers’ who’d already shown up this morning, most of whom looked quite as groggy as Simpson felt.
The subjects soon reached the front of the line, where they were handed their license, after forking over some cash, then waved toward another room. Apparently those two were going to tie the knot today. Maybe they’d greased someone’s palm so they wouldn’t have to wait, but that was a legal gray area New Yorkers exploited all the time. If Special Agent Wolfe wanted to use it as an excuse to pull them in, he could, but if the Bureau arrested everybody who bribed a city official there wouldn’t be more than a dozen people left at liberty in Manhattan. Supposedly they were investigating that kind of corruption in the city, but there was too much of it. So if Wolfe wanted a lever, he’d want a better one.
Suddenly Walker popped back out of the room the couple had only entered a moment ago, looked around, and then gestured in the agent’s direction. Simpson glanced around, but it seemed the subject was waving at him. He caught Thomkins’ eye, and the man smirked.
The situation had become awkward and swiftly became more so as Walker crossed the room to advance upon Simpson with a vexed expression. But then his face broke into a wide grin. “Look, I don’t suppose you would do us a huge favor, would you? We need a witness. All you have to do is watch the ceremony and then sign your name.”
Simpson slowly nodded. His task was to watch them after all, and this would keep him closer than sitting out here, waiting. Besides, to refuse the request would only draw more attention to him. And let Thomkins snicker—Simpson could see the man mocking him in his mind’s eye—as long as he worded it right in his report, he could make himself look good. So he stood and followed the subject.
Once inside the wood-paneled room with its relaxed atmosphere, Simpson stationed himself a bit away from the action as the Justice of the Peace got his Bible and began the standard procedure. Walker and Reader were holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes as the man spoke the words. But at least they didn’t have that doe-eyed look teenagers in love had. Their gazes appeared rather clearly and sharply focused, not stupidly soft and gooey.
Then the officiate pronounced the final phrase. “You may now kiss the bride.” And Walker yanked her into a passionate embrace. The two locked lips as if they’d finally found a drink of water in the desert. Or an oasis considering how long they continued kissing.
Simpson stared openly, since it was obvious he was being completely ignored along with the rest of the world. And he was finding it frankly educational. He could feel the heat coming off the couple as if in waves and wondered how much to put in his report. Everything was supposed to go in, but no one could include every single detail, and this might be better left out. He didn’t want Wolfe to suspect him of turning poetic. Briefly considering trying to kiss his own wife like that, he found himself shaking his head. It might just give her ideas.
Finally the bride pulled away from her new husband to take a deep breath. Then she sighed as she stared up at him. “When was it you said they began having kissing marathons?”
With a bemused expression on his face, Walker nodded. “I’m pretty sure it was the fifties.”
“Well.” And she said that rather emphatically. “Then.” Turning to the man who had just married them and still wore a benevolently tolerant smile on his face, she thanked him.
That seemed to signal an end to the ceremony, and they all started signing the requisite forms, including Simpson as a witness. He had to stop himself from running after them as they sprinted from the room. Thomkins was waiting outside, and not nodding off hopefully. So the subjects shouldn’t be able to give them the slip.
Returning to the other room, Simpson saw the backs of the couple as they exited into the hall with his partner close on their heels. And he reached the corridor just in time to seen husband and wife dive into what looked like a utility closet. Were the two teenagers after all?
Looking around, he spotted a janitor at the far end of the hall and gestured at Thomkins, who was just standing there as if he didn’t know what to do. “Quick, go ask that janitor if there is any other way out of that room.”
His partner trotted down the corridor, spoke to the old man with a mop and bucket, then returned shaking his head. “Nope. It’s a supply room without a window or another door—not even a grate for circulating air. So they’re unlikely to last long.”
Simpson shook his head back at the man. “You didn’t see them after they were wed. Anyway, we’ll look fairly obvious if we’re still standing here when they come out. And they may be a while.” He nodded at a bench down the hall. “Why don’t you take that one, while I take this?”
He strolled over to a bench between the supply closet and the public restroom, where he’d noticed a discarded newspaper lying. Reading one of those rags always made a good disguise. He saw his partner claim the bench on the far side of the room the newlyweds had disappeared into and thought with satisfaction that the subjects were well covered. He or Thomkins one would be between the couple and the exit, could even get up and precede the pair out while the other followed from behind. So if it were some sort of trick...
Pretending to read while watching that door to the supply room, he wondered how he and his partner would fare if the subjects headed in different directions when they came out of there. A one on one tail was always challenging, but far more so in Manhattan, and if the one you were following suspected the fact and actively tried to lose you, they’d probably succeed. Still, Simpson would do his best.
But when half an hour had passed and they had yet to emerge, he started to suspect that he and his partner had been had. Setting the newspaper back on the bench, he nodded at Thomkins and gestured at the janitor again. His partner received the message loud and clear and made the old man leave his mop and bucket behind and brought him down the hall to the closet door.
Simpson whispered what he wanted in the janitor’s ear. “Just open up as if you had come to get a broom or whatever, and if they’re occupied in, um, their activities, you can act embarrassed and excuse yourself. We just don’t want them to know we were checking up on them. Right?”
The man’s doubtful nod wasn’t very reassuring that he’d understood, but both agents stepped back as he moved to open the door. Poking his head in, he looked inside a moment, then turned around to shake his head at them before shuffling back down the hall toward his mop and bucket.
Alarmed, Simpson darted forward to gaze into the open closet, which was completely empty of any people. Certainly the subjects were gone. Presumably long gone. Thomkins came up behind him and peered over his shoulder, so he stepped on into the tiny space and searched it from top to bottom. Absolutely no way out. “His name can’t be Matt Walker, it must be Harry Houdini.”
He turned to find his partner gaping. “How do you explain that?”
After allowing himself a deep sigh and thinking it through quite carefully for about a minute, Simpson shrugged. “A better way to put the question is, how do we describe this in our report? We’ve got to make sure our stories make sense, and don’t make us look like fools. And that they agree. But before we figure out how to do that, I think we could both use a drink. Or two.”
––––––––
Continue with Book 5: Temporal Entanglement
Deciding a little judicious fast-forwarding and backtracking through time is just the way to fulfill her obligations to the FBI and help out her colleagues from the future while continuing to conduct her own research, Nye soon ties her personal timeline into a knot so complicated even she may be unable to unravel it—meanwhile making herself the target of a couple of highly trained hired killers...