Lena went through the next few hours like one of those zombies in a Bela Lugosi horror film. During the meeting with Hans in a coffee shop, she told him about Irving, how she’d been using him to get the sketch of the Pile, and how it had backfired.
“You have to do something,” she said, her voice full of anguish.
Hans shrugged.
“Please. I’m begging you.”
“You are sure he doesn’t know anything?”
She looked down, recalling Irving’s question about whether there was anything he should know about her.
“What is it, Lena?” Hans sounded irritated.
She looked up. “He doesn’t know anything. I’m sure of it.”
“I see.” Hans’ eyes narrowed. She knew he didn’t believe her.
* * *
Lena was surprised that no one at work talked about Irving. Or at least they didn’t talk to her about him. She supposed people knew they’d been seeing each other and weren’t sure what Lena’s feelings were. In a way it was a blessing. She tried to concentrate on her work, but every time Collins came in, he’d stop to ask if she had any news, or make a comment that meant hurry up and get me something. She started to bite her nails, something she’d never done before. Headaches came and went. She lost her appetite, and had trouble sleeping. Even Max couldn’t chase away her bad moods.
A week later, towards the end of October, Lena came into work early, ostensibly to catch up on paperwork. She thought about photographing a letter or two, but decided it was too risky. She never knew when Collins would show up.
It was a good decision; twenty minutes later Collins swept into the office. His usual bluster wasn’t apparent; in fact, his facial muscles were stretched taut and his eyes radiated distress.
“Did you hear?”
Lena’s pulse sped up. Collins rarely brought good news.
“There’s been a terrible fire.”
Lena jumped out of her chair, ran to a window, and looked out. No flames. No smell of smoke. “Where? I don’t see anything.” She turned around.
“Not here.” He planted his hands on his hips. “Are you sure you haven’t heard?”
“Colonel, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Her heart pounded in her chest. “What—where is it?”
He paused for just a fraction of a second, then said, “Your beau. Irving Mandell. His parents’ home burned down last night.”
“Oh, Mein Gott!” Lena screamed. Her hands flew to the sides of her head.
“The fire department said a Halloween candle in the window somehow ignited the curtains beside it.”
“But—but—” She sputtered. “That cannot be.” Irving and his parents didn’t celebrate Halloween. Irving had told Lena more than once that his family was observant. They would have considered Halloween a pagan ritual. Someone had deliberately set the fire and covered it up.
Collins went on. “Luckily, Mr. and Mrs. Mandell were not at home.” He cleared his throat. “But Irving was.”
Lena started to pull at her hair.
“He didn’t make it, Mrs. Stern. He’s gone.”
* * *
It didn’t take long for the staff at Met Lab to start discussing the cause of the fire. Shock and horror quickly led to discussions about Irving, the abrupt end to his career, the rumors about espionage. Lena wasn’t sure who first speculated that his death might not have been an accident. That Irving, morose and despondent at losing his job, had set it himself. Others pointed a finger at Collins and wanted him fired. They were sure Collins had somehow “arranged” the accident.
Lena knew better. Irving was distraught and depressed, but he would never have killed himself. And Collins didn’t have the guts to make someone disappear. He was a bad man, a fount of fear and suspicion, but he wasn’t a killer.
She knew who had set the fire. And why. And with that knowledge, the last bit of her composure snapped. The situation was out of control. She had to protect Max. And herself. No matter what.
The following Saturday morning Lena told Mrs. M she had an errand to run and asked Mrs. M to look after Max. She took the bus over to Chinatown, got off at Cermak and Wentworth and headed south. At the corner of 23rd Street, she turned right. Chen’s Gun and Surplus occupied a shop in the middle of the block. Lena pushed through the door. Thirty minutes later she left with a Smith and Wesson .38 revolver and a box of bullets.