ON WEDNESDAY GUTTMAN drove to work early. It was raining and he was old enough not to like the wet – a faint arthritic twinge surfaced in his knees whenever the rain lasted more than a couple of hours. He felt fluey, too, but he couldn’t complain, not when Isabel was feeling so rotten.
He was worried about her. His wife’s mobility was worse now and the decline seemed to be accelerating. Isabel could no longer stand without either her walker or crutches, and had finally given up trying – her last attempts would have been disastrous had Guttman not been there to catch her when she fell.
She was uncomplaining as ever, but had started saying the damndest things. ‘You don’t have to like Mr Hoover, you know,’ she’d declared out of the blue one evening, leaving Guttman uncertain how to respond. Then later, when he’d come to bed she’d moved her arm to show she was still awake. ‘Harry,’ she’d whispered, once he’d settled, his head on the pillow. ‘There was a man out back in the yard this afternoon.’
‘What sort of man?’
‘Just a man,’ she said.
‘Did you tell Mrs Davis?’
‘He was gone by the time she came to look.’
He had heard nothing from Sedgwick. Guttman was planning to go to New York on the following Tuesday, but had expected to hear from Sedgwick first, with the transfer codes for the wired money. He’d called, but Sedgwick’s secretary had said he was in a meeting and would call him back. He hadn’t.
Now when Marie came in he had her place another call and was annoyed when she came through a few minutes later to say, ‘Mr Sedgwick’s not in yet, Harry. Banks don’t open till ten.’
‘I bet the rest of the staff’s there by now.’
He had her try again just before the bank opened. This time Marie shrugged as she reported: ‘His secretary says he’s off sick. And you’d better be off sick if you don’t get upstairs.’
‘Why’s that?’ he asked, still wondering what game Sedgwick was playing at.
‘Because Executive Conference is about to begin.’
He took the stairs two at a time, which made him huff and puff, even though it was only one floor. He wasn’t late for the meeting according to the round wall clock, but everybody else was already there, and Tolson, sitting at the head of the table, frowned. ‘Okay, Guttman’s decided to join us, so let’s get started.’
They were meeting every week now, out of recognition that if the war in Europe hadn’t directly affected the United States yet, it was going to. Hoover liked to be prepared. The number of agents and support staff had tripled in the past two years, as a result of Hoover’s insistence that the Bureau be ready for wartime and his canny manipulation of Congress. Congress didn’t want a war, as Roosevelt, despite his best efforts to get the country into one, had discovered. But by publicising foreign efforts at sabotage, Hoover had inflamed Congress’s fears of alien enemies within, while demonstrating the Bureau’s ability to counter them. There had been little Congressional resistance to his requests for more manpower.
Now the Bureau had ten divisions, over a dozen new field offices, and an extraordinary number of green recruits. Inevitably there had been growing pains and this morning’s meeting concentrated on administrative issues. These were in Louis B. Nichols’ bailiwick, and as a man who liked the sound of his own voice it gave him free rein to go on about them. Doubtless important, thought Guttman, but not very interesting. He looked at his successor, Tamm, whose handsome stolid face usually hid any emotion, and was gratified to find him suppressing a yawn.
At last the agenda moved on to investigation. Guttman was called first and he related recent events in Bogota, then talked a bit about Brazil, where they had entrapped three German businessmen who were bribing politicians. People listened politely, but without obvious interest. Tolson asked a pointed question about Mexico, but Guttman countered that oversight of German activity there had been ceded to the Office of Naval Intelligence.
It was Tamm’s turn next then, and the meeting perked up as he described how an embezzlement ring in the Midwest had been rounded up by the Chicago Field Office. Nichols in his PR capacity passed round copies of the wire service coverage of the arrests. Turning to espionage, Tamm said they were still pursuing a few leads left over from the Duquesne case, though he didn’t expect more than one or two further arrests.
Just before the meeting broke up, Tolson decided it was time for a small homily. He gave one every two or three meetings, like a benediction held back as a treat. Today’s was about the need to keep standards high and not let the growth in staff affect the calibre of agents employed by the Bureau. Everyone nodded dutifully, but then Nichols asked what was likely to happen with recruitment if war broke out. Wouldn’t it be difficult to enlist new agents if the draft continued?
‘Let’s worry about that when we have to,’ said Tolson. Guttman could see he was eager to end the meeting.
To Guttman’s surprise, Tamm spoke up. ‘Recruiting more agents is one thing, but what about losing the ones we already have? A lot of my people are going to want to join up if war breaks out.’
Tolson looked startled before he reassumed command. ‘Agents will be exempt from the Selective Service. The Boss’s view is clear: an agent’s loyalty should be to the Bureau.’
‘What if they want to fight? Plenty of my people do.’
Guttman saw that Tamm had made a tactical mistake. Tolson could be reasonable, Tolson could brook arguments he didn’t agree with, Tolson could preside over a meeting without trying to bend it to his will. But not when Hoover had staked out a position. Then there was to be no dissent.
‘The Director’s view,’ Tolson said, pausing ominously. ‘I repeat, the Director’s view, is that an agent’s priority has to be to serve the Bureau, in peacetime and war. Any other decision is a selfish one, without the best interests of the country at heart.’
Guttman watched Tamm struggle with the logic of this – it was selfish to volunteer to die for one’s country? Tamm wondered aloud, ‘What happens if my agents decide to be selfish?’
Tolson’s discomfort metamorphosed into anger and he said, ‘We don’t prosecute people for selfishness in this country.’ He looked as if he wished he could. ‘But if any agent enlists in the Forces they will have no future with the Bureau. They can win the Medal of Honor for all we care, but they’ll never be a Special Agent again.’
The meeting adjourned, but before Guttman could get out of the room, Tolson called out his name, gesturing for him to stay behind. Guttman waited. Tolson had stood up, but was leaning over to gather his papers. The man’s hair was going, Guttman noticed happily, and Tolson’s once-sharp nose was growing bulbous. Too many drinks on the house at the ‘21’ Club.
‘The meeting this afternoon’s been called off,’ Tolson said. ‘I’ve told Tamm already.’
‘What, no visiting fireman?’ asked Guttman. If you were chipper with Tolson, but showed an edge, you could sometimes get something out of him – he seemed to like the occasional sparky exception to the fawning guff he got from everybody else. A secret gossip lurked within the soul of Clyde Tolson, but it took delicate handling to disinter it – any remark too acid and Tolson would bristle, remembering his position; any too bland and he would speak officiously himself.
Tolson said, ‘The Director’s already seen this guy Popov up in New York.’
‘Did they talk about Latin America?’ asked Guttman, though he could not have cared less. Stephenson had said Popov’s important information was about spies operating in the United States.
‘Not that I know of.’ He added, ‘It wasn’t a very long conversation.’
‘Oh?’ asked Guttman.
‘This guy’s a real lulu. Do you know what the Brits call him? Tricycle.’
‘I don’t get it.’ He hoped he appeared as innocent as he was trying to seem.
‘You’re married, so you wouldn’t know,’ he said archly, ‘but girls with round heels are called “bicycles” these days. Well, Popov likes to enjoy two broads at a time. So they call him Tri-cycle.’ He gave a small guffaw. For a partner in a prudish alliance, Tolson always seemed fascinated by sex.
‘The Director wouldn’t have been impressed,’ said Guttman.
‘You can say that again. He’s never liked double agents anyway. No loyalty: there’s nothing to stop them from flipping back to the other side.’
‘Did this Popov character have any useful information?’
‘No. He was full of promises rather than facts. We were supposed to be impressed by all the swells he knew in New York. There was one thing, though. Ever heard of microdots?’ Guttman shook his head. ‘It’s like microfilm, but the image gets reduced to the size of a dot. Popov gave us a letter which looked perfectly normal. But one of the periods could be peeled off, and when you look at it under a microscope it’s got pages of information on it – all on one tiny dot.’
‘Amazing.’ He waited the length of a drumbeat. ‘What was on Popov’s dot?’
‘Who knows?’ said Tolson blithely. ‘I don’t think the Boss believed any of it. All sorts of stuff this Popov guy was supposed to do for the Abwehr. Most of it involving first-class travel.’ He gave a small, high-pitched giggle. ‘The guy’s already got a penthouse in New York and more broads than you can shake a stick at. He’s always short of dough, apparently, and the boss decided he’d say anything to get on our payroll. Still, this dots business could be very useful – it’s with the lab boys right now.’
‘What’s going to happen to him?’
‘That’s up to the Brits – but he can’t stay here, at least not under our aegis. He claims the Germans are waiting for him to send them back all sorts of info; he told them he was running an entire network along the East Coast. We’re supposed to help make up stuff he can feed back to Berlin.’ He shook his head. ‘It ain’t going to happen. And I don’t think the Brits will want to keep subsidising him here – I imagine they’ll send him back to Europe. Good riddance.’
* * *
At home Guttman found Mrs Davis long gone and Annie talking with Isabel in the bedroom. His wife was still in her nightgown and under the covers. ‘You’re not up?’ he said, entering the room.
Annie spoke. ‘She’s got a cold. Apparently she got it from you.’
‘So go easy on me,’ said Isabel, and they all laughed.
When Annie went home a few minutes later, she left before he could thank her. He sat in the living room with the radio on and drank a weak highball. When he got up and peeked at Isabel, she was dozing, so he went and found his diary from his phone nook. Taking it to the kitchen he dialled the number he had written down that afternoon after calling Westchester County information.
A woman answered the phone and he asked for Sedgwick.
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Harry Guttman.’
‘Just a moment and I’ll see if I can find him.’ Guttman’s name seemed to mean nothing to her.
She didn’t return for several minutes, and when she did she said, ‘Mr Guttman, he asks if you could call back later. He’s writing a letter and he says he needs to finish it.’
‘I’ll call back in an hour if that’s okay,’ he said. ‘It’s kind of important or I wouldn’t be troubling him at home.’
When he hung up he decided that writing a letter was such a bad excuse for ducking a phone call that maybe it was the truth.
He killed the hour making supper. As he boiled potatoes and cabbage and baked a large piece of ham, he went into the bedroom and woke Isabel gently. When he’d established that she didn’t want a tray, he wrapped a wool robe around her and wheeled her out in her chair to the kitchen table, where she sat reading the evening paper. She read the society columns aloud and they laughed at the description of Eleanor Roosevelt’s tea party for the members of the American Legion. Then she played Patience while he carved the ham, and he noticed she could no longer adequately shuffle the cards between games.
They ate in the kitchen, and after supper Isabel sat in the living room listening to the radio while he did the dishes and put them away. Then he called the Sedgwick house again, but this time there was no answer at all.
He joined Isabel and stretched out on their comfortable old green sofa, while they listened to Red Skelton on the Raleigh Cigarettes programme on NBC. It was good to hear her laugh. When the programme ended, he asked if she wanted to be put to bed. ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘I like to pretend the short days haven’t set in.’
‘Okay. I’ve got to make another call. You stay put.’
She laughed, since they both knew she wasn’t going anywhere. As he stood up to go to the kitchen, Isabel said, ‘Is this a good guy or a bad guy?’
Guttman’s smile was bittersweet. ‘He’s a guy who got mixed up in something he didn’t understand, and it’s come back to haunt him.’
This time a man answered the phone. But the voice was unfamiliar. ‘Is Roger Sedgwick there?’ asked Guttman.
‘Who is that?’ the voice asked bluntly.
‘Harry Guttman.’
‘Are you a friend of Mr Sedgwick, sir?’
The ‘sir’ worried him. ‘Not really.’
‘Was he expecting your call?’
‘I called before, but his wife said he was busy.’
‘What’s your relation to Mr Sedgwick, Mr Guttman?’
Enough was enough. ‘I’m an Assistant Director with the FBI.’
There was a pause. ‘Sir, this is Sergeant Duval of the Brewster Police. There’s been an accident.’
‘What’s happened, officer?’
‘Roger Sedgwick’s dead. He shot himself.’
‘Jesus Christ. When did he do that?’
‘About an hour ago.’
Guttman thought of his second phone call, the sound of the phone ringing, unavailingly, like a siren summoning help too late. Guttman would need to tread carefully; the last thing he needed was for this to reach the ears of other members of the Bureau. ‘What happened exactly?’ he asked.
Duval said, ‘His wife says he left the house earlier this evening to post a letter. There’s a mailbox three or four blocks down the street which has an evening pick-up. She was making supper and he said he’d be right back. When he hadn’t returned after half an hour, she went out looking for him. She found him slumped on a bench halfway down the block with a bullet in his head. The gun was on the ground by the bench.’
‘Any note?’
‘Nope. Not by the body and not in his study. We haven’t been through the rest of the house yet.’
‘What kind of gun was it?’
‘Some foreign model. One of my men said it must have come from Europe.’
‘Why’d he think that?’
‘His dad fought in the last war and brought back some pistols from overseas. My guy said Sedgwick’s gun looked like one in his father’s collection.’
‘Can you try to confirm the make of weapon, please?’
‘Sure.’
‘Did Sedgwick say anything at all before he went out?’
‘Just that he was going to mail this letter. If the wife calms down I’ll try to have another word. The doctor’s with her now.’
‘Let me give you my number. If she has anything to say about why he did this I’d like to know. Her husband was assisting me with an investigation.’
‘Could that have anything to do with this?’
‘Don’t think so. He was just providing information about some bank transactions.’ The last thing Guttman wanted was local cops asking him questions instead of the other way round. ‘Listen, could you do something for me? Can you check the mailbox? You know, for the letter he went out to send.’
‘I thought of that already,’ said the sergeant, sounding proud of his astuteness. ‘But they’d already collected from that box.’
‘What about at the post office? Any chance of catching up to them there?’
‘We may be a small town, Mr Guttman, but there’s more than one mailbox here.’
‘Of course,’ said Guttman. There was no point trying to bully the sergeant – if the cop resisted, Guttman would have to get a court order to search the mail, and given Hoover’s proscription this was the last thing he was about to do. ‘Is there any chance you could have a word with the postmaster – you know, informal-like, and see if someone could have a look? Maybe Sedgwick put a return address on the envelope.’
‘I guess I could ask,’ the cop said hesitantly. ‘If it’s that important.’
‘It is,’ said Guttman firmly, though he didn’t have any idea himself. Sedgwick might have been writing farewell to his mistress for all he knew, or cancelling his membership at the country club. On the other hand, he might have been writing to his controller at the Russian Mission. It seemed worth the trouble to try to find out.