Sustenance (13 page)

“No, I haven’t. It’s not in Baltimore, I’ll tell you that much.”

Broadstreet achieved a self-deprecatory smile. “You can’t blame a man for trying.” He cleared his throat and went on in a more authoritative manner, “And if I am interested, what do you expect for them? Money? A contract for government business? Some other advantage?”

“I expect the badgering to stop. I want my family to be left alone. You know what I’m talking about. No more letters to the principals at my kids’ schools. They’re six and nine, they don’t know anything. They come home crying because the other kids call them Commies. Not that they know what that means. Whoever’s in charge of our case—and I assume there is a case—I want him instructed to keep away from my kids. I want it known by the FBI and police that I’m helping the government. I’m losing customers because of Happy, and I can’t afford that, not with my wife sending money to France.” His indignation had an undercurrent of fear.

Broadstreet studied the man’s face. “I would like to examine the letters you mentioned. If you will send the photostats to me by registered mail, I will mention your assistance in my next report, and provide you with a copy of that report, in case you encounter any more difficulties. I can’t do much more than that without going higher up the chain of command. But I’ll see what I can do.” He would order more subtle surveillance, since this blatant approach was not working as they wanted, and Hoover would crow to the press about the CIA operating within the US. “If you’ll get your photostats in tomorrow’s mail, I’ll thank you for your help the best way I can.” He reminded himself that he had information on Nugent, as well as Lundkin and Teague. But Atkins had disappeared, and that worried Broadstreet more than anything he had learned about any of the other two. He held out his hand, signaling the interview was over. “Thank you, sir; I know this must have cost you a lot of thought,” he said, feeling the strong grip his informant offered.

“You’re welcome. Assuming you come through for me.” He smiled widely and insincerely as he went toward the door. “Thanks for seeing me.”

Broadstreet said nothing as he watched the door close, then picked up his receiver. As soon as he heard the dial tone, he twisted the number and listened for the ring on the other end of the line. The phone was answered before the third ring. “Broadstreet here.”

The man on the other end of the line asked, “What is it?”

“I may have a lead on Atkins.”

“How much of a lead?”

Broadstreet struggled to contain his nervousness; there was something about Channing—whose name he was not supposed to know—that made his skin crawl. “I’ll know by tomorrow evening, or the day after.”

“That’s reassuring,” said the voice without any hint of confidence. “It would be useful to find him.”

“In order to bring him back home?” Broadstreet asked boldly.

“That depends on where he is,” the voice said.

Broadstreet realized that he had asked one question too many. “Of course, of course,” he said quickly, staring at the telephone dial as if to read a message in its numbers and letters.

“We’ll know by Thursday, if your information turns out to be right,” said the voice, in a tone there was no disputing. “Let me know when you have something to report,” he ordered and hung up abruptly.

This was not quite the way Broadstreet had hoped this exchange might be, but he jotted a note on his foolscap pad before picking up his pipe and opening his tobacco pouch; he always thought more clearly when he smoked. Little as he liked to admit it, Broadstreet believed in omens, and when he saw one as obvious as this one, he gave it his careful consideration. There was something going on here, some kind of convergence, and he was determined to make the most of it.

By noon, he had the beginning of a plan for how he could employ his visitor, one that could help locate Professor Atkins, and then he would be able to come up with a way to neutralize whatever it was that the good professor was doing. Atkins had been a thorn in his side for six years, and it was time to show him who was boss. He sucked on his pipe, realized it was finished; he took a pipe-cleaner from his center desk drawer and set about cleaning the burnt tobacco from the bowl, then working on the stem and mouthpiece. After a couple of minutes, he set the pipe down, ready for use. He looked at the clock on the wall, watching the pendulum swing for a little more than thirty seconds, then pressed the button on his intercom. “Florence?”

“I’m here, Mister Broadstreet,” she responded promptly.

“I think I’ll go out to lunch today; will you inform the dining room? I should be back at thirteen-thirty.” He waited for her to respond.

“That’s one-thirty,” she said. “I’ll make a note. Where are you going?”

“O’Doul’s, I think, but perhaps some place less crowded.” He took a strange pleasure in defying the rules to this extent. “If anyone needs to speak to me, get his name and number and tell him I’ll call back by sixteen hundred … four
P.M
.” Before she could confirm this, he clicked off and went to fetch his overcoat; he saw the windows spattered with rain and knew it would get heavier as evening came on. He crossed the street and turned right; there were three blocks to go to reach O’Doul’s, a bar and grill that was known to cater to the men who worked the classy part of the waterfront, and served Irish beer that came by ship from the Emerald Isle. Often crowded and smoky, O’Doul’s was a perfect place to watch the life of the harbor.

Before he reached O’Doul’s, he changed his mind, and held up his arm to flag a cab. “The Helmsman,” he said as he got in.

The cabby blinked. “Out on Merrimont Road? That’s almost an hour away.”

“Yes, that’s the one,” said Broadstreet as he settled into the dusty cushions.

“You got it,” the cabby said as he started his clock running and swung around in a U-turn, paying no heed to honks of complaint. “Weepy weather, yeah.”

“It’s the time of year,” said Broadstreet in his most discouraging tone.

The cabby kept on. “Place for sportsmen, the Helmsman.” It had, as everyone in the region knew, been a speakeasy with a small harbor where smugglers could tie up their boats all through the years of Prohibition. Now it was a rod-and-gun club with a private yacht facility, a toney place with a rustic exterior. It lent prestige to its members without the high expenses of country clubs and private golf courses.

“Among others,” said Broadstreet, then wanted to bite his tongue for taking the bait.

“You one of those others, then? You gotta be a member to go there.” The cabby laughed as if this were the punch-line of a joke. “Cause you sure don’t look like a sportsman.”

“I’m not a yachtsman, if that’s what you mean, but I know my way around Chesapeake, and I am a member, not that it’s any of your business,” said Broadstreet; he had a small powerboat he sometimes used for fishing the estuaries and creek around Old Road Bay and the edge of Chesapeake Bay. He winced a little at his answer, but said nothing as the taxi rattled along the road in the steadily thickening rain.

By the time the Helmsman was in sight, Broadstreet was regretting his impulsive decision; he knew he would have to call the office and explain why he was going to be so late returning. He needed a reason that was not unbelievable, but impossible to check out closely. It would have to be related to his work, but vague enough to be seen as a testing-the-waters meeting. He’d have to come up with a contact who wouldn’t come to his office. Yes, he thought as the cab turned onto Merrimont; he was going to meet a possible informant who failed to show up. A man named … something innocuous. Baker. That had a good, ordinary feel to it. No, Baxter. That was better, Mister Baxter had contacted him indirectly and this was the place he had recommended for their first meeting. He began to work on a legend for Baxter, trying to keep it vague enough that he could discard portions of it as needed. “Thus,” he mused aloud: the potential informant was in a union, and the union was being pressured by Communists. He grinned as the cabby cut his speed by more than half as he drove along the muddy road, approaching an unassuming wooden building of respectable size. Nine or ten expensive cars had drawn up in front of this structure, near the concrete steps that led to a double-door of dark oak. In the distance, beyond the trees, the masts of a number of boats rocked on the choppy waters of Old Road Bay.

“That’ll be nine dollars, seventy cents. If you want me to come back and pick you up, tell me now, or fend for yourself. Pay me five bucks and I’ll guarantee you a ride home.”

Broadstreet handed the cabby eleven dollars. “Keep the change. I’ll find my own way home.” He had to hold his hat on his head, for the wind was gusting vigorously now, and the rain was steady. He squinted as the cab backed away from him, wondering what he would do if anyone in the restaurant recognized him. That would surely have happened at O’Doul’s. But if he had lunched at O’Doul’s, he reminded himself, he wouldn’t need a story to account for his lateness. He removed his wallet and pulled out his Helmsman membership card.

A young man in a dull-red jacket and black slacks opened the door for Broadstreet. “Good afternoon. Will you be wanting a table or bar-space?”

“A table. For two. I’m expecting a Mister Baxter. He isn’t here ahead of me, is he?”

“Would you like to look in the dining room?” the waiter offered.

“It wouldn’t do any good. I’ve never met the man face to face.” Broadstreet knew he was saying too much. “I need to call my office.” That at least was true, something that could be traced and included in making the so-called meeting appear authentic.

“Down the hall on the—”

“Left. Yes. I know.” He took a couple of steps in that direction, then added, “I’d like a brass monkey when you decide where to seat me.”

“Yes, sir,” said the waiter.

It cost him more than forty cents to make the call, for he had to tell Florence enough of the story to explain where he was. As he hung up and heard the coins he had deposited drop into the base of the instrument, he sighed, then walked back to the maitre d’.

“Your table is ready, sir,” that worthy told Broadstreet, and signaled to the same young waiter who had opened the door for Broadstreet to escort him to a table with a good line of sight to the door. “For when your party arrives.”

“Thanks,” said Broadstreet, and followed the waiter through the sparsely populated dining room—nine of the thirty-two tables were occupied, most by no more than two people—to a table that not only had a direct line of sight to the door, but was next to the picture window that looked out on the lawn and boathouse on the far side of the building. “Much appreciated.” He handed the waiter a dollar.

The waiter nodded and went to get leather-bound menus with the luncheon selections, returning with two of them, offering one to Broadstreet and putting one on top of the charger at the place opposite his. “Will you want your brass monkey now?”

“I’ve changed my mind. I’ll have a hot buttered rum, light on the butte— No, make it an Irish coffee.” A day like today called for Irish coffee, Broadstreet decided, and gazed out the window, trying to piece together a story of the fictitious informant he would use to explain his unusual behavior, and perhaps be reimbursed for the taxi fare and the lunch.

There were eight members who arrived together some twenty minutes later, and boisterously took over two tables pushed together; they seemed to be celebrating something. By listening to their excited conversation, Broadstreet gleaned the information that they worked for a marine engineering firm and had just secured a contract from the Navy for a device that would monitor all kinds of marine traffic along the coast from Norfolk to Charleston. The eight men ordered two bottles of Tattinger’s and drank a toast to Bateman & McNally. Making no apology for their merriment.

“I think I’d better order even if my guest hasn’t arrived,” Broadstreet said to the waiter as he came by the table. “I don’t want to have to spend all afternoon waiting.”

“Have you decided yet, sir?” The waiter gave a sign of acquiescense.

Broadstreet had barely opened the menu but he said, “Sirloin steak, medium.”

“Mashed or baked potato, sir?”

“Baked, with butter and spring onions, and a side of creamed spinach.” He handed the menu to the waiter.

“Another Irish coffee, sir?” The young man had not written anything down, but he offered a confident-yet-diffident smile.

“Not just now,” said Broadstreet. “But a cup of strong regular coffee would be welcome.”

“Right away, sir,” said the waiter.

All through his solitary lunch, Broadstreet continued to formulate his explanation for his atypical behavior, and by the time he had his dessert—a slice of cheesecake with whipped cream on top—he had a scenario that he was certain would prove sufficient to gain the approval of Channing: someone associated with the marine engineering firm had been leaking the design for these new monitors, and because of that, the effectiveness of the devices might be compromised. He would have to work out how his contact was associated with Bateman & McNally. Something tangential. Maybe he worked for the blueprint company Bateman & McNally used. Broadstreet thought this over for a good ten minutes, then decided that might be too easily checked. He needed something more clandestine, more daring yet secret. He signaled the waiter for more coffee and the check. “And will you bring me some note-paper? I need to leave something for Mister Baxter. If he should happen to show up.”

“Will do,” said the waiter, and came to retrieve Broadstreet’s large coffee-cup.

The bill was over fifteen dollars and Broadstreet decided to leave a generous two-dollar tip, which he handed over along with the note he had composed to Mister Baxter. He took a last sip of his coffee, pushed back from the table, gave a last glance at the eight men from Bateman & McNally, and glanced at the window to see the wet, darkening afternoon. It would be dark by the time he got back into Baltimore. As he got up, he caught sight of his watch and was shocked to see that it was nearing four. He went to the front desk and asked if they would call a cab for him, and was assured that they would.