Bette Read online

  Her father snorted. “Welcome to the army.”

  “We made it,” Mrs. Lovelady senior said, sounding out of breath. She and Drake’s father hurried into the church foyer. “The traffic is awful for a Saturday.”

  “Everyone’s Christmas shopping,” Bette’s mother pointed out.

  Again, hugs and kisses made the circuit of the group and then they walked into the small chapel where Jonathan would be christened. The room was paneled in rich maple and one wall was a stained-glass window depicting Christ’s baptism. Bette stood apart from the fount and the group around it—the Episcopal priest in his black suit and clerical collar, the proud parents, grandparents, and her parents, who were to be Jonathan’s godparents.

  Bette’s unruly mind drifted. She hadn’t been able to believe her ears this morning when Ted’s voice had wished her a cheery hello over the phone. She’d actually stuttered as she asked him how he knew where she was.

  “I called your home and they told me your hotel,” he’d said. “I impersonated your boss at the War Department.”

  “Why are you calling?” Bette had clutched the receiver, pushing down the welling up of hope.

  “You didn’t get married,” he replied. “And I need you to help me out.”

  “With what?”

  “I’m here tailing someone and I could use a backup.”

  “I’ve never tailed anyone—”

  Breaking into her reverie, Jamie in a white shirt and dark suit burst in behind her, bringing a rush of stiff, cold air with him. He was tall, handsome as always, but looked strained. “Sorry I’m late,” he apologized in a low voice.

  The christening went on, formal yet somehow touching, with the baby boy gurgling and then crying when the cold water washed his head. Warm laughter and loving words flowed over and through them. Bette felt cut off from these tender emotions. Curt had left, taking with him what had remained of her true feelings, leaving her deadened. She hadn’t been able to shake the thought that maybe she and Curt would never marry. The war could come crashing over them at any moment. Curt might be sent off to fight and never return. She closed her mind to these horrible possibilities.

  Maybe that’s why Ted’s call had affected her so. She would have another chance to work against the powers that threatened her dreams of love and family. She thought of her white-satin wedding dress, carefully packed away in a box at Ivy Manor. A poignant symbol of the fate of her private life. What exactly does Ted want?

  The christening ended and the party adjourned to Drake and Ilsa’s brownstone for luncheon. The eight adults and two children sat around the dining table, eating flaky golden quiche and crunchy-sweet apple crisp and chatting about Sarah and Jonathan and Christmas plans. Bette was certain that Gretel’s absence was what made Jamie look so strained even as he joked with Drake about changing diapers.

  Bette scrutinized each face around the table, trying to see if she and Jamie were the only ones wounded by Gretel’s absence. Of course, Ilsa must feel it. Was it her love that caused her to keep touching Drake and her children or her feeling of being cut off from the rest of her family? Certainly Drake revealed his concern and love through his tender and worried glances at his beloved Ilsa. Did Gretel have any idea how her rejection cut those who loved her? Did she care?

  “I might as well announce it now while everyone’s together,” Jamie said in a cold voice that sliced through the happy chatter. “I’ve enlisted in the Navy Air Force.”

  “No!” Chloe exclaimed, shooting out of her chair.

  “It’s done.” Jamie grimaced. “I don’t expect anyone to be happy or to understand. But I’ve done it. I leave for basic training in two weeks.”

  Chloe burst into tears. Roarke stood up and drew her to him. The Loveladys looked on in dismay and sympathy.

  “I understand,” Bette whispered to Jamie. Even as she touched his hand under the tablecloth, she glanced at the clock. She needed to be home this afternoon. Ted would be calling her and setting up a meeting. Yes, she understood why Jamie had enlisted. So had she.

  At Times Square, Ted in a discreet gray suit and hat hung back in the holiday weekend crowd, the perfect cover for his tailing job. He glanced at his watch, keeping in mind that sometime this afternoon he wanted to call Bette again. The November breeze was anything but gentle. His ears were nearly ice. Ahead, he tracked his two subjects: one short and rotund and wearing thick-lensed eyeglasses; the other tall, erect, and dark-haired with a slashing scar on one cheek. The two started across the intersection against the light, ignoring the surging traffic. Ted hurried so he wouldn’t lose them.

  It all happened too fast to do anything but shout. The tall suspect bolted ahead as though unaware of the traffic. Suddenly realizing his peril, he jumped to avoid a car racing toward him. This leap put him in the path of a cab from the other direction. A screech of brakes. A sickening thud. Startled screams. The tall man with the scarred cheek lay, crumpled and twisted, in the middle of the street. A traffic cop’s whistle pierced the hubbub. A police car jammed to a halt, its red light flashing. Ted stood as stunned as the other witnesses.

  Then the downed man’s companion grabbed up his fallen comrade’s brown briefcase and plunged into the crowd. “Hey!” someone yelled. “Hey, he’s stealing the guy’s bag!” But it appeared that everyone was too busy shouting and pushing to react.

  “It’s a Jew plot!” the short man shouted back, confusing the bystanders. He melted into the gathering crush of the gawkers before anyone could get a firm grip on him.

  Ted still pushed his way through the suffocating crowd. But the excitement drew onlookers like free candy. Ted struggled on, shoving between tightly packed bodies, but the short man had vanished from Ted’s line of sight. So Ted turned back to the accident victim. The first Nazi wouldn’t be running very far away.

  Pushing to the front, a police detective flashed his badge and began questioning the cabbie who had hit the tall man.

  “A guy with him stole his briefcase,” the cabbie said, shaking his head and wringing his hands.

  “Yes,” Ted added, able to edge his way forward, “and he had a German accent.”

  “Yeah,” the cabbie went on, “he shouted something about Jews. I didn’t catch it.”

  “A German accent?” The New York detective looked concerned.

  An ambulance clanged in the distance. The detective near the injured man started waving his arms and shouting. More police whistles. The ambulance snaked through the crowd of onlookers to the victim.

  Ted watched the second of his Nazi agents being lifted onto a stretcher and up into the ambulance. He wanted to say something to the detective, but held back. If Ted were the fallen man’s companion, he would wait nearby long enough to hear where his friend was being taken so he could find out if he survived or not. If Ted showed his badge, he’d call attention to himself and blow his cover. Worse, this would announce to the Nazi suspect: “You were being followed.” Ted also couldn’t take just any police detective into his confidence. That would have to be handled at a higher level than he. So he hovered around the black-and-white ambulance, one of the crowd.

  “Where are you taking him?” he asked the man shutting one of the ambulance doors. He hoped no one would think this an odd question for him to ask.

  “St. Vincent’s!” the medic replied.

  The detective glanced around as if trying to see who had asked this question. Ted looked as nonchalant and uninterested as he could. The detective climbed through the remaining open door and the ambulance clanged away.

  Ted scanned the crowd once more for the short, round man with the briefcase. No luck. So Ted searched for the nearest phone booth. He had to call headquarters to report this development. He glanced at his wrist watch. The urge to call Bette first welled up in him. But after he entered the nearby drugstore and pushed into a phone booth, he made himself dial the FBI number instead. Later, Bette.

  At the Benjamin Hotel, Bette paced the floral carpet in her room. The afternoon ha
d passed, the evening had crawled by, and now the long night yawned before her. Only a little after 10:00 p.m.; her parents in their suite were probably already sound asleep. While Bette, still in her street clothing, stared at the bedside phone, willing it to ring. Why had Ted called her this morning and then not kept his appointment to call her again?

  Bette found herself raking her arms with her nails. Nerves. Just nerves. To distract herself, she sat down at the desk in her room and took up pen and hotel stationery. “Dear Curt,” she penned, “the christening went well. Jamie was late, of course. He’ll probably be late for his own wedding . . .” She looked at the final word she’d written. She’d meant to write “funeral.” She dropped the pen and, unable to prevent it, began sobbing.

  I was supposed to be Mrs. Curtis Sinclair this Thanksgiving.

  Her arms ached with wanting Curt. She’d waited four long years. And then Gretel had sent her regrets and Curt had preferred to be drafted rather than let anyone think he was a coward. That was it, wasn’t it? A foolish, little-boy way of thinking. At least, that was how it had struck Bette when Curt had finally made the decision. And it had hurt her even as she had been relieved in a way. In the final analysis, who cared what people thought? The war was coming anyway—anyone could see that. She’d pleaded with Curt to no avail.

  We could have had a few months, maybe a year together before he had to go. Why didn’t you marry me, Curt? Then everything would be as it should be. Ted wouldn’t have called me if I had married. This wouldn’t have started all over again. But she was too honest not to admit that she wasn’t unhappy Ted had called. Why did life have to be so complicated? She sprang up, restless. Where was Ted? Was he lying somewhere hurt . . . dead? And suddenly she wasn’t weeping because Curt wasn’t there. She was weeping because Ted hadn’t called back.

  The phone rang.

  She grabbed it, cutting off the second ring.

  “Bette, it’s me, Ted.”

  “Why didn’t you call earlier? I’ve been so worried.” She couldn’t keep the quaver out of her tear-thickened voice. She wiped away her tears with her fingertips.

  “Sorry. Really am sorry. Just . . . something really strange happened today. I’m still working on it.”

  “Strange? You’re still in the city, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, did you hear about that accident in Times Square today?”

  “Yes, it was on the evening radio news.” She twisted the black phone cord between her fingers.

  “Well, I can’t say any more over the phone, but that’s what held me up from calling you—”

  “Why?” Her mind raced ahead. Ted wasn’t calling her just to pass the time of day.

  “I take it that your parents have turned in for the night.”

  “Yes.” She felt herself revving inside—like a car idling on high.

  “Good. I’ll be at your hotel in about fifteen minutes. Meet me at the side entrance. We need to talk.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Bette couldn’t help feeling guilty as she crept from her room, down the quiet hotel hallway. Stealthily, she passed the elevator and went down the steps to the main floor. The empty stairwell had led her to the side of the quiet lobby. She welcomed the concealment offered there by the tall rubber plants and fig trees. She was glad her wool coat was black, not red like a flag. As she turned to go out the side entrance, she glimpsed the desk clerk raise his eyebrows. Well, let him. She was over twenty-two and free to do as she wished.

  His collar turned up against the cold, Ted waited in the black shadows just beyond the lighted entrance. “Right on time,” he said. “That’s my girl.”

  She knew she should scold him for this form of welcome, but it fit her mood exactly. “When you didn’t call, I was so worried. What happened?”

  Ignoring her question, he took her arm and hurried her down the block and around the corner. “Here’s my car. Get in.” He opened the door for her and practically shoved her inside.

  His urgency made her pulse speed up another notch. When their doors were both shut and the car in motion, she asked, “What is it? Where are we going?”

  Merging with traffic, Ted stared out into the street of tall buildings illuminated by streetlamps and neon signs. “That auto accident involved two suspected Abwehr agents.”

  Bette gasped. “Ted.”

  “I watched it happen right in front of me.” He stopped at a red light and waited. “I was tailing them, trying to get a bead on their activities and anyone they came in contact with and bam! One of them was so busy thinking or whatever, he charged right into Manhattan traffic. He got hit—then chaos, gawkers, and what’s worse—his buddy got away—with a briefcase. He was yelling something about a Jew plot.”

  “Who was his companion?” The light changed to green.

  “Don’t know his name.” Ted sped on. “But I do have a lead on the guy who died—”

  “He died?” Ted’s car was black and silent as it purred through the quieted streets. Only restaurants—pools of color and motion in the city night—still beckoned people.

  “Yeah, inconvenient, huh?” Ted glanced her way and then back to the street sign above. “We can’t question him now. But the NYPD did a great job. I had already contacted the chief about this when the NYPD called the FBI office here on Foley and said they thought the guy that was hit and the guy who legged it with the briefcase might be Nazis.”

  “Wow.” Bette could almost see the whole thing playing out in her mind.

  “Right. It’s not often that civilians pick up on things like that. And they were quick about letting us know.”

  “So where does this leave us—” Bette stammered. “I mean, you?”

  “You and I are on our way to the hotel room of the victim.” Ted checked his luminous watch dial. “The police have already been through it, collecting evidence. But they thought the FBI should go through it, too. The chief knew you were here and told me—”

  All of a sudden it hit her all over again—how much she loved this. After months at the War Department, she’d jumped at the chance to meet Ted. But all she asked was, “How did the chief know I was here?”

  “Mrs. Lovelady had written Mrs. Hoover about the christening,” Ted went on, “and mentioned you and your parents were coming up for it. But not your fiancé. Why didn’t you tell me the big wedding didn’t take place after all?” Ted taunted her. In the rippling light from passing streetlamps, he gave her an assessing side glance.

  “No, he didn’t want . . .” She fell silent, unwilling to voice Curt’s decision, knowing her own confusion over it would be hard to hide. “He was drafted,” she announced succinctly, “so we decided to postpone it until his year is done.”

  “Fool,” Ted muttered. “Doesn’t he know the war is a foregone conclusion at this point?”

  Ted shared her opinion? This nearly opened the floodgates. Bette longed to pour out her frustration with Curt, but held back. A wife, or even a wife-to-be, didn’t criticize her husband to another man. Her mother’s good example had been enough to teach her that. Plus, honesty compelled her to admit to herself that she didn’t want to be sidelined, unable to do anything to help her country.

  “Sorry for butting in like that,” Ted apologized, shifting uncomfortably behind the wheel. “We live in difficult times. I know what I would do if I were in Curt’s shoes, but I’m not Curt or in his position.”

  Bette couldn’t trust her voice. So she touched Ted’s shoulder, just a gliding pat to show she appreciated his understanding.

  He captured her hand as it moved away and gave it one quick squeeze before dropping it. “Now we’re on our way to the hotel room to go over it.”

  Back to business—that was Ted. “To see what the NYPD missed?” Bette hit her stride again.

  “That’s my sweet little brunette flirt,” Ted chortled. “I can always count on you to get it.”

  Again, Bette let his flippant comments ride. She knew Ted by now, knew that he liked to get a rise out of her.
<
br />   Before long, they walked up the stairs of another Manhattan hotel, a little less impressive than the Benjamin. Ted led her to the door on the third floor and unlocked it. “They gave Headquarters a key,” he whispered, “so we wouldn’t have to show ourselves at the desk.”

  Bette nodded and stepped inside the darkened room. Ted locked the door behind them. Bette reached for the wall switch and Ted’s hand caught hers. “Wait. Let me pull the drapes.”

  “Why?” she whispered as he passed her.

  “Someone—the other agent or another Nazi who knows this guy died—might be watching this room from across the street, from another hotel room or maybe from the roof. With binoculars, they could see our faces clearly. I don’t want to blow our covers.”

  Her cover—an entirely new thought. She heard the metallic sound of drapes being pulled closed on a rod and then Ted’s okay for the lights. She groped around the wall by the door, found the switch, and flicked it. Light from a faded bedside lamp pooled in a circle on the floor.

  Ted switched on a matching lamp by the window and then crossed to the bath and turned on those lights, too. “Now the police are done, so we don’t need to worry about disturbing fingerprints or anything. But they didn’t find anything incriminating as far as espionage. I don’t want to leave this room until we’ve exhausted every possible place.” He knelt down and slid under the bed.

  Bette stood where she was, letting her eyes rove over the drab, worn-looking room in gray and blue. She considered the white-tiled bathroom and rejected that as a place to secrete documents or photos. No, too much steam and dampness. That left the almost bare room, just a bed lamp and a chair. She slowly surveyed it, once, twice. What was it that didn’t look right?

  Ted grunted as he moved around under the bed, obviously prodding and poking the underside of the springs.

  Then she realized that something about the lighting in the room didn’t look right. She studied the glow from the two lamps, reflected on the walls, floor, and ceiling. The two lamps were identical so they should look the same and radiate the same light. They didn’t. She walked over to the bedside lamp and sat down.