A Fierce Radiance (34 page)

“When did he do that?”

“When? I don’t remember exactly when. Sometime before his sister died. I gave my permission, in case you’re wondering, while assuring him that
my
permission would have no affect whatsoever on whether you gave
your
permission. We shared a laugh over that.”

At her expense, Claire thought. She recognized that her anger was excessive, yet she couldn’t control it.

“Then we moved on to other topics.”

“What other topics?”

“His travels, my travels…nothing much. Stuff men talk about. I offered him a cigar, and he refused. Knowing how you hate cigars, I told him the cigar offer was a test of his appropriateness as a husband, and he passed.”

She tried to calm herself. Again she changed the subject. “You work often with pharmaceutical companies?” she asked flatly.

He was taken aback. Too late, he realized how much he’d upset her. Had Stanton not followed through? She’d been wearing that emerald ring for a while now, hadn’t she? Had she bought it for herself? Rutherford wished he could come right out and ask her, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t used to dealing with her. She had a rough and tough exterior, but underneath she was too damned sensitive for her own good. Why couldn’t he remember this? He let himself get too wrapped up in his own concerns. He should never have mentioned his conversation with Stanton. Any little misstep could get him into trouble with her. Now he had to make amends. Quietly he said, “I work in everything, honey. Got to keep up. It’s the only way to know what’s going on. The specialist is doomed. You’ve got to play in every sector of the economy. My motto is, keep a finger in every pie and you’ll never miss dessert.”

He paused, hoping she’d smile, but she didn’t. He soldiered on. “Speaking of dessert, end of next month I’m going to Hershey, Pennsylvania, for a four-day shindig at the chocolate factory. You know the drill, guys like me getting guided around and listening to lectures on how great everything is in the chocolate business and how much better it could be with a little infusion of capital and how it’s patriotic, too, because our boys in uniform love their Hershey bars. Maybe Charlie could come with me. I’ve heard the chocolate factory tour is really something, and I can skip most of the meetings. Sounds like fun to me.” A plaintive tone entered his voice. He needed so much from her. Too much for his own good.

Claire mulled this over. Charlie was looking forward to the end of
the school year. He would be having a quiet summer, a few weeks at the YMCA day camp, the usual stickball with friends from the neighborhood, swimming lessons at the pool at Hudson Park (so long as there wasn’t an outbreak of infantile paralysis). “That does sound like fun,” she said guardedly.

“Maybe you could get assigned a story on Hershey, we could go together. I hear the air reeks with the smell of melted chocolate. Hard to show in a photograph, but even so. Or maybe you could take a couple of days off.”

A family vacation. A rare occurrence. Unheard of, in fact. Part of her wanted to go. Luckily no decision was necessary: Mack had banned vacations for the duration. She could take time off if she really needed to, but the official line was useful to her now. “I won’t be able to get off from work, it’s not allowed, but I’m sure Charlie will enjoy it.”

“I’ll count on it, then, and make the arrangements. Your plans change, just let me know.” He paused. “Thanks.” She should be thanking him, he thought, but instead he was at her mercy.

At that hour, traffic into the city was light. Tony took the Holland Tunnel and headed downtown toward Wall Street. They dropped off Rutherford at the corner of Exchange Place and Broad, near his office. Even though it was nearing five-thirty, he had paperwork to catch up on. He hadn’t been to the office all day. His secretary was staying late, waiting for him. He had to prepare for tomorrow’s meetings, too.

Nonetheless Rutherford stood at the curb and watched the car holding his daughter drive on. Exchange Place was the width of a horse cart or two, skyscrapers rising straight up on both sides. The street was almost always in shadow, as it was now. Rutherford was grateful to watch his daughter’s car from the shadows, because he couldn’t be certain of controlling his expression. How he yearned to find the key to draw her out. To make her trust him. How he wished she and Charlie would move in with him. With his daughter and grandson safe at home, he could truly be a father, his dearest wish.

So many wishes. Such a fine line he walked. On eggshells, at his age, with his own daughter. That sick feeling in his stomach, the nervousness and second-guessing. He never should have let Lukins adopt her, although he still didn’t have the courage to apologize to her outright. Was that what it would take to win her over? A full-blown apology? Apologies were hard. Maybe too hard.

Thirty years ago, he’d had a different view of the world. Assumed he’d have more children. His second wife had three miscarriages, then no more pregnancies. Last he’d heard from her, she was in the south of France with a new husband. That was seven years ago, before Vichy and the rest of the mess. God knew where she was now, and he was glad to realize that he didn’t care. Besides, Charlie was as good as a son.

Standing alone on the crowded sidewalk on Exchange Place, skyscrapers rising around him, he looked like a titan of finance. Pedestrians glanced twice at him, trying to identify him, certain they’d seen his picture in a newspaper or a magazine, which undoubtedly they had. He noticed them noticing him, and he had to admit, it was gratifying. Made him feel more like himself, after the minefield of dealing with his daughter.

He watched Claire’s big military car drive away until it was lost among the cars, taxis, and delivery trucks pushing uptown in the relentless current of the evening rush.

B
y six-thirty, Claire was sitting with a group of colleagues at a large round table at the Three Gs, the staff’s bar of choice on Forty-eighth Street, in the ground-floor level of the building that housed the photo lab. No smell of photo chemicals here, however, only the stench of cigarettes and beer. Scenes of Italy covered the walls. Claire nursed a Tom Collins. Mack had ordered two platters of oysters for the table. As usual, the air was thick with cigarette smoke. The smoke smarted her eyes, not that she cared; she was smoking, too. A celebration was
going on for Mack’s half-birthday. In her office, anything—birthday, belated birthday, half-birthday, three-quarters birthday, a victory or defeat in some far-flung place across the world, a marriage or a divorce—all were an excuse to go over to the Three Gs for a drink. The drinking continued back at the office for those assigned to the late shift.

Tonight the place was packed, and as she looked around, she saw that she was one of only three women in the room. The other two were secretaries. The men treated her as one of the guys, a role she tried to fill because it was good for her career. After so many years of being one of the guys, it came pretty easily, she thought ruefully as she sipped her drink and inhaled her cigarette. Tonight, however, she felt quiet and set apart, carrying with her a sadness and a frustration that had turned to regret, after the turmoil of the day.

Through the haze of cigarette smoke, she spotted Robert Darby, a writer with
Fortune
, at a far table. All at once she realized that he could be a resource for her. She wished she’d thought of Bob before. She stood, feeling the effects of the gin coursing through her body. “Excuse me, fellas, I’ve got to say hi to Bob Darby.”

“Not Bob,” Mack said with mock chagrin. “He’s married. Just back from his honeymoon, in point of fact. You don’t want to be bothering him.”

“Jealous, Mack? Don’t worry, I only need to ask him a question. I’ll be back in a minute.” She made her way through the crowd. Bob and Claire had met when they’d done a story together a few years ago for
Fortune
. They’d spent a week in Gary, Indiana, putting together a portrait of the city. It was a positive portrait, even though Claire’s most striking shots were from the shores of Lake Michigan at dusk, long exposures with the camera on a tripod, across the lake to Chicago gleaming in the distance like a beacon, white and dazzling. “Bob, how are you?”

“Claire.” He gave her a look of genuine pleasure. Bob, who’d been
a wrestler at Princeton, was about five six, tough, and balding. Despite the wrestling, his manner was shy. He was also half-blind, with Coke-bottle glasses a quarter of an inch thick. “Good to see you. You know Steve and Craig?” She’d seen them, two young, highly polished Ivy Leaguers, on the elevator and in the hallways without knowing their names. They had no obvious physical defects to keep them out of the military, but who could really know. She shook their hands.

“Bob, could I talk to you for a minute?”

“He’s married,” Craig said, taking a pull from his beer bottle. “Just back from his honeymoon. We’re available, though.”

“I only like men when they’re married, so you two are out of luck.”

Steve and Craig laughed, but Bob, a gentle soul, blushed at the teasing.

“How about over there, Claire?” Bob motioned toward a table for two against the wall, which a couple was in the process of leaving.

When they were settled in, Claire said, “First, congratulations. I understand you’re married. I didn’t know.”

“Thanks.” He took his glasses off for close-up discussions. The heavy frame left a red mark on the bridge of his nose. His eyes were large and soft brown, like a puppy’s.

“Have time for a real honeymoon?”

“Yeah, we were lucky. Her family’s got a place on Cape Cod, so we went there. By train and bus. A long trip. They keep a car there, and our parents pitched in some gas coupons so we could do a little touring. Hard to go anywhere more exotic nowadays.”

“You said it.”

They chatted for a few minutes about the daily hardships of the home front, finishing with the obligatory recognition of how fortunate they were to be here in New York having these relatively minor difficulties instead of being elsewhere facing much worse difficulties. Then Bob said, “Hey, I saw your pictures of the Kuomintang party at the River Club. That must have been something.
I loved the shot of John D. Rockefeller the Third in costume and throwing darts.”

“We all do our part. At least the old man wasn’t wearing Chinese robes. The missus had on some kind of embroidered silk sheath.”

“It’s coming back to me.”

“I know I’ll never forget it. When the old man spoke to me about work, Mrs. Luce just about accused me of trying to seduce him.”

“Well, we already know from your own admission that you’ve got a weakness for married men.”

“Somehow I’ve been able to resist the attractions of that particular married man.”

“Personally I wouldn’t want to be in a cat fight with Clare Boothe Luce.”

“I think it might be fun. Provided I won. Listen”—she leaned toward him, lowering her voice in case anyone at the surrounding tables was listening—“about six months ago, I did a big story on a new medicine called penicillin. Story got killed, but I keep wondering about it. You know how it is. You hear anything in your circles about penicillin?”

“The green-mold medicine?”

“That’s the one.”

“Military secret, that’s what I hear. Not supposed to talk about it. No civilian use allowed.”

“That’s what I hear, too.”

“Thousands of guys on the payroll. Strict government control over patents on the means of production. Suspension of antitrust regulations, share and share alike. The companies are in a real quandary, trying to make the government happy during a war while simultaneously protecting their turf. But what I’m really hearing about are the penicillin cousins. Guess those are from red, orange, and blue mold,” he joked.

Truer than he knew, Claire thought. “What do you hear about them?”

“That someday they’re going to be coming out like a house on fire, patent protection on the actual substances and all. Penicillin’s turning into yesterday’s news, at least from a business perspective. But with the cousins…” Now he leaned forward, speaking confidentially. “You know, Claire, in the course of my day I spend three-quarters of my time fending off rumors. Rumors designed to make the market go up, down, or sideways, based on nothing. But even discounting the rumors, it seems to me that with the cousins, we’re going to see American capitalism sent back to the robber baron days in a hurry.”

“Wait a minute. I thought natural products can’t be patented. I thought—”

“Ah, Claire,” he interrupted her. “Still the idealist, eh?” He shook his head with friendly skepticism. “Well, idealism is where we all started, isn’t it? Probably none of us would be in this room if we hadn’t started out as idealists. You just mark my words: it might take years, and I can’t predict what rationalization they’ll come up with, to earn patent protection on natural substances. But with the cousins, it’ll be Rockefeller, Carnegie, and Frick, all over again. And you know what,” he added, relishing the prospect, “strictly from a reporter’s perspective, I can’t wait.”

D
etective Marcus Kreindler didn’t like to say that the key was food, but time and again, that’s what it turned out to be. Sit these guys down with a plate of
Rindergoulasch
and spaetzle, with a liter of
Pils
on the side, and they’d tell you anything. This evening he was entertaining Friedrich Geckmann, nickname Fritz, he of the blindingly blond hair and porcine face. Geckmann’s thick blond eyebrows made his forehead virtually disappear in the glare. He was a walking cliché.

“So Fritz, that’s some strange place, the Rockefeller Institute.” Kreindler dug into his
Königsberger Klopse
. This was his third meal in Yorkville in three weeks, and on that score, he was a happy man. This evening he was at Franziskaner, on Second Avenue, a great place to take a Nazi to dinner. The restaurant was crowded but not too crowded, with a pleasant background din and empty tables on either side of theirs. Of course Kreindler had slipped the hostess a little bonus to keep the adjoining tables empty. His seat gave him a terrific view of the giant mural of the Bavarian Alps, complete with well-endowed Bavarian girls, on the opposite wall. “What’s the story over there?”

“Don’t worry about that place, Detective,” Fritz said smugly. “We got somebody in there watching everything for us. You think we’d let a prize like that get away?” His expression turned nasty. “What kind of people do you think we are?”

Fritz’s simultaneous self-righteousness and insecurity drove Kreindler
crazy. Talking to Fritz was like being on a seesaw gone wild. By day, Fritz worked at a grocery. By night, he enjoyed Nazi pursuits. “I think you’re the kind of people I can count on to have a contact in place over there.”

“That’s right.” Mollified, Fritz calmed down. With his bulging stomach proving that he’d had more than a few too many beers in the past years, Fritz guzzled down the entire contents of his mug.

“You want another?” Kreindler said. “Why am I even asking?” Kreindler lifted his hand and motioned to the waitress, shapely in her dirndl. “Another for my friend here.”

“Always glad to enjoy your hospitality, Detective,” Fritz said.

“That makes two of us. So who is it?” Kreindler asked, putting on an offhanded yet respectful tone. Meanwhile, Kreindler was thinking, this might be his chance to get back on the case. Officially.

Fritz gave a thin, knowing grin. “The person you’d least suspect.”

“Clever choice, then.”

“That’s right. I have to confess, though—I didn’t make the choice myself. The higher-ups made the choice. The
highest
-ups, in fact. A choice I never would have dreamed of.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself,” Kreindler replied.

“I don’t, usually,” Fritz said. “Hey, did I tell you that a few months back I got paid a visit by the FBI?”

“No,” Kreindler said, feigning concern.

“Yes!” Fritz was excited. “Told them an hour’s worth of lies and sent them on a wild goose chase.”

Was Fritz already being watched? Kreindler wondered. He’d have to find out from his contacts at the FBI. “Of course you did.”

Fritz nodded in agreement. “What happened was…” Fritz started into a long story.

Kreindler leaned back, an appreciative smile fixed in place. He had a long evening ahead. He’d bring a
Stück
of Franziskaner’s marvelous
Käsekuchen
home to Agnes to make it up to her. Everything came back to food, after all.