Keeping Secrets (56 page)

The drawers were full of lacy undermuslins and filmy sleeping gowns. As I opened each one I was gripped by the same distaste I'd always felt when plundering Mr. Tetzel's safe. Yet I checked each one, four in all, and in the last caught a glimpse of the corner of something blue near the rear. It proved to be a booklet detailing the boundaries of the red-light district in San Antonio, and including the names, addresses, and telephone numbers of both houses of pleasure and ladies residing there.

I sat back on my heels and turned over its pages, wondering why Electra would have wanted something like this. I checked in the drawer again, and this time drew out a small business card for a man named Richard Boscomb, of New Orleans. That no doubt tied it to Mark Cabot and his threats about money. Just how, I would let the officials investigate.

Anyone who takes his life leaves many open questions as to the motives involved and the final working through toward the end result. So it was with Nathan. By the time President Wilson declared us in a state of war in April, I had made up my mind not to worry about mysteries I couldn't solve … at least for a while.

The last meeting I had with Edwin, he was in uniform, passing through Fort Sam Houston on his way to some station on the East Coast. We chatted briefly about Cabot and Tetzel.

“You know that guy Cabot made only one bad mistake—borrowing money from Tetzel.”

“Oh?”

“The United States uses the neutrality laws to its convenience. If Cabot hadn't been using German money to put Barrista in, Washington would have worn a blindfold about his participation in the revolution. Barrista's well liked up there, and he said something during the first Pan-American Peace Conference up in Ontario that made a few of the mediators suspect he might be planning something. We learned of that just lately.”

“Do you think Barrista might have succeeded?”

“It looks like he would have had a healthy chance, at least, with a little luck. One reason Carranza was particularly inclined to go easy on him was that he eagerly agreed to make a sworn statement to United States authorities about his lack of knowledge that the Germans were paying his way, and also his complete reform plan as well as his revolutionary battle strategies. He claims to have had wide support, and whether or not he could have counted on Zapata, Villa, or any other rebel chief, he sure had more going for him than any other Mexican revolutionary. And he had Cabot. From all we've been able to learn, Cabot was pretty shrewd.”

“And what about Tetzel? From his final wire before he left, it looks as though he certainly had no intentions of ditching Barrista in the end.”

“It seems you're right, though by that time he was a desperate man, grasping for straws. However, had the others in the German Foreign Office listened to him all along, they may well have gotten just what they wanted in Mexico. I'll defend his intelligence right down the line.”

“And he was nice—misguided, but nice.”

Edwin chuckled. “You'll never give up, will you, Camille?

“Hey, someone from way up in the organization is going to come down to pay you his respects, but I'm here to tell 'ya, you did a first-class job for us. You scared the daylights out of me from time to time, but you came through when it counted. Thanks.”

“Good luck, Edwin.”

Like all the others in the BNA and the Slovak League, Edwin was true to his word about being first an American. How his homeland fared as a result of all the prewar efforts on its behalf in America is yet to be known.

I have moved into the house on King William Street once owned by Geoffrey Woodstone, along with four other girls who work with me at the Red Cross. Scoop, who returned to this house as soon as I let him go on the morning after the Cabot murder, is our mascot and sleeps at the foot of my bed. Once just a few months after we got into the war and shortly after we rented this house from the Woodstone estate, following the young couple named Brandon, who left the city when Gregory Brandon went into the service, an attorney called to inquire after Electra. He had traced her first to Washington and Beauregard, and had been sent to this house by a new lady in the neighborhood who thought I might know of her whereabouts. “It's most distressing,” he said. “There was a will found among Mr. Woodstone's things after his death which postdated his earlier one. In the event of his grandson's death, he had made Mrs. Cabot sole benefactor of his estate. I find her home has been turned into a boardinghouse. I don't know what we shall do now that the woman has disappeared.”

I explained that there had been extensive efforts to locate her, since February 28, the last day she was seen alive, but that no trace had been found.

“If only the estate could have been settled earlier,” he said, shaking his head. “But you know it took some time to complete the inventory and make sure it was adequately insured while awaiting Mr. Woodstone's daughter to come over here and take charge of it. His books were the last property to be appraised, and most of them were in a large breakfront. It was in removing the books that we found the new will. After that it took quite some time to investigate its validity.”

He took in a breath. “Well then …” he added helplessly, tipped his hat, and walked back to his taxicab.

After he left my mind kept returning to his use of the word “time,” though I didn't know why. Finally its significance dawned on me, and I realized what Electra was trying to tell me on the day she visited me about taking Scoop. She spoke of failing to understand the full extent of Mr. Woodstone's friendship to her until after his death, and said, “In time, many things have a way of coming to light.”

So she had somehow learned of her friend's new will, and that was her bargaining point with Tetzel, which had sounded unbelievable even to me. She had been perfectly sincere. She was also doubtless smart enough not to lift a finger toward revealing it herself because she would have been labeled an opportunist right off, and with her background, would never have been able to withstand the contest bound to follow.

I was about to walk back into the house when another thought occurred to me. We had never learned why she attempted to borrow forty thousand dollars from Tetzel, when she could have asked for ten and probably would have been more likely to have her request honored.

She must have intended to repay the forty thousand she and Mark had stolen together so long ago. It was her only defense against unending blackmail from him, and she must have been convinced from his letters that Mark was not going to wait whatever time it might take for Mr. Woodstone's new will, benefiting her, to be revealed.

When Tetzel continued to put her off, she must have become desperate. And then along came the little note concocted by Edwin and slipped under her door by me.…

That night, neither for the first time nor the last, I dreamed of the Cabots dancing, and woke up in a sea of perspiration, wondering what would have happened had I obeyed my instincts and warned them before it was too late.

There has been little change in the neighborhood, with the exception of the sight of more and more uniforms in the streets and the sound of cannon going off at the arsenal, which brings great annoyance to some of the older residents. I don't believe anyone pays much attention to the fact that King William Street—originally named for the Prussian ruler Wilhelm—has been changed to Pershing Avenue. People still refer to it as King William, regardless of its new official status. It does cause a great deal of confusion over the delivery of packages, however.

Keith stayed in school until graduation in May, then took the direction we all expected—into aviation. Mr. Butler, both his sons now in uniform and with no likelihood of having anyone to take over his business upon his death, has arranged for the sale of his store to a large chain of grocers here. I think he has felt it less painful to take care of this now than to await Keith's return and be told it is his heart's desire to go on flying aeroplanes forever instead of taking over the family business. Keith took his preliminary training close by in Austin, then went overseas to train with the Royal Flying Corps. He was quartered at Queen's College, Oxford, for a while, and from his letters it didn't seem such a bad place to spend the war. Now he's flying an aeroplane called a “Pup,” which seems an odd name for a plane. However, I don't suppose it's any worse than a “Jenny.” I miss him.

Just before he left, they opened the new Japanese Sunken Gardens in Brackenridge Park, and we went there one Sunday afternoon, along with several hundred other curious people, to walk among the beautiful flowering plants and cross the bridges built in the shape of a dragon which lead up to the pagoda tearoom. It seemed to me that the sunken gardens embodied the spirit of San Antonio—a man disturbed by the unsightly quarry hole left when a cement company moved out thought it would be nice to plant exotic trees and flowers there instead, and went over to Japan to pick them out. I suppose that's the reason I've always liked it here. With all the desecration inflicted overseas by the war, and all the beautiful things which have stood for centuries being destroyed, it is nice to live in a place where people go out and do things just for the sake of beauty, instead of progress or money or anything else. I told Keith this while we were on the bridge in the gardens. He said he'd like to have a look at that dragon walk from the air. I told him he had a single mind. As we stood on the bridge, someone took our photograph together. I have it on my desk at the Red Cross.

It is very strange about Electra Cabot.

On two occasions I thought I saw her. Once was at the train station on the day Arnold Stuttgart departed for duty. I was there with the Red Cross, handing out cookies and punch to the soldiers. I saw Lyla say good-bye, holding the infant in her arms, its long lacy dress spilling down past Lyla's knees. The other Stuttgart children took their father's kisses in turn, and Lyla stood there waving a handkerchief with her free hand, looking so very grieved at the parting. I always wondered if she was sincere.…

Just then I saw a woman walking away, in one of those big Gainsborough hats Electra wore so beautifully. Her pace was smooth, her carriage erect and regal. I ran up behind to see if it was her, but then she'd disappeared among the crowd before I caught her up.

Another time I saw the profile of an elegantly dressed woman as she crossed Santa Rosa. She was pretty close into town at the time, but headed down toward the red-light district. I followed her three or four blocks, more sure with each step that I was almost within reach of Electra. But then I was stopped by a convoy of troop trucks passing by, and when I could see again, she was gone.

By far the most peculiar incident occurred this morning, though, when I got the mail. A letter from Mother, who's now in Washington pushing hard for the Susan B. Anthony amendment, came at the same time as a letter from Keith in France. I read Mother's letter first and saved Keith's until I could stop my work and read it several times, which is my custom.

He said he saw someone who resembled Electra, dressed in a volunteer's uniform at a military hospital. Somehow these lines really put a lump in my throat. She always felt so bad about the war, and what it did to Mr. Woodstone … maybe she also felt guilty for her husband's part in helping the other side, and joined a Red Cross chapter somewhere under another name, trying somehow to make it up for all that happened.… Maybe I'm just becoming too much of a romantic again.…

Keith wound up his letter, “I miss you,” and signed it, “Love, Keith.” I folded it tenderly and pushed it back into its envelope. Then I put the letter into my pocket and went on about my work, praying as I do time and again that, through all this, his life will be spared, and he will get back to me.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The background information necessary for writing this novel could not have been gathered without the help of many people. For assistance in finding important documented material, I am particularly indebted to:

Conrad True
, Administrator, and
Alice Johnson
, Librarian, San Antonio Conservation Society;

Ann Maria Watson
, Assistant Librarian, Daughters of the Republic of Texas Library, San Antonio;

Marie Berry
, Head Librarian, History and Reference Department, San Antonio Public Library;

David S. Bingham
, former Director/Curator, Fort Sam Houston Military Museum, San Antonio;

Virginia Wong
, Supervisor, and staff of the Interlibrary Loan Department;
Helen G. Jones
, and all other staff members of the Bibliographic Information Center, Houston Public Library.

Also of great help were
Mary V. Burkholder
of San Antonio, author of
The King William Area
—A
History and Guide to the Houses
, and
David N. Johnson
of San Antonio, who allowed me the use of his thesis, “Exiles and Intrigue.”

I am grateful to the following people for their generosity in sharing personal and family recollections:

Margaret Cousins; Martin Giesecke; Eileen Pike; Mrs. Ferdinand P. Herff
, and
Mr
. and
Mrs. William A. Watson
, San Antonio;

Vie
McKinney
and
Bryan York, Lufkin;

Espy Baumbach
and my parents, Mr. and Mrs.
Frank M. Page
, Houston.

Edward H. Frank
, Assistant Vice President, Bank of the Southwest, Houston, was especially kind in sharing with me his vast knowledge and experience in banking.

I want to express my thanks for the continued friendship and valuable assistance in proofing and typing to
Karen Giesen
, Houston, and
Nancy Rhudy
, League City, Texas.

Suzanne Morris

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.