The Strivers' Row Spy (36 page)

I climbed back up, put the knife in my coat pocket, and sat beside Bingo's body. Propping him up, I put my left shoulder under his right armpit and extended my arm around his back, holding the flashlight just above his left shoulder, maneuvering it so it shined only on his face. I then wrapped his right arm around my neck and held his right hand with mine. I was now in a position to lift him to his feet. Meanwhile, it was time to become Cleo again.

“Who that there?” I said, surprising myself with how high I could make my voice.

“That you, Cleo?” he asked.

“Yeah!” I replied. “I got him! He laid out up there at the top!”

“Good!”

“But he cut Bingo up bad. We got to get him to his feet and get him up outta here fast. Need ya to help me here.”

“Comin'!” he said, beginning to move quickly—the
ping, ping, ping
sound of hard soles to metal reverberating.

I tightened my stomach, widened my stance, and lifted Bingo to his feet, keeping the flashlight pointed at his face, wanting that to be all Drake could see as he approached.

“Hurry!” I begged. “He barely breathin'!”

“Shit, I am! Lotta damn steps!”

Huffing and puffing, he was now close enough to see Bingo's face, only four or five steps below.

“I think he gonna make it,” I said, just as he got close. “Step on up here and grab his other arm.”

He reached up and in one motion I released the dead body and kicked him flush in the chest with enough force to lift him off his feet. He was suspended in midair for a while before crashing down on the stairwell below, surely breaking his back or neck. I turned the flashlight on him and watched as he went flopping downward, his bones banging on each and every step.

I reached into my pocket for the knife and headed after him. But there'd be no use for it. He'd come to rest some twenty steps down—his body twisted up like a pretzel. I kneeled down and began searching him. All of his pockets were empty, save for the one inside his topcoat.

Setting the flashlight next to me, I pulled out a folded-up paper. Holding it close to the light, I recognized it as one of my old railroad maps. I opened it and saw it was the one I'd given to Loretta way back before her trip with Ginger to pick up Momma and Aunt Coretta. Drake had obviously found it under the seat inside the Baby Grand.
How foolish of me
! In my haste to cover all of my bases, I'd forgotten about the old maps I'd stored there. The memories of that time period came rushing back—how she'd gushed about their trip, and particularly the state of Maine.

I flattened the map out on the step and pointed the flashlight along the route she and Ginger had traveled. She'd circled the town of Portland and had written something quite revealing next to it, words I'm sure Drake was pleased to stumble upon. They read,
“
The Inn at St. John. The perfect escape for me and my one and only love, Sidney. A magical town where we could reside forever.”

I dropped my head for a moment and closed my eyes, knowing she'd written those words while pregnant with my son. I also realized that this current state of affairs had all come about because she'd simply done exactly what I'd asked her to do upon returning from her trip—placed the map back under the seat. I rubbed my fingers over the words, trying to feel some of her. Her writing was so lovely, so pleasing to the eye. Why I'd ever longed for anything other than to have her by my side seemed greedy now. God had blessed me with the most elusive thing in the universe: love.

I folded the map up, placed it in my pocket, and headed down the remaining stairs. It was time to retrieve my bag from the first shed and retrace my footsteps back to the stolen car. I'd bypass Portland and head straight for Brunswick. Once there, I'd find a doctor to stitch me up before catching a train north as planned. I was finally certain that I'd made it impossible for anyone to trace me. Well . . . at least I forced myself to believe that. My only other option was to go completely mad.

P
ARIS FELT LIKE HOME THE MINUTE
I
STEPPED OFF OF THE TRAIN
from Le Havre. Having left Halifax as planned, after purchasing a new suit, of course, the long ship ride across the Atlantic had given me time to reflect and heal. I knew not what was to come but tried to remain optimistic. Just knowing I was in the same city as Loretta warmed my heart and put my mind at ease.

“
Où est-ce que tu veux aller
?” asked the short, mustached young driver standing beside his taxi on the busy street outside the Gare Saint-Lazare Station.

“Can you take me to the University of Paris?” I asked.

“
Oui
!
La Sorbonne
!
Oui
!”

He hustled to open the door and I hopped in the backseat. It was around noon and traffic was heavy, but he seemed oblivious to it, gripping the wheel with his dry-looking, olive-skinned hands and steering us right into the thick of it.

“
Dépêche-toi
!” he yelled at the surrounding vehicles, honking his horn. “
Dépêche-toi
!”

We quickly came upon a stunning grayish neoclassical stone building with a sign out front that read
LYCÉE CONDORCET,
a name I recognized. I counted ten arched windows on the bottom floor and wondered which one the great Marcel Proust used to peer out of. The Lycée Condorcet was famous for being the boyhood school of the great French novelist.

Moving on, we made our way down the Rue Tronchet and approached the Place de la Concorde, where I could see the eastern end of the Champs-Élysées, a visual that prompted me to think of people from the past who'd spoken to me about Paris. They'd been right—its beauty was breathtaking.

“I take to see some sights,” the driver said, turning his attention back and forth from the road to me. “
De visite touristique
! I take to Arc de Triomphe . . . to la Musée du Louvre!”

“No, no,” I replied pointing straight ahead at the fast, oncoming traffic. “Please . . . watch the road.”

“
Oui, mon ami Américain
!
Je suis désolé
. Sorry.”

He yanked the wheel to the left, avoiding a head-on collision, and I braced myself, putting both hands on the back of the front seat. God forbid I'd made it this far just to die at the hands of some overzealous taxi driver.

“How much farther?” I asked.

“
Excusez-moi
?”

“Distance!
La distance
! What is the distance . . .
à l'univer-sité
?

“
Nous sommes à proximité
. Uh . . . uh . . . we close. Close.”

“Good,” I said, leaning back and taking a deep breath. “Real good.”

* * *

The front desk attendant at the university's directory office was helping a young lady when I walked through the front door. The two spoke to each other in French with such speed and volume. It was as if they were arguing, only they weren't, as the two exchanged several smiles throughout. I was quickly learning that the French simply engaged one another with more passion than do we Americans. They finally wrapped up their conversation, and I stepped forward, hoping the attendant would have the answer I was looking for. I was also hoping she spoke English.

“
Puis-je vous venir en aide
?” she said.

“I only speak English.”

“Ah!” she said, smiling. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. I am hoping you can help me locate one of your professors in the art department. Her name is Ginger Bouvier.”

“Let me take a look.”

* * *

About an hour later I stood outside the classroom door listening to Ginger lecture her students about Renoir's
Bal du moulin de la Galette.
The excitement with which she spoke about the painter's life was enough to make the world want to paint. I envied her students.

“
Attention
!” she said. “
Si vous avez quelque peu énigmatique, de terribles cauchemars ou mystérieux, beaux rêves, ne pas avoir peur de s'as-seoir et d'expliquer les détails en utilisant la peinture.
”

A collective “ahh” came over the class. I was dying to know what she'd said. Fortunately for me, she began speaking English.

“For you two American painters, in case you are having difficulty translating, I said, ‘Remember . . . whatever enigmatic, horrifying nightmares you may have . . . whatever inscrutable, pleasant dreams . . . don't be afraid to paint them.' Never forget this. Now.
Je vous donne rendez-vous toute la semaine prochaine
!”

She clapped her hands twice, and I could hear the students stand and begin to move about, their footsteps coming my way. The door opened and I stepped aside as they filed out. I waited for the last one to exit before peeking my head in. Ginger was still standing at the lectern, placing papers inside her briefcase.

“Hello,” I said, knocking on the doorframe.

As she turned and saw me, she froze for a moment and stared, obviously surprised to see my face. Then, without a smile, nor a frown, she looked back down and continued gathering her materials. I watched her and thought about the best way to continue, wanting to respect her emotions.

“We live in Montmartre,” she finally said, in a monotone voice. “Loretta is there now. The address is Nineteen Rue Ravignan.”

“Thank you.”

She nodded without looking, but that was enough. She'd given me all the information I needed.

* * *

The fidgety taxi driver was happy I'd asked him to drive me around for the afternoon. He'd calmed down considerably, perhaps because he'd been able to smoke cigarettes and read a bit of Victor Hugo's
Les Misérables
while parked in front of the various university buildings he'd driven me to. From the looks of the battered old book that was resting on the dashboard, he'd likely been trying to finish it for quite a while.

“
Nous sommes ici
!” he blurted out, as we finished winding up a narrow, treelined hill and pulled in front of a two-story house made entirely of brown cobblestone—a unique design style completely new to my eye. “Nineteen Rue Ravignan!” he continued. “I wait here. Yes?”

“Yes,” I said, grabbing my bag, opening the door, and slowly stepping out, all the while keeping my eyes on the house, trying to imagine my wife coming and going, carrying on without me.

I nervously adjusted my tie and looked down at my pants and shoes. Everything appeared to be in order except for my nerves. Still, I walked up to the door, readied myself to knock, and then held my fist in the air for a moment while I prepared my words. But there were no correct ones. True feelings would have to decide matters.

I knocked softly three times, and my heart sped up. I could feel her on the other side. And then I could hear her footsteps approaching. With the sound of the thick wooden door being unlocked, I took a deep breath and shrugged my shoulders. She pulled the door open and, upon seeing me, flinched as if she'd seen a ghost. But it was I who should have flinched. The visual before me could not have been more shocking. Neither of us said a word as my eyes were fixed on her large, pregnant belly. A minute must have passed before I broke the silence.

“When did . . .”

“That night you awoke from a nightmare soaking wet,” she said.

I thought back and remembered. The very last time we'd made love had been that past summer.

“I'm sorry,” I said, “for not being there for you during this time.”

“It's all right,” she said, giving me an ever-so-slight smile. “Please . . . come in out of the cold.”

I stepped just inside and closed the door behind me as she backed up. The fireplace in the dark book-filled den behind her was ablaze and she looked so lovely—her tall, thin body the same, save for the perfectly round ball beneath her pinkish plaid gown.

“I hope this isn't too much,” I said.

“I'm just so glad you're safe.”

I stood there filled with pain and joy—doubt and hope. Never before had all of these conflicting emotions been so present at once. She softly rubbed her tummy with one hand then calmly raised her other for me to take. Just the simple touch of her warm fingers sent me trembling. And, as the tears flowed down my face, she pulled me closer, wrapping her arms around me, gently resting her cheek against my chest. We must have stood there for half an hour just holding each other. Life had begun again.

* * *

As the weeks and months went by, we didn't talk about the past. We just did our best to move on, to plant new seeds in Paris. I landed a part-time teaching job in the engineering department at the University of Paris and we moved into a house close to Ginger's at 12 Rue Gabrielle.

I'd been able to track down Bobby Ellington through his parents in Ohio. He was now working at the State Department. He'd arranged, very diligently I might add, to organize some new passports for us. We were now the Sweet family. Loretta was still Loretta but my first name was Prescott. She felt that Sweet was a last name befitting an artist and I agreed.

I also sent for Momma and Aunt Coretta. If the SIS had decided to have the Timekeeper continue pursuing me, I figured he'd have very little luck tracing my whereabouts. Still, I worried that his pursuit might eventually lead him to Professor Gold's. Too risky. Besides, I had no intentions of returning to America, and the only way I could see Momma and Aunt Coretta was to have them in Paris with us.

Sadly, we didn't get to enjoy Aunt Coretta for very long. In April of 1924, she passed away. But what little time she did get to spend in Paris pleased her very much. Momma was as sad as I'd ever seen her, but was so glad to have been with us when the end finally came. And she didn't mope around, I guess because her sister had been struggling for so long. Instead, Momma poured herself into helping Loretta with the twins—little James and little Ginger—during the day while I was at work.

On the weekends, Loretta and I walked a lot, pushing the baby carriage for blocks and blocks, both of us fascinated by everything Paris had to offer. On the weekends, while Loretta and Momma were still asleep, I tended to wake up early with the twins. I'd often put them in the stroller and push them down to the corner market where I'd buy whatever food I intended to cook us all for breakfast. The delicious cuisine of Paris had prompted me to start collecting cookbooks, to try my hand in the kitchen.

The preparation for one particular breakfast on a cold Saturday in late February of 1925 came with some added dramatics. Needing to buy some sausage and a few more potatoes for that morning's meal, I bundled the twins up and strolled them down the block. As we approached the storefront, I glanced at the fresh stack of newspapers and saw something on the front page that grabbed my attention. It was a picture of Marcus Garvey being hauled away in handcuffs. It was, of course, a French paper, and though I was quite close to doing so, I hadn't yet completely mastered the language, so I picked up a copy and entered the empty store.

“
Bonjour
, Jean,” I said to my tall, thin young friend behind the counter as I set the paper in front of him.

“
Bonjour
, Prescott!” he replied, smiling and waving down at the twins. “
Bonjour, mes petits bébés
!”

James and Ginger, not yet two years old, just grinned. I'd wrapped them in their blankets like tiny mummies, so tightly that neither could do as they normally did and lift their little arms to wave back. As Jean continued making smiley faces with them, I pointed to the column next to Garvey's photo.

“Jean . . . if you wouldn't mind . . . can you read some of this for me?
En Anglais
, please. I'm sure I could read it myself, but I don't want to misinterpret even a tiny piece of it.”

“
Oui
,” he said, picking up the paper and taking the last bite of his powdery white pastry. “I would be happy to do for you.” He licked his fingers, stood tall, and cleared his throat several times, as if preparing to speak in front of a large audience.

“
Merci
, Jean.”

“Stop-uh me . . . if you want-uh me to repeat-uh something,” he said in his stereotypical, thick, rich accent.

“I will.”

“It-uh . . . says-uh . . . uh . . . ‘UNIA leader Marcus Garvey's initial one month mail fraud trial began in New York City-uh . . . almost two years ago-uh . . . on May eighteen of 1923 with Judge Julian Mack presiding. The trial ended on June twenty-one of that year, with Garvey being sentenced-uh . . . to five years in prison for mail fraud. Mr. Garvey's appeal for bail was initially rejected and he spent three months incarcerated in the Tombs Prison in New York before finally being released on bail . . . pending the appeal of his-uh . . . case to a higher court.' ”

Jean stopped reading and looked up at me. “Continue,” I said. “Please.”

“
Oui
. It says-uh, ‘Now . . . after spending-uh . . . close to a year and a half out of jail continuing to build his organization, his appeal to the U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals, Second Circuit has finally been denied. Garvey . . . uh . . . who had been visiting Michigan in an attempt to increase his following and raise funds was arrested at New York's 125th Street train station-uh . . . as he returned to the city on February five, 1925. He was-uh . . . taken directly into custody and arraigned the following day. He was transferred from the Tombs Prison in New York to the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary on February seven and began-uh . . . serving his term.' ”