To Catch a Spy (14 page)

“I’m not at liberty to say, but it’s important.”

I took out my wallet and showed her my investigator’s license. She actually read it. Nobody reads them. Then she looked up.

“I have a photograph,” I said.

I took the photo out of my pocket and handed it to her. She nodded her head in recognition.

“This one I don’t know,” she said, pointing at Victor Cookinham. “The other one is Martin Adams.”

She handed the photograph back to me and I pocketed it.

“How do you know Martin Adams?” I asked.

She reached for a large dark purse on the stage behind her, pulled out a package of Old Golds, and lit one while she thought.

“I do two night classes once a week, three hours, right here, for telephone operators, salesmen, housewives, shopkeepers, jewelers, lawyers, doctors. You name it. They’ve all been told by someone, maybe themselves, that they can act. One class is for beginners, the other for more advanced students.”

“And Martin Adams was in one of your classes?”

“Still is. We meet on Tuesday nights.”

“He won’t make it,” I said. “He took two bullets in the back in Elysian Park two nights ago.”

She shook her head, smoked, blew smoke in the air and said, “Robbery?”

“In a way,” I said.

“No real talent, but learned his lines,” she said. “The accent might have gotten him some bit roles, Nazi soldiers, waiters, but nothing more than that. He wanted to get rid of the accent.”

“But he was in your advanced class?” I asked.

She shrugged and said, “Advanced is a relative term. Let’s say he was in on the fringe. We’re not talking about Laurence Olivier and Greer Garson here, Mr. Peters.”

“What did he say he did for a living?”

“First day in class each student gets onstage alone and has fifteen minutes to tell his or her life story. Martin Adams had a very interesting one. Escaped from Germany. Dangerous assignments for the government. He made it all up. That was all right. The purpose wasn’t to find out the truth but to see how he carried himself onstage. As I said, he was about average.”

“You told him?”

“I told him he shouldn’t have high hopes, that the competition was enormous, that he’d have to face a lot of disappointments. He said he had friends in the movie business who would give him a hand.”

“You believed him?”

She took a drag on her cigarette and shrugged.

“I think he believed himself,” she said. “How did you know he came here?”

“This was in his wallet when he died.”

I handed her the card with her name on it. She glanced at it and handed it back.

“Was he friendly with anyone else in the class?” I asked.

She shook her head “no” and looked at her cigarette.

“No, he came early, kept to himself, and was always the first one out the door.”

“No talent,” I said.

“Not enough. When the bug bites, it digs deep. I tell my students on the first day that they’ll know one of three things when they finish the course. They’ll know they have the talent and determination to try. They’ll know they have no talent and should give it up and spend their free time on something that they can do. Or they’ll be insane enough to keep going even if they can’t act. I’ve had a few with no talent at all who actually wound up making some kind of living in the business. Mad determination can sometimes carry you a long way.”

“And you?”

“I had some talent,” she said. “My looks were passable, but the camera didn’t love me, didn’t even notice me. I could give you a list of B-movies I was in, a few featured roles, but you wouldn’t remember me even if you remembered the pictures.”

“But you’re a good teacher?”

“A damn good teacher,” she said. “I tell the truth, and the truth sets them free or sends them crying. Crying today beats crying tomorrow. You ever do any acting?”

“In my job? All the time, but mostly I play myself.”

“That’s not always easy.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” I said. “What else can you tell me about Martin Adams?”

The door closed behind me. My back was to it. Jacklyn Wright looked over my shoulder and I turned. The door closed. I didn’t see who had been there, but I had a pretty good idea.

“That’s about it,” she said.

“Last question, did Adams ever mention or have you ever heard of a man named George Hall?”

“George Hall,” she repeated. “I don’t think so. I’ve had a lot of students over the past ten years. There might have been a George Hall, but I think I would have remembered. I’m sorry. Did this George Hall kill Martin?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

I held out my hand. We shook. She had a firm grip, plus confidence and toughness. But then again, it might have been an act.

“Well,” I said. “Thanks.”

I went up the aisle and opened the door, half expecting to see the two guys from the Plymouth. They had probably heard some of my conversation with Jacklyn Wright. I didn’t know how much. It didn’t matter. I hadn’t learned anything.

There weren’t many people on the campus. Classes were in session. I walked slowly. Even more slowly when I turned the corner by the administration building and saw the two men who had been following me standing next to my car.

I could have turned and ran, but I had a feeling that even if my neck and shoulder didn’t throb and my head didn’t threaten to ache, I had no chance of out-running them. So, I walked up to my car.

The bigger one was clean shaven, with a nice blue suit, almost matching hat, tie, in his late thirties. The shorter one was a duplicate of his partner, with a slightly brighter tie.

My right hand was on the gun in my pocket.

“Mr. Peters,” the shorter man said, looking at my right hand. “You won’t be needing that.”

He took his wallet out of his pocket and held it open.

I stepped forward to look. The card identified him as Agent Louis D’Argentero, Federal Bureau of Investigation. The bigger one started to reach for his wallet. I told him it wasn’t necessary.

“Mr. Peters,” the bigger one said. “We think you’ve gotten yourself involved in something that involves national security.”

I said nothing.

“You were present when a man named Bruno Volk-man was murdered,” his partner said. “Volkman has been under scrutiny for some time because of his associations with suspected Nazi sympathizers.”

“Like Victor Cookinham?” I asked.

“Victor Cookinham is Hans Vogel,” said the big guy. Former professor of history at the University of Hamburg. We’ve been trying to find him for weeks.”

“You took a photograph of Vogel and Volkman from Volkman’s apartment,” said D’Argentero.

They had a good act, well balanced.

“You also took some Nazi propaganda,” said the big one.

An older man with a briefcase who looked like a faculty member turned his head toward us as he moved across the parking lot. He decided to mind his own business and moved to a two-door Pontiac that needed a new paint job.

“What’s your interest in this case?” asked D’Argentero.

“I have a client,” I said. “I’ve been hired to try to find out who killed Volkman.”

“Your client?”

“Can’t tell you,” I said. “But I can say my client is definitely not a spy.”

Actually, I wasn’t quite so sure about that, but if Grant was a spy, I was confident he was on our side even if the FBI knew nothing about it.

“I’m sorry, we can’t simply take your word for that,” said the big agent, whose name I hadn’t been given.

“Then we’re all sorry,” I said.

“We can bring you in for questioning under Bureau wartime guidelines,” said the big guy.

“I’m used to that.”

“We know,” said D’Argentero. “We’d prefer your cooperation. This is far trickier than you may be able to handle on your own, and even a small mistake could be very bad for our country.”

I thought about it for a few seconds and made a decision.

“Give me two days,” I said. “I’ll talk to my client. Then I’ll tell you what I know.”

“We may not have two days,” said the larger agent.

“Two days and you stop following me,” I said.

They looked at each other.

“Two days,” D’Argentero said. “Forty-eight hours from right now. Then, full cooperation.”

“Thanks.”

D’Argentero nodded and they moved across the lot toward the Plymouth.

I opened my car door, placed my pile of Nazi literature, the photograph of Volkman and Vogel, and the Caroll College brochure on the seat next to me, put my .38 back in the glove compartment, and sat there until their car had pulled out of the lot. Then I was on my way.

There was no point in trying to think. The only thing I could do was what I did best, blunder straight ahead. With this in mind, I headed for Jack Baron’s Radios and Phonographs. I pulled out the card I had taken from Volkman’s pocket and double-checked it for the address on La Cienega.

CHAPTER

10

Baron’s Radios and Phonographs was a two-window shop with an entrance between the windows. On one side of Baron’s was M’Lady’s Gifts and Greeting Cards. On the other side was a Chinese carry-out restaurant.

The windows of Baron’s displayed a variety of radios, mostly tabletops, and a few phonographs. There was a Minute Man poster in the window ordering me to buy United States bonds and stamps and a poster of that RCA dog listening to the sound coming out of that big megaphone.

I went in. A little bell on the door announced me, but no one appeared. I walked over to one of the tables where some little radios sat. I was touching the smooth surface of one when a man came through an open door at the back of the shop.

He was slightly stoop-shouldered, had large round glasses, and wore a blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves. A pair of headsets hung around his neck.

“Yes sir,” he said, blinking.

“Looking for a radio,” I said. “Tabletop. Nothing expensive.”

At that point, I realized I was actually in the market for a radio. Why not? I could see myself lying on my mattress, propped up with pillows, drinking a cup of coffee, listening to
I Love a Mystery.

“Got your hand on a nice one,” he said. “1939 FADA L-96W ivory Bakelite body, easy-to-read gold dials with gold numbers. Compact. Yours for eighteen dollars.”

“Nice,” I said, picking it up.

He plugged it in, turned it on, and searched for a station. He found
The Goldbergs.
“I’m warning you, Solomon,” came the high-pitched voice. The audience laughed.

“Great sound, good balance,” the salesman said.

He turned off the radio and pointed to the one next to it. “Another Bakelite. Zenith 6D-512. Dark brown. 1938. New tubes. Tuned it up myself. Also eighteen dollars.”

“What I’m looking for, Mr.…”

“Baron, Jack Baron,” he said, holding out his hand. We shook.

“What I’m looking for is something with a bigger sound.”

“No trouble. Those four. All Philcos. I could give you the 80 model for twenty.”

“Can I just look around?” I asked.

“Take your time. I’ve got a full line of Zeniths, Atwater Kents, Crosleys, American Bosch, Emerson. Good deals.”

“Friend of mine recommended you,” I said, touching an upright wooden Emerson that looked a little too big for the table in my room.

Baron smiled and nodded.

“Name is Bruno Volkman,” I said, pretending to examine the Emerson but watching him for a reaction. He gave none.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Baron said.

I took out the photograph of Volkman and Cookin-ham and showed it to him.

“You carry photographs of your friends around with you?”

“He’s sort of missing,” I said.

Baron looked at the photograph again.

“Man with the beard, no. Other guy is Martin something. Martin Andrews, Martin Adams, something like that.”

“He bought more than one radio from you?” I asked.

“Didn’t buy any radios,” Baron said. “Transcribers. Phonographs. Make records like they do on the radio. Bought one about four, five months ago and updated to a better model about four weeks ago. Follow me.”

He walked back toward and through the door at the rear of the shop, with me a few steps behind.

We were in a cluttered room with shelves along both walls and a worktable in the middle filled with wires, tubes, turntables, and pieces of electrical machinery I didn’t recognize. The shelves on one wall were filled with neatly stacked records in brown sleeves. The other wall held phonographs in various stages of repair.

“Make my own transcriptions,” Baron said proudly, pointing to a turntable on the bench. “Quality is as good as they do at NBC. All those are shows I’ve recorded. Someday maybe I’ll be able to make copies and sell them to people. Right now it’s not legal.”

I wondered why people would want to buy old radio shows when they could listen to new ones for nothing, but I just nodded in understanding.

“Martin.…” I prodded.

“Adams, Andrews, maybe Anderson,” said Baron. “Wanted to make records, transcriptions of his family. Said he wanted to surprise them, hide the microphone under the dining-room table, play it back for them later. Keep it as a family memory.”

“That’s what he said?” I asked.

“That’s what he said,” Baron repeated. “Mind if I use a bad word?”

“No.”

“I thought it was a bunch of bullshit.”

“Why?”

“Couldn’t imagine seeing the guy around the Sunday table with grandma, mom, and the kids passing around the mashed potatoes and fried chicken. You say he’s your friend?”

“I met him once or twice,” I said.

Baron fiddled with his earphones, plugged the wire into a jack on a phonograph on the bench, pulled it out again and said, “Something funny about him.”

“Funny?”

“Fake,” he said. “Pretending. Laughing but not seeing anything funny. You know what I mean? You run into people like that sometimes.”

“I know what you mean. So he bought equipment to make secret recordings?”

“That’s what he said,” said Baron. “Bought lots of blank records too.”

“He ever mention a George Hall to you?” I asked.

Baron thought and then shook his head.