To Catch a Spy (17 page)

Mrs. Plaut was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, hands on hips, glaring at Grant.

“Where have I seen you?” she demanded.

In response, Grant moved into the alcove next to her and did a quick back flip.

“The circus,” she said.

Grant grinned and wiped his hands.

Mrs. Plaut went back into her rooms with a look of satisfaction on her face. In front of her Pistolero screeched wildly.

Grant drove but I was giving directions since I knew the way to Caroll College. After I’d removed my flashlight and gun from the Crosley, Gunther had hopped in, ready to follow us. The Crosley seemed to have been designed for people his size.

We listened to the news as we drove. The Germans were on the run. As many as three thousand American bombers were tearing up Northern Germany. And on the other side of the world, Liberator bombers had unloaded ten tons of bombs on Japanese bases in Lampong, Thailand.

“We can still call in the FBI,” I said.

“They won’t believe us,” Grant said. “And even if they did, it would take them days, weeks to do anything about it. If I can get the names Volkman had for me, I can get them to people who will be more than willing to step a little outside the law. I don’t know how much time we have. Peters, these people are planning sabotage.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Certainly,” Grant said.

“Strictly confidential,” I said. “How did you get into this.”

“I started with a fellow from British Intelligence who asked me to keep my ears open for people in the movie industry making anti-Jewish remarks, possible Nazi spies trying to find people who were sympathizers.”

“And?”

“I found more of them in my wife’s social circle than in the industry,” he said. “Barbara didn’t seem to notice. One turned out to be a person I thought was a friend. He’s under surveillance now. Then, British Intelligence asked me to do a few more things here and there. I was more than willing.”

The Caroll College parking lot wasn’t full at seven at night. There were a few lights on in offices or classrooms in the building next to the parking lot.

Gunther pulled in alongside of us and stepped out.

“A request, Toby,” he said. “And I hope you take no offense from it.”

“What?”

“Permit me to clean the interior of your automobile,” he said.

“Permission granted,” I said and led the way to the concrete path next to the building in front of us. Some of the buildings on campus were completely dark. The School of Performance wasn’t brightly lit, but a light shone from inside the double doors.

A few people were coming up behind us from the parking lot.

“Gunther, you go in. We’ll be behind you. Stall as long as you can while we try to find the class list.”

Gunther nodded in understanding and walked with dignity toward the double door. Grant and I moved to the dark side of the building.

From the shadows, we watched a trio of men moving toward the building. They were talking quietly. We couldn’t make out what they were saying.

“Time?” I asked.

Grant held up his wrist to catch some dim light.

“A few minutes after seven,” he said. “Class should be starting.”

“Let’s go,” I said, moving back in the darkness toward the dim outline of a window.

If I had figured this right, the window was to the office behind the reception area where I had gotten directions to Jacklyn Wright’s class.

The window was about chest high and locked. The room inside was dark. With my pocket knife I had no trouble popping the latch and opening the window. I clambered in and Grant nimbly jumped in behind me. I closed the window and pulled down the shade before turning on my flashlight.

We were standing in a small, neat office. Polished dark wood desk with nothing on top of it. Matching chair. A trio of simple wooden chairs with arms. A bookcase on one wall running from floor to ceiling. A pair of file cabinets on the other wall and framed Audubon prints of water birds.

I went to the desk drawer, pulled it open, and found a small box of calling cards that told me we were in the office of Lawrence Toddhunter, Dean of the School of Performance. There were no photographs on the dean’s desk.

We checked the file cabinets and the desk for class lists but didn’t find any, so we moved to the door. I unlocked it, and we stepped into the reception area. There was light coming from the corridor outside the room, but not much. “Flashlight off,” I whispered.

Then, “Over there,” to Grant to let him know where I’d had seen file cabinets when I had last been in this room.

We went to the cabinets, where I clicked my flashlight back on and we began to look for the class list. The problem wasn’t a lack of lists. There were hundreds of them. In the third drawer down, we found the class list for the night school’s advanced performance class.

“Recognize any of the names?” I whispered.

“No,” said Grant. “But if we are talking about a group of spies, they probably wouldn’t use their own names. I’ve got to take a longer look at them.”

We moved to the door to the corridor. I unlocked it and opened it slowly. There was no one out there. We turned in the direction of the theater I had been in and stopped.

Voices were coming from inside the room. People were talking quickly, and the distinctive voice of Gunther Wherthman was responding. They were speaking German. I looked at Grant, who shrugged to let me know he couldn’t understand, either.

He motioned for me to follow him, and we walked farther down the corridor to a room labeled “Backstage and Storeroom.” We went in. It was dark, and we needed the flashlight as we moved down the long narrow passage, made more narrow by boards and backdrops and assorted props leaning against the wall.

On the other side of the thin wall, we could hear the sound of German. At the end of the passage were three stairs going up. We tiptoed up and found another door on our left. The sound of voices was louder now.

I opened the door, and through the crack we could see the small stage on which Gunther stood looking out at six men and three women, one of whom was Jacklyn Wright. All were casually dressed. Four of the men were wearing shirts chosen to show their muscles.

“I said to speak English,” Jacklyn Wright said. “If someone should hear.…”

“Very well,” said Gunther. “I will say it once more.”

“You will say it as many times as we wish it said,” replied one of the bodybuilders.

“I have been sent by Reichfuhrer Grembauer to warn you that your security has been compromised. One among you is a traitor,” said Gunther.

This was not the scenario we had worked on. Gunther was improvising, and it looked as if his audience wasn’t buying his act.

“Why not use the usual channels?” asked another man.

“Because,” Gunther answered. “He is not certain of the loyalty of his messengers.”

“But he trusts you?” another bodybuilder asked with a smirk.

“Implicitly,” said Gunther.

“There are no midgets in the Third Reich,” the man challenged.

“I am not a midget,” Gunther said. “I am a dwarf and I am also a special envoy. If I were not, how could I know you were here? If I were not, why would I come alone and not simply go to the FBI or the police?”

“Call him,” demanded one of the women.

“It will take him at least half an hour to get here,” Jacklyn Wright said.

“Good,” said Gunther. “Call him, tell him to come here. We will wait. Meanwhile, I suggest that no one leave this room alone. Anyone could be the traitor.”

I closed the door and whispered to Grant.

“You recognize any of them?”

“Three of them, two of the men and one woman,” he said. “I don’t know their names, but one’s a secretary at RKO and the others are actors. What now?”

“We call the FBI and get them over here fast,” I said, “but we tell them to wait till whoever those people in there are going to call gets here.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” said Grant.

We went back down the passageway. When I tried the door, it wouldn’t open.

“Locked from the outside,” I said.

“We can break it down,” Grant said.

“Too much noise. They’d be all over us.”

“Then?”

“Only one way to go.”

We went back down the passage to the stage door.

When I opened it again, one of the women and two of the men were coming in the doors to the theater. They were in a hurry.

“We reached him,” one of the men said. “He knows no Reichfuhrer Grembauer. This is some kind of trick or trap. We are to eliminate him and disperse immediately.”

“Stop,” Gunther said with confidence. “It is clear. He is the traitor.”

“Who?” asked Jacklyn Wright.

“The very person you just called,” Gunther said.

“And what is that person’s name?” an older man with rimless spectacles asked.

He had Gunther with that one.

“I know only his true name, not his false identity,” said Gunther.

“Kill him,” said the man with glasses.

“I’m going to distract them,” Grant said. “Try to sneak around them to get some help.”

I started to protest, but Grant was already past me and onto the stage standing next to Gunther.

“All right,” Grant announced with confidence. “You’re all under arrest.”

With my back to the wall, I edged out into the shadows and started down toward the left wall of the small theater. The nine people looking at the stage all recognized Grant. They stood in stunned silence for a few seconds. I kept inching along the wall.

“Just line up in the aisle,” Grant said, motioning toward the aisle. “Women first and then men by height, smallest in the front.”

I was halfway to the back of the theater when Jacklyn Wright said, “Get them.”

One of the men started toward the stage. The other men and women seemed confused by what was happening. One of the women spotted me, pointed and shouted, “They’re here.”

The group was within feet of the auditorium exit when the doors suddenly opened inward. Blocking the doorway were Jeremy Butler and Mountain. The group panicked. Four of the men made the mistake of running at Jeremy and Mountain. All four were on the floor seconds later.

The bodybuilder who had been rushing toward Grant and Gunther suddenly changed his mind and headed for the door to the passageway Grant and I had come through. Grant got to him before the man could open the door.

The man turned, throwing a wide right at Grant’s head. Grant ducked well below the swing and jabbed a fast left into the man’s stomach. The man went down.

“What are you doing?” Jacklyn Wright said, facing me. “We were trying to hold our regular acting class and you and your friends have trespassed and beaten us. I’m calling the police.”

“Let’s go together,” I said.

I left with Jeremy and Mountain herding the group into the first two rows of the auditorium.

“I’m coming with you,” Grant said, jumping from the stage and following us. “I’ve got a call to make too.”

“You are Cary Grant, aren’t you?” Jacklyn said.

Grant nodded.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “The college lawyers will make you pay for this.”

“We’ll see,” said Grant.

We went into the office Grant and I had recently been in, and I ushered Jacklyn toward the phone. Grant headed for the dean’s office in search, I assumed, of another phone.

Jacklyn reached for the phone.

“Sure you want the police?” I asked.

She put the phone to her ear.

“Suit yourself,” I said with a shrug. “They’re going to want to know who everyone in your class is, their real names, backgrounds.”

“What do you want?” she asked.

“The real names and the name of your leader,” I said.

“What leader?”

“The one your friend called for instructions,” I said.

“No,” she said. “I’ll take my chances with the police. It will ruin your friend Cary Grant’s career, breaking into an acting class, assaulting a student. And you, what will you and your friends say? You, too, broke in on an acting class. You have no evidence of anything. Well?”

“No,” I said. “I can’t let a pack of Nazis loose. And when we all accuse you of being a German spy, the newspapers and the college administration will be all over you.”

“Stalemate?” she asked, hands on hips.

“No,” I said.

Grant came back into the room.

“All taken care of,” he said, rubbing his hands together and smiling.

“The lady says your career will be ruined if the police come in,” I said.

“We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?” he said with confidence.

I called the police, and we escorted Jacklyn back to the auditorium, where she sat on one of the aisle seats in the third row. Jeremy and Mountain stood guard, while Gunther sat in the last row by himself. I joined him.

“That wasn’t the plan,” I said.

“I took it upon myself to call Jeremy from Mrs. Plaut’s,” Gunther said. “I thought it might be prudent.”

“That’s not what I mean,” I said.
“That
was a good idea. But the Nazi act.…”

“They were not going to let me in,” he said. “I even threatened to sue them for keeping a qualified citizen from attending a public class for which he was well qualified.”

“And …?”

“It came to me,” he said. “I started to speak to them in German, hoping I could convince them or at least keep their attention till you accomplished your mission or arrived.”

“You succeeded,” I said.

Six policemen in uniform and two in plain clothes were there within ten minutes, guns drawn, striding down the aisle.

Grant leaned back against the stage with his arms folded. The older of the two uniformed cops looked at him and nodded toward the entrance to the theater. On his way past me toward the door, Grant whispered, “Sorry. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

I watched him leave and turned back to the cops.

“We’ll start with …” the older plainclothes cop said.

“Me,” said Jacklyn Wright. “These men broke in, disrupted my class, and beat my students.”

“Why?” asked the cop.

She hadn’t considered this question.

“I assume they are drunk,” she said.