Woman with a Blue Pencil (20 page)

Excerpt from chapter twelve of
The Orchid and the Secret Agent
, a novel by William Thorne

Metropolitan Modern Mysteries, Inc., New York, N.Y., 1945

. . . On Saturday nights, the Pike amusement park was lively and crowded, even with ninety percent of the lights turned off in accordance with black-out measures. This precaution was mandated nightly for coastal businesses and residences, as a glowing coastline could silhouette Navy ships and make them vulnerable to submarine attack. Most inland areas enacted full black-out procedures only when alerted by air-raid sirens. Now, Mr. Barratt pulled the Cadillac to the curb on Ocean Avenue near the entrance, which Jimmy knew from previous recreational visits featured a glorious string of electric bulbs, known as the Walk of a Thousand Lights, that led down the boardwalk to the midway. Tonight, there was no such electric marvel. Still, the sound of calliope music and the roar and swoosh of the big, wooden roller coaster, the Cyclone Racer, were audible inside Mr. Barratt's Cadillac, even with the windows rolled up. Having visited the Pike many times as a child, Jimmy had warm memories of the place. He suspected tonight would resemble those carefree days in no way whatsoever.

“Naturally, you'll recognize the Orchid, if and when you see her,” Mr. Barratt said, shifting the car into park. “Judging from her recent murder spree, she doesn't shy away from flamboyance. And even if she tried to conceal her identity . . . well, that streak of white in her hair is an easily identifiable detail.”

“She might have dyed it, sir.”

Mr. Barratt shook his head. “She wants you to recognize her because she wants you to join her. She's proud of all the killing she's done. That's why I don't think she'll disguise her identity for a meeting with you. Not after providing you with such vivid and bloody clues to her location.”

“But why would she want to recruit me, Mr. Barratt? I'm not a Jap.”

“Perhaps she knows about your association with us and sees you as a perfect double agent.”

“But why would she believe I'd betray you? I'm an American through and through. And even if that weren't enough, you know what the Japs did to my homeland.”

“Yes, I know,” Mr. Barratt said, looking away as if painfully considering the Jap atrocities practiced for years on the Korean peninsula. He turned back to his agent. “I honestly don't know how she thinks she'll turn you to her side, Jimmy. But she must have her reasons, deluded as they may be.”

Jimmy said nothing.

“Threats maybe, or enticements . . .” Mr. Barratt started.

“Mean nothing to me,” Jimmy interrupted.

“Good,” Mr. Barratt said. “Then you won't hesitate. Just put one between her eyes.”

Jimmy nodded. They'd been over it before.

“And there's one other thing I wanted to mention before you go, Jimmy.”

“Okay,” Jimmy said, though he wasn't sure he really wanted to hear more. The phrase of Mr. Barratt's that resonated in Jimmy's head, spoken for the first time moments before, was “right between her eyes . . .” Jimmy was an experienced undercover detective and an international operative, but assassination still did not sit easily with him. So he reminded himself of the heinous crimes the Orchid had committed in just the last twenty-four hours—the bloody slaughter of three innocent men just because their names, taken together, formed a message she wanted to convey. And her personal violence was the least of it, according to Mr. Barratt. She was also the treacherous brains behind the entire West Coast Jap spy ring, whose mission was to weaken American defenses for an impending invasion of the homeland. No ordinary dame . . . Still, Jimmy had never killed a woman. Sensing the hesitation, Mr. Barratt had suggested he think of her less as a woman and more as a female cobra, poised to strike. “Do we allow gentlemanly considerations to interfere with our dispatching of threatening, poisonous snakes?” he'd asked. “Even female ones?” The rationale had made sense to Jimmy. But he wasn't sure he wanted to hear more from Mr. Barratt. Rather, he just wanted to get out of the car and get on with his mission.

“It's about the Orchid's bodyguard, this
Fantomu
, or Phantom,” Mr. Barratt said.

Talk of the Phantom had been noticeably absent until now.

“I've discussed the matter with my most trusted team of analysts,” Mr. Barratt continued.

Jimmy was struck by the strange juxtaposition of talking about killers while, outside, the cheerful background sounds of calliope music and young people's happy cries of excitement on the darkened Cyclone Racer echoed through the night.

“Are you listening to me, Jimmy?” Mr. Barratt inquired, moving his hand from the steering wheel to rest companionably on Jimmy's shoulder.

Jimmy nodded. He was not distracted by the sounds of the Pike. Rather, he was entering into a state of mind he'd come to trust—one of hypersensitivity, not only to his external surroundings but also to the thoughts that fluttered through his mind. In this state, he could take in far more than he did in his ordinary, walking-around frame of mind. He had practiced no Oriental discipline to develop the state but just seemed to have been born with it. When thus engaged, almost nothing could get past him. The sensitivity had saved his life many times. And the familiar frame of mind was arriving now, right on time. “Please continue, sir.”

Mr. Barratt removed his hand from Jimmy's shoulder. “As yet, there have been no sightings of this ‘Phantom;' nonetheless, we doubt he has ever abandoned his post as the Orchid's bodyguard. The fact of his
seeming
absence suggests that he exhibits none of the flamboyant appearance of his dark lady, but, likely, looks perfectly ordinary, altogether unthreatening, thereby achieving a kind of invisibility while in plain sight. Unfortunately, we can offer you no further intelligence regarding identifying marks of this dangerous creature. Only this final reminder for you to assume always that he is someplace close.”

“But he
will
be Japanese, right?” Jimmy inquired.

Mr. Barratt nodded. “Unfortunately, however, the dimmed lights on the Pike will make it difficult to pick out the particulars of anyone's face. I don't know why the Army allows them to keep the place open at all, blacked-out or not. Public morale, I suppose. But what it leaves us with tonight are little more than shadows. And any one of them might be the Phantom.”

Jimmy thought he could pretty well rule out the babies in perambulators. “I'll stay aware,” he said.

“Of course, the chaotic darkness is probably why the Orchid chose this place as a rendezvous point,” Mr. Barratt said, handing a tiny flashlight to Jimmy.

Jimmy turned on the flashlight. “This barely gives off as much light as a candle.”

“Well, that's what everybody at the Pike'll be carrying. It's how you keep a coastal amusement park open during a war.”

Jimmy nodded. “Must be high times for pickpockets.”

“Pickpockets aren't our problem,” Mr. Barratt said, offering his hand to shake.

Jimmy shook it.

Both men's palms were as dry as the Sahara.

Jimmy climbed out of the car, closing the door after him.

Mr. Barratt pulled away, disappearing around the first corner.

Jimmy watched him go. Now he was alone.

After a moment, he checked the handgun holstered beneath his coat and then crossed the street toward the boardwalk. Music and voices, rather than glimmering strings of powerful bulbs, indicated the way through the entrance and to the midway, which featured long-remembered concessions, barely distinguishable now in the dim light, but still operational. There was nothing like American tenacity in the face of a threat. Hundreds of weak flashlight spots (hardly beams) fluttered from instruments barely larger than a fountain pen, those wielded by children hovering like fireflies at waist level. He used his candle-power light to navigate past Sea Side Souvenir Photography, McGruder Salt Water Taffy, the Plunge bathhouse (closed now, but a crowd favorite in summer), pitch and skill games of such wide variety that their only common trait was their deceptive simplicity (“Three balls for a nickel, a child could do it!”). All lit by barely more than a lantern power's worth of electricity. But the place remained lively and
noisy
. Sound made no difference to Jap bombers. So the Cyclone Racer, the big wooden coaster, provided a continual railroad rattle of wooden ties and choruses of screaming riders, the combination of which Jimmy thought could be useful if he needed to conceal the sounds of violence.

But being Oriental himself, he occasionally encountered hard looks from passersby whose flashlight beams happened upon his face. He hardly blamed them. In the push and jangle of the crowd, how could they know he was Korean, rather than a Jap? Being the object of derisive looks and comments didn't make his job any easier. He bought a tall cotton candy that he held in front of his face as he proceeded. Among all the shadowed figures, it seemed to work as concealment.

Of course, the Orchid was expecting him, regardless of precautions.

This was no stealth operation.

Rather, it was a perverse business appointment (feigned) that would end with his killing his negotiating partner. Yes, killing her in the very midst of her lair . . . Likely surrounded by her underlings, or at least by the
Fantomu
 . . .

In short, a suicide mission.

But that's what he'd signed on for. And considering the thousands of lives in the balance, his personal sacrifice seemed a worthwhile exchange. And if he were going to die he wouldn't mind dying here, where he'd been happy as a child. The Fun House, the Skooter (the indoor bumper cars), the Crazie Maze (a house of mirrors), the Super Trooper Umbrella Ride, the Sky Wheel . . .

On second thought, what a ridiculous place to die.

He turned and started up the pier, which was likewise lined with dimly lit attractions, food stalls, and concessions. He stopped in front of the Gypsy fortune-teller's establishment, a small, enclosed structure that bore the appearance of a Bohemian shack. A window box, displaying an electric candle, allowed no glimpse inside. A sign above the wooden door read: “Madame Belinsky—Authentic Gypsy Fortune-Teller.”

This was the place.

He looked around him. All the passersby appeared ordinary. At least in so much as he could see them. But then whom did he expect to be looming on the crowded pier, Dr. Fu Manchu?

He took a deep breath and stepped to the door. There was no “Open” sign. No “Come In.” Was he to knock? What if the fortune-teller had an ordinary customer inside, hearing right now about his or her golden future? But Jimmy didn't hesitate. He turned the knob and the door opened.

He walked in.

Excerpt from a letter April 2, 1943:

. . . as one acquainted with loss. (Yes, my dear husband's body has been recovered and soon I'll be placing a gold star in the window of my apartment.) So I can relate to the pain you are feeling, Takumi. Of course, your girlfriend is not deceased, but, in some ways, having your heart rejected may sometimes be as painful as losing a loved one to a noble death. Who can weigh and compare feeling? Still, I must remind you that her recent letter to you should not be taken too personally, odd as that may sound at first. She is young and your being away in Manzanar these past thirteen months with no end in sight cannot help but be discouraging for her. And adding to the difficulty, of course, is that she is Caucasian and so all along (even in your happy times together, before the internment) she's had to keep your adventurous love a secret, an especially lonely situation for her. I say these things not to attempt to dismiss the pain you are feeling but to temper it with the certain knowledge that her breakup is not based on any shortcoming you possess or any neglectful behavior on your part. There are simply circumstances beyond our control and we must acknowledge them and, to the best of our ability, attempt to move forward even with our broken hearts.

For me, work is the best balm. Naturally, I have grief-ridden, terrible nights. I loved my man. But I find that coming in to work every day enables me to escape, at least for a few hours, the dark cloud of loss that otherwise hovers about the whole world these days. I don't know that it will be the same for you, but I am quite certain that doing nothing with yourself, succumbing to the depression that accompanies loss, is no answer. Knowing you as I do now, I believe that work will be a balm to you too. Your book's rapidly approaching deadline may actually be a blessing if it aids you in focusing your attention on your talents, your responsibilities, and your future.

I have found that if we can no longer put our passion into loving our sweethearts, then we must find other places to put it, otherwise we become broken people. That is not what I want for you, dear boy. Put your passion into your work. I thought your most recent submission (at the darkened amusement park) was among your best. I made virtually no marks with my blue pencil. I understand that you wrote it before receiving this recent, discouraging correspondence from your girl. But that needn't interfere with your future. So just
keep going
. Ah, isn't that the catchphrase of our times?