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A single overhead bulb cast a cone of light around him. He had a glass of ice water. He’d dipped his handkerchief in it, had wrapped the wet cloth around the knuckles of his left hand. The story around the station was that Ball had gotten meaner after his wife took off. He was writing on a mostly blank piece of paper. It was already signed at the bottom. On the top, in big letters, it said: Confession. Detective Ball looked up. He and McGrady were the same age, but Ball had nearly ten years of seniority. He hadn’t wasted time going to college, going to China with a bunch of Marines. He’d
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All bully.
dumplings and a char siu pork bun in a piece of newspaper. McGrady gave him a nickel, and walked the rest of the way to the station, eating his breakfast
A well spent five cents.
He’d never lived in a place long enough to feel homesick when he left. Now he had an idea what that was like. It wasn’t as bad as he’d imagined. Missing her was its own peculiar satisfaction. It was proof he belonged somewhere.
Takahashi was kneeling there, her back to the door. She was wearing a printed robe. She’d put her hair into a bun at the back of her head, held in place with a pair of sticks. She was blowing on the coals in the bottom of the hearth.
Last night, she hadn’t spoken a word except to say his name. She’d deferred to her father. She’d let him speak for her. That wasn’t so odd. He’d seen plenty of people who had one face for strangers, and a second for their families. Everyone had many roles to play. She could be the obedient daughter, serving tea on her knees. That might truly be her. She might be many other things at different times.
The trashcans across the street were still dented. Fred Ball had hit them on Thanksgiving, back in ’41. It was amazing what things were allowed to endure, while others evaporated. He drove on, to get away.
Good observation and reflection on events.
He opened it and found a twelve-year-old girl passing out handbills for a brothel. In another year she’d be working there.
The man calling himself Jan Van Dijk hadn’t reacted at all to McGrady’s name. He let go of his hand. He patted De Vries on the shoulder. A friendly giant. A Dutchman in Hong Kong, happy to have a paying job to help his American friends.
McGrady was thinking: He never saw my face. He thinks I’m dead. And he was thinking: I could be wrong. He’d been wrong about so many things.
If De Vries looked askance at him, McGrady didn’t see. He watched as Van Dijk jotted down the new information. Still nothing. No reaction. He put the pen back in its holder. He folded the piece of paper into a square, and pocketed it. He pulled out a watch and checked the time. An innocent act, maybe. It would look that way to De Vries. But he wasn’t doing it for De Vries. This was a show for McGrady. A test. He snapped it closed and set it on the desk.
“The records offices are closed by now,” Van Dijk said. “Can you come back in the morning?”
“Or I could bring it to your hotel?”
It was a Waltham trench watch. There were probably a couple million of them still ticking. The company had made them by the truckload to equip the boys on their way to France.
Use to live a mile from the Waltham Watch Co. The house we purchased in Auburndale, 1977, was previously owned by three maiden sisters who all worked at Waltham Watch. The last of the three sisters passed as we were closing. We purchased the contents of the house, a trunk full of photos and newspaper clippings many from WWII.
Still liked this
he’d read the coded cable, so he had a good idea of what Smith was doing now. A job in the consulate would be a gold mine for one simple reason. A General Consul had the blanket authority to issue a temporary passport, and the equipment to print one. Not as good as the real thing, but good enough for
a man to get home. Or to cross a dozen borders and disappear.
John Smith would know a lot of men who needed to disappear. Men who were working hard to bury their real names and their old ranks and the deeds they had done in service of the Reich. The hunt for them was on. The gallows stood ready. The trapdoors would start dropping open any day. The Army had plenty of ro...
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“You were very collected in front of De Vries.” “I was going to tell you the same thing.” “You wanted to shoot me then, but you couldn’t be sure what De Vries would do. Of course, I had the same dilemma.” McGrady could smell the apricot spirits in the glass next to him. Schnapps. Sweet and sharp. The room was nicely kept, and well appointed. A rug on the floor. A whitewashed fireplace. Bookshelves. “No,” McGrady said. “Your dilemma was different. Because you wouldn’t have minded killing De Vries. Except that if you’d done it there, it would make it hard to go back to the consulate.
He looked at his lap. A second ticked by when his eyes weren’t on McGrady. Then he looked up. McGrady had lost the moment, and Smith knew it. Another test.
“Admiral Canaris was a mentor of mine,” Smith said. “A close friend. Herr Hitler hanged him in a concentration camp after marching him naked in front of his staff. They say he was one of the July 20 plotters.
McGrady had asked for a single piece of ice. He watched it melt. No one came to interrupt him. No one in the world knew he was here.
Joe is a patient man.
“If Vincent Russo hadn’t come knocking on your window that night, he wouldn’t have met up with Smith—” “His name was really John Smith?” “I’ve got no idea,” McGrady said. “And I doubt I ever will. But what I meant was, it’s funny. How things work out. All the little turning points.”
One of my few reservations, some of the turning points a bit too contrived. That and the women are somewhat idealized. But a fine novel, nonetheless. Very authentic too time, place and people. Excellent with small detail which enriches the tale.
