wore. But obviously Mr. Bolton took care of himself. He was in good shape. Almost like an athlete, she marveled.
Astonishing for a businessman, she pondered as she reclined on the sheets of her bed. So unusual. Usually businessmen were so repulsively flabby. But then he was climbing onto her and suddenly her clock manufacturer astonished her once again. He pinned her fiercely to the bed, entered her, and moved rigidly and methodically between her legs. Charlotte yelped with both the surprise and the pleasure. Unlike with most of her customers, she was not faking. And she kissed him hard on the lips right before he had his explosion inside her. Afterward, he lay beside her for several minutes, saying nothing. She did not spring to her feet and dress quickly as she would have with other men.
Finally, she spoke.
'For all the time you've been coming to me,' she said, 'there's something I've wanted to ask you.'
“What?' he asked.
'Your first name.'
Siegfried thought for a moment. 'It's Fred,' he finally said. 'From Frederick.'
She hesitated. 'May I call you that?' she asked.
Again, he thought for a moment, wondering where this might be leading. Siegfried had noticed that she was acting differently. Now he was certain.
'Of course,' he said. 'Why not? Fred.'
Siegfried rose and went into the bathroom, where he carefully washed himself. Then he returned. Acting more deliberate now as she remained in the bed, he dressed himself. Then she stood, pulling a red print silk robe around her. He reached to his wallet and withdrew a twenty-dollar bill, plus a five, which was her usual tip.
'Fred…?' she asked.
He looked at her, his hand folding the two bank notes.
'I don't want money from you anymore,' she said nervously. 'You can come visit me anytime you want. But I don't want money.'
She felt like saying more, like telling him how she really felt and what she would really-eventually-like to have with Mr. Bolton. But there was confusion discernible on his face. The hand with the money had stopped dead still, and he was staring at her.
'What are you talking about?' he asked.
She had rushed things a little, she felt. But then again, he was a gentleman. She had made him happy- she was certain about that-so this was the time to be honest with him.
'Maybe, if you like what I do for you, if you even like me a little,' she edged with a nervous laugh, 'we could go out to dinner instead of you paying me. Or maybe we could go to a Broadway show together.'
His eyes changed again and the confusion on his face was gone. A smile drifted in from somewhere and he started to laugh lightly. He understood. So she laughed, too.
Charlotte was in the midpoint of a laugh when the hand that held the money switched into a firm open palm, reached backward, and then exploded forward like an express train; smacking her from right to left across the face. The impact was so hard and sudden that it sent her reeling backward. She was holding her stinging, stunned cheek and pressing her own hand against the rattled teeth of her upper jaw. And she was fighting back tears.
Siegfried spoke in very measured tones. 'You're a whore, Charlotte,' he said, dropping the money on her dresser. 'Don't ever forget that. And don't ever overstep yourself again. It could cost you your life.'
The spy found his coat in the next room and was gone a few seconds later.
SIXTEEN
On Saturday morning, a Bureau driver-a neat young man who said his name was Thomas Jenks-met Cochrane at Union Station and drove him to a green clapboard house on Twenty-sixth Street in Georgetown. The Bureau had owned it for Special Operations-this quite illegally-since 1934. The house was faded, small and accommodating. It had a front porch that squeaked at the first footfall. “And he leaves it this way to curtail unexpected company,” Cochrane mused.
Past the entrance foyer was a sitting room, equipped with some blue upholstered chairs, a sofa that matched the chairs in both pattern and wear, two matching oversized pink lamps that more than bracketed the sofa, and-the prize of the room-a large Philco console radio, presumably for tuning in Roosevelt or the Washington Senators, not necessarily in that order. Adjacent to the living room was a small dining room, furnished functionally with an oval mahogany table supported by thick, overdone legs and surrounded by five matching chairs and-Cochrane lamented immediately-one mismatching one. Cochrane sighed. The interior of the house appeared to have been decorated by the Racketeering Division of the Grand Rapids F.B.I. office. Why couldn't they have hired a vivacious young woman, Cochrane wondered.
'Anything wrong, sir?' young Jenks asked.
'Everything's just fine,' Cochrane answered, whereupon Jenks led him to a small kitchen, which Cochrane found to be freshly stocked.
'Tell me, Jenks,' Cochrane asked indulgently, 'do you know why I'm in
Washington?'
'No, sir,' said the younger man, breathing heavily through his mouth. 'We're under instructions not to have such discussions, sir.'
'Whose instructions?'
'Mr. Lerrick's, sir.'
Cochrane wandered from the kitchen through the dining room, toward a flight of stairs. Jenks followed. Cochrane answered, after too long a pause. 'Maybe you can tell me more about this house, then.'
Jenks stammered slightly and as Cochrane listened, he noted the heavy cloth curtains, blocking any view of the interior from the outside.
'A woman comes in twice a week to clean up and sweep,' Jenks explained, trailing Cochrane. 'She'll also tend to the laundry, take care of any dirty dishes, and replenish the cupboards with fresh groceries,' Jenks said.
Replenish: so Hoover was still hiring English majors as his errand boys, Cochrane thought to himself. It figured.
'Any special grocery requests or maintenance items,' Jenks continued, 'can be arranged by leaving a note on the kitchen table. She'll take care of it.'
'Who will?'
'The woman, sir.'
'Ever seen her?'
'Never, sir.'
'Do you think she might be one of the Bureau's stable of nymphomaniacs?'
'A what, sir?' Then, realizing, Jenks exclaimed. 'Oh, no, sir. Not a chance, sir! Why, to my knowledge, sir, there's no stable of-'
'Just show me the upstairs and all the escapes,' Cochrane requested.
Humorless English majors from small, bad Midwestern colleges, Cochrane thought, refining his earlier appraisal.
There was an exit through the kitchen and an exit through the basement. Both led to an alleyway that connected with the street on both ends of the block. And all the downstairs windows opened wide.
Upstairs, a chain fire ladder was poised by a window in each bedroom and there was also one in the hallway. Each of the two bedrooms was furnished as sparsely as the downstairs room: a bed, a night table, one lamp, a dresser, and a chair. Each bed was a single. The Bureau brain trust-Morality Division-had anticipated everything, and did their best to discourage it. Bureau safe houses were not to turn into hotels for non-Bureau female guests. The rule wasn't stated, not surprisingly; it was just there. Cochrane opened a night-table drawer and uncovered the final Hooverism: a Holy Bible for light bedside reading. 'And that's it?' Cochrane finally asked, downstairs again and shadowed diligently by Jenks.
