“Well, maybe so, but hell’s bells, Kip, you’re wonderful at that sort of thing. I’m not. I’m a grease monkey. I don’t belong there. I had the misfortune to call attention to myself, that’s all, when the boss man was looking for someone. And I happen to know some German. Now I’m in a crack.”
Tollever glanced at his watch. “Well, don’t pass this up. That’s my advice to you as an old friend. Hitler is very, very important, and something’s going to blow in Europe. I’m overdue at the embassy.”
Victor Henry walked him outside to his shiny gray Mercedes. Tollever’s gait was shaky, but he spoke with calm clarity. “Pug, if you do go, call me. I’ll give you a book full of phone numbers of the right men to talk to. In fact—” A twisted grin came and went on his face. “No, the numbers of the little frauleins would be wasted on you, wouldn’t they? Well, I’ve always admired the hell out of you.” He clapped Henry’s shoulder. “God, I’m looking forward to this party! I haven’t drunk a decent glass of Moselle since I left Berlin.”
Reentering the house, Victor Henry almost stumbled over a suitcase and a hatbox. His daughter stood at the foyer mirror in a green wool suit, putting on a close-fitting hat. Rhoda was watching her, and Warren waited, trenchcoat slung on his shoulder, holding his old pigskin valise. “What’s this, Madeline? Where are you going?”
She smiled at him, opening wide dark eyes. “Oh, didn’t Mom tell you? Warren’s taking me to New York.”
Pug looked dourly at Rhoda, who said, “Anything wrong with that, dear? Warren’s lined up extra tickets for the shows. She loves the theatre and there’s precious little in Washington.”
“But has college closed down? Is this the Easter vacation?”
The daughter said, “I’m caught up in my work. It’s only for two days, and I don’t have any tests.”
“And where would you stay?”
Warren put in, “There’s this Hotel Barbizon for women.”
“I don’t like this,” Victor Henry said.
Madeline glanced at him with melting appeal. Nineteen and slight, with Rhoda’s skin and a pert figure, she oddly resembled her father, in the deep-set brown eyes and the determined air. She tried wrinkling her small nose at him. Often that made him laugh, and won her point. This time his face did not change. Madeline glanced at her mother and then at Warren for support, but it was not forthcoming. A little smile curved Madeline’s mouth, more ominous perhaps than a rebellious tantrum; a smile of indulgence. She took off her hat. “Well, okay! That’s that. Warren, I hope you can get rid of those extra tickets. When’s dinner?”
“Any time,” Rhoda said.
Warren donned his trench coat and picked up the suitcase. “Say, incidentally, Dad, did I mention that a couple of months ago my exec put in for flight training? I sent in one of the forms too, just for the hell of it. Well, Chet was snooping around BuNav today. It seems we both have a chance.”
“Flight training?” Rhoda looked unhappy. “You mean you’re becoming a carrier pilot? Just like that? Without consulting your father?”
“Why, Mom, it’s just something else to qualify in. I think it makes sense. Doesn’t it, sir?”
Commander Henry said, “Yes, indeed. The future of this here Navy might just belong to the brown shoes.”
“I don’t know about that, but Pensacola ought to be interesting, if I don’t bilge out the first week. Back Friday. Sorry, Madeline.”
She said, “Nice try. Have fun.”
He kissed his mother, and left.
Pug Henry consumed vichyssoise, London broil, and strawberry tart in grim abstracted silence. Kip Tollever’s enthusiasm for the mediocre spying job had only deepened Henry’s distaste. Madeline’s itch to avoid schoolwork was a steady annoyance. But topping all was Warren’s casually dropped news; Pug was both proud and alarmed. Carrier aviation was the riskiest duty in the Navy, though officers even his own age were now applying for Pensacola, so as to get into the flattops. A devoted battleship man, Henry wondered all through the meal whether Warren hadn’t hit on something, whether a request for flight training might not be a respectable if desperate way to dodge Berlin.
Madeline kept a cheerful face, making talk with her mother about the student radio station at George Washington University, her main interest there. The houseman, an old Irishman who also did the gardening in warm weather, walked softly in the candlelit dining room, furnished with Rhoda’s family antiques. Rhoda contributed money to the household costs so that they could live in this style in Washington, among her old friends. While Victor Henry did not like it, he had not argued. A commander’s salary was modest, and Rhoda was used to this better life.
Madeline excused herself early, kissing her father on the forehead. The sombre quiet during dessert was unbroken except by the hushed footfalls of the manservant. Rhoda said nothing, waiting out her husband’s mood. When he cleared his throat and said it might be nice to have brandy and coffee on the porch, she smiled pleasantly. “Yes, let’s, Pug.”
The houseman set the silver tray there, turning up the red flickering light in the artificial fireplace. She waited until her husband was settled in his favorite chair, drinking coffee and sipping brandy. Then she said, “By the bye, there’s a letter from Byron.”
“What? He actually remembered we’re alive? Is he all right?”
They had not heard from him in months. Henry had had many a nightmare of his son dead in an Italian ditch in a smoking automobile, or otherwise killed or injured. But since the last letter he had not mentioned Byron.
“He’s all right. He’s in Siena. He’s given up his studies in Florence. Says he got bored with fine arts.”
“I couldn’t be less surprised. Siena. That’s still Italy, isn’t it?”
“Yes, near Florence. In the Tuscan hills. He goes on and on about the Tuscan hills. He seems to be interested in a girl.”
“A girl, eh? What kind of girl? Eyetalian?”
“No, no. A New York girl. Natalie Jastrow. He says she has a famous uncle.”
“I see. And who’s her uncle?”
“He’s an author. He lives in Siena. Dr. Aaron Jastrow. He once taught history at Yale, Briny says.”
“Where’s the letter?”
“On the telephone table.”
He returned in a few minutes with the letter, and with a thick book in a black dust jacket, marked with a white crucifix and a blue Star of David. “That’s who the uncle is.”
“Oh, yes.
“I read it twice. It’s excellent.” Henry scanned his son’s letter in yellow lamplight. “Well. This business is kind of far along.”
“She does sound attractive,” Rhoda said. “But he’s had other nine-day wonders.”
Commander Henry tossed the letter on the coffee table and poured more brandy for himself. “I’ll read it through later. Longest letter he’s ever written. Is there anything important in it?”
“He wants to stay on in Italy.”
“Indeed? How does he propose to live?”
“He has some kind of research job with Dr. Jastrow. The girl works there, too. He thinks he can get by on what he earns, plus the few dollars from my mother’s trust.”
“Really?” Henry peered at her. “If Byron Henry is talking about supporting himself, that’s the biggest news about him since you had him.” He drank his coffee and brandy, and stood up, retrieving the letter with a swipe of his hand.
“Now
“I have some work to do.”
Henry went to his den and smoked a cigar, reading Byron’s letter twice through with care. The den was a converted maid’s room. On the ground floor a large handsome study looked out on the garden through French windows. That room in theory was his. It was so attractive that Rhoda sometimes liked to receive visitors there, and was given to nagging at her husband when he left papers and books around. After a few months of this Henry had put bookshelves, a cot, and a tiny secondhand desk in the narrow maid’s room, had moved into it, and was content enough with this small space. He had done with less in a destroyer cabin.
When the cigar was burned out, Henry went to his old portable typewriter. With his hands on the keys he
