“That would be spying, Margot. He must have asked her to use her plane to spy.”
Her eyes widened, in a blend of disbelief and fear. “I can’t believe she’d do that!”
Apparently I had put into words something that she had barely dared think.
Then she released her grip, her eyes hooded now, and the fingers of one hand rose to touch her lips, lightly, and when she spoke, her usual rush of verbiage slowed, as if each word had to work its way around the fingers poised protectively there.
“And, yet,” she said, “it does make sense, with those generals coming around, later. You see, I heard Mr. Baruch say that the military would... what was his language exactly? ‘Assist’ is only part of it, I believe the words were... ‘underwrite her enterprise.’ Does that mean...?”
“It means Baruch offered government financial backing to remount the world flight.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I can tell you this, I was the one who handled the accounting on the first try, so I know what kind of money was spent, and on what. This time, the second time around, it was very different — no bills came in at all. Not for aircraft expenses or repairs or hangar storage or even fuel. Nothing.”
I frowned. “Was Amelia aware of this?”
“Yes... She was really very blue, which was a big contrast from before, when she was flying to Honolulu. She was so enthusiastic, and lighthearted and laughing.”
Amy had always said she flew for the “fun of it.”
I asked, “Did you ever ask her why the military was getting so heavily involved?”
“Yes. Sort of... I didn’t put it that way exactly, though. I think I was more concerned about the people who’d been close to her who were being driven away, and shut out, her friends, people she trusted.”
“What did she say?”
“She said to me, ‘We can’t always do what we wish.’”
A hell of a statement from a woman who had made a lifelong habit of doing exactly what she wanted.
“Who was getting ‘shut out,’ Margot? Obviously, you kept your job.”
“Oh, there’s a lot of examples. There’s that boy up in Oakland who she took under her wing — Bobby Myers? I know she felt bad about that, but I heard Mr. Putnam tell her he was a ‘snot-nose snoop,’ and to stay away from him.”
“Who is this kid? How old is he?”
“Thirteen, fourteen, maybe? He’s one of the amateur radio buffs that were going to monitor the flight. A man named McMenamy set up a whole network of radio operators, partly to help Mr. Putnam with material for progress-report press releases. He got shut out, too.”
“Who, did? The kid, you mean?”
“Both of them.”
I reached behind me in my hip pocket and pulled out the little notebook I kept tucked next to my wallet; I removed the nubby pencil stuck in the spiral. “What was this guy’s name again?”
“Walter McMenamy. He lives in L.A., some kind of radio expert, works for Mr. Mantz, sometimes.”
I wrote that down. “And the kid’s name?”
“Bobby Myers. I heard Mr. Miller tell Mr. Putnam that he had to ‘pull the plug on those ham radio morons.’ I’ve never heard such cruel things as that man says.”
For hanging out in a house where presidential envoys and generals came constantly calling, this kid led a sheltered life.
She continued: “The list is really long, Nathan, of aides and advisors and volunteers, tossed out with the trash.” A thought flashed through her eyes. “Like Albert Bresniak, the photographer.”
“Spell that name.”
She did, and I wrote it down, and she explained, “Mr. Putnam picked him, personally, to be A. E.’s ‘official photographer.’ Very young, maybe twenty-two, very talented boy. He was supposed to go with her on at least some of the flight.”
That made sense. Putnam had a deal with the Hearst papers — they had been publishing excerpts from Amy’s flight journal that had been cabled and phoned home — and a photographer along on several legs of the flight would mean some nice exclusive photos.
“Was this photographer, Bresniak, scheduled to go on the first attempt?”
“No. Mr. Putnam approached him in April or May, I think. Albert was ready to go along clear up till a few days before A. E. took off. Mr. Miller was furious when he found out about Albert being invited. I heard him really bawling out Mr. Putnam.”
“And then Albert was suddenly part of the legion of the unwanted.”
“Yes... Nate. There’s something else I need to tell you. It’s quite personal, but I think it’s something you should know.”
“Shoot.”
A knock came at the door, but before either of us could respond to it, Joe — the houseman — leaned in and said, “Miss DeCarrie — Mr. Putnam and Mr. Miller pull in drive.”
“But they’re not due yet!”
“Mr. Putnam pull in drive. Mr. Miller with him.”
And then Joe shut the door and was gone.
“Criminey,” she said. “He wasn’t supposed to come back till tomorrow...”
“We got nothing to hide,” I said. “I’m not going out a window or anything.”
I walked her into the living room, where Putnam — impeccable as always in a double-breasted gray worsted and black and white tie — was just coming in, saying, “What do you expect me to do, Miller? Indulge in public sobbing?”
And the man coming in behind him said, “All I’m saying is, you came off cold-blooded to that reporter. ‘I have confidence in my wife’s ability to handle any situation...’”
Putnam stopped his companion’s conversation with the raised hand of a traffic cop, nodding toward Margot and me.
“We have company,” Putnam said. Behind the rimless glasses, his cold dark eyes were fixed on me in that unblinking gaze of his.
William Miller — looking like an undertaker in a black worsted suit and a black silk tie whose small red polka dots were like drops of blood — formed an immediate smile, a small noncommittal smile developed no doubt as a reflex. He was fairly tall, medium build, his hair prematurely gray and receding on an egg-shaped skull, complexion ashen, eyes dark and intense under dark ridges of eyebrow, his mouth rather full, even sensual, the only hint of emotional content in an otherwise cold countenance.
“Who have we here?” he asked, in a pleasant, even soothing baritone.
“Heller?” Putnam said, answering Miller as if he weren’t sure he was really recognizing me.
“G. P.,” I said. “You weren’t expected.”
“Neither were you,” he said. “What the hell’s this about?”
We were standing near the entryway, facing each other awkwardly like gunfighters who forgot their six-shooters.
“I’m concerned about your wife,” I said. “I came out here to offer my sympathy and help.”
“Mr. Heller called,” Margot said, with a smile as tellingly strained as Miller’s was ominously casual, “and I invited him over. I hope I wasn’t out of line, Mr. Putnam, but I knew he was a friend of A. E.’s...”
“Why don’t you leave us alone, Margot,” Putnam said. “Go to your quarters.”
She nodded and said, “Yes sir,” flashed me a pained smile, and was gone.
“You want something to drink?” Putnam asked me. He was slipping out of his suitcoat.
“Why not?” The Zombie had pretty well worn off.
“Joe!” he called, and the houseman appeared and took Putnam’s jacket. Miller made no move to remove his, nor did he move to take a seat; just stood there with that small meaningless smile, his arms folded, his weight evenly distributed on both Florsheimed feet.
“Bring Mr. Heller a rum and Coke,” Putnam told Joe. “Manhattans for Mr. Miller and myself.”
Miller gestured, no. “I’ll pass, tonight, thank you, Joe.”