Joe nodded, disappeared, while Putnam loosened his tie, unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves, saying, “Nate Heller, this is William T. Miller. He’s with, uh...”
He left it for Miller to fill in, which he did: “Bureau of Air Commerce.”
We shook hands; his grip was cool, also firm but he didn’t show off.
“Mr. Heller runs the A-1 Detective Agency in Chicago,” Putnam told Miller. “He did some work for me, a year or two ago. Accompanied A. E. on one of her lecture swings.”
The tiny smile settled in one cheek; like Putnam, Miller rarely blinked. With these two standing staring at me, it was like having a conversation with a wax museum exhibit. “You’re a little off your beat, aren’t you, Mr. Heller?”
“Every time I leave Chicago,” I said pleasantly, “somebody says that. Do you think I should be staying in my own back yard?”
Miller’s shrug was barely perceptible. “There’s something to be said for home team advantage.”
A phone rang in the nearby hallway, and Putnam called, “I’ll get that, Joe! Just concentrate on those drinks!”
Miller and I stood facing each other, and I worked at giving him just as unconvincing a smile as he was giving me, while Putnam dealt with the phone call. We didn’t speak; we eavesdropped — not that we had any choice. Putnam was on a long-distance call and was working his voice up to an even more obnoxious level than usual.
“Well, Beatrice,” he was saying, “I know what you’re going through. Who could know better than I?... Yes... Yes, I know, dear...”
I asked Miller, “Do you know who he’s talking to?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
He thought about whether or not to answer, then did: “Fred Noonan’s wife.”
“Beatrice,” Putnam was saying, “I have a hunch they’re sitting somewhere on a coral island, just waiting for a ride home — Fred’s probably out sitting on a rock right now, catching their dinner with those fishing lines they had aboard. There’ll be driftwood to make a fire, and... Bea, please... Bea... For Christ’s sake, Bea! Look, one of two things has happened. Either they were killed outright — and that comes to all of us sooner or later — or they’re alive and’ll be picked up... Keep your chin up, Bea... Bea?”
Miller’s smile was gone; faint disgust had replaced it.
Putnam came strutting back, shrugging, saying, “She hung up on me! What the hell’s wrong with that woman? What does she want from me?”
“This is what I was talking about,” Miller snapped.
“What is?”
But Miller said nothing, and Joe came in carrying a little tray on his palm with my rum and Coke and Putnam’s Manhattan on it.
“Let’s sit out on the patio, shall we, gentlemen?” Putnam asked, plucking his drink off the tray.
I took mine also, sipped it.
“Actually, G. P.,” Miller said, glancing at his watch, “it’s been a long day... so if you’ll excuse me.”
“Nice meeting you,” I said.
Miller said, “Pleasure, Mr. Heller,” shooting me the meaningless smile one last time, and slipped past us into the dining room, turning toward the hallway to the new wing.
Soon Putnam and I were seated on the patio in white basket-weave metal lawn chairs, a round, white-metal, glass-topped table between us. Stretched out before us was a beautifully landscaped back yard washed ivory by moonlight, with stone paths, a trellis with climbing flowers, a fountain, potted agaves, and a flourishing vegetable garden.
But Putnam, leaned back in his chair, was glancing skyward. “It’s comforting to know she’s under this same sky,” he said, and sipped his Manhattan.
I gave the star-scattered sky a look, thinking, What a crock, and said, “I’m sure it is.”
“Who are you working for, Nate?” he asked, still looking at the sky. The moon was reflected in the lenses of his rimless glasses like Daddy Warbucks’s eyeballs.
“Nobody.”
“’Fess up. Who hired you? Mantz?”
Maybe Mantz had been right: maybe G. P. did have him followed in St. Louis.
I said, “I came out here because of Amelia.”
Now he looked at me, and half a smile formed; he raised his Manhattan glass and sipped. “Nate Heller? Working gratis? Has hell frozen over?”
“Does everybody have to have an angle?”
His expression turned astounded and amused. He gestured with the Manhattan glass almost as if he were toasting me. “You didn’t come here thinking I’d hire you? What could you do for A. E. that the Army and Navy can’t?”
Well within earshot were the open double windows of the study where Margot and I had spoken; I wondered if Miller was sitting in that darkened room right now, listening in, like a good little spy.
“Yeah, the Army and Navy,” I said, and took a swig of rum and Coke. “I notice you got them doing your dirty work... or is it the other way around?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Interesting houseguest you got there. He looks like John Wilkes Booth on the way to the theater.”
He leaned forward. “Why were you bothering my secretary?”
“I thought she was your wife’s secretary.”
“What has that stupid girl told you?”
I sipped my drink, shook my head, grinned. “How did you manage it, G. P.? How did you get Amelia to go along with you on this one? Or did you keep her in the dark about a lot of it? Of course, you had Noonan aboard, and he was Naval Reserve, and ex-Pan Am, the spy airline; was Noonan the real pilot of this mission?”
He smirked dismissively and sat back, sipped the Manhattan again. “What kind of gibberish are you talking?”
“I mean, Amelia’s a pacifist. You’d think the last thing she’d do is the military’s bidding. On the other hand, if her wonderful friends in the White House leaned on her, maybe...”
He was staring into his back yard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about you funding this flight by selling your wife out to the government. I’ve barely waded into this thing and already I’m drowning in the government’s involvement, from airstrips on Howland Island to cameras in the belly of that second Electra Uncle Sam bought her.”
That last one startled him. He gestured with the hand that held the Manhattan glass. “If what you’re saying is true... and I’m not saying it is, I’m not saying it isn’t... that would only make my wife a patriot.”
“Extra, extra, read all about it: we’re not at war right now. I seem to recall, in the campaign, FDR getting lambasted with a ‘warmonger’ label, for wanting to beef up the Army and Navy.”
“I seem to recall him winning the election, anyway.” G. P.’s face was expressionless now; his voice empty. “Please leave.”
“Maybe I do have an angle, at that. Like you said, G. P. Maybe there is a way for me to make a buck out of this.” I leaned across the table. “Can you imagine the kind of dough the Tribune would pay for a scoop like this? Colonel McCormick would dearly love to drag FDR’s aristocratic ass through the mud. I think they’ll like exposing you, too — we can start with you hiring that guy to put the acid on those rudder cables.”
His face remained impassive, but the hand holding the Manhattan glass trembled.
I snorted a laugh. “You know, it must have killed you, when you had to put a lid on so much of your publicity effort, once the military lowered its veil of secrecy. Here you trade your wife’s good name and maybe her life away, to fund the biggest flight of both your careers — and you can’t even properly exploit it! It’s a pisser.”
The glass snapped in his hand. He dropped the shards to the tabletop; his palm was cut, bloody. But he ignored it and said, “I would never risk my wife’s life. I love her. How can you accuse me of these atrocities? Do you actually imagine I don’t love her?”