Our Woman in Moscow(5)

“That’s an excellent question, Miss Macallister. Maybe you could answer it for me.”

“Me? I don’t think you know the facts of the case. Do you smoke, Mr. Fox?”

He blinks his pale eyes. “No, thank you.”

“Then I hope I don’t offend you.” I stalk around the other side of the table to the console, where the agency keeps a selection of cigarettes for the refreshment of the august members of the board of directors. I light one with a match, old-fashioned damsel that I am. By the time I turn back to face Mr. Fox, I feel I have the situation in hand.

“I must confess, I’m mystified. Why come to me now, after all these years? I mean, I haven’t heard a word from the FBI, not since that first week after they disappeared.”

“And yet most families would be beating down our door, demanding an explanation, when a diplomat goes missing on a foreign posting with his wife and children.”

“Well, we aren’t most families.” I blow out a stream of smoke. “To be perfectly honest, I hadn’t seen or heard from my sister in years. Long before the State Department lost track of her.”

“How many years?”

I stare at the ceiling and count my fingers. “Twelve. Why, it’s June, isn’t it? That makes twelve years exactly. I ought to bake a cake or something.”

His frown is not a frown of disapproval or of sadness or anything subjective like that. I think he’s just pondering the meaning of it all—twin sisters estranged for a dozen years—what could possibly have caused such an unnatural divorce? He might also be disappointed. Clearly there’s not much you can learn about a woman from a sister who’s better acquainted with her dry cleaner.

“So you see,” I continue, hoping to shut down the entire conversation, “you’re barking up the wrong tree, if you want the lowdown on whatshername.”

“Iris.”

I snap my fingers. “That’s it.”

“Do you mind if we sit down?”

“Yes, I do, rather. Stack of work sitting on my desk. Dictation to type up, telephone messages to deliver.”

He cracks the smallest smile. “Now I know you’re just pulling my leg. Have a seat, Miss Macallister, and I’ll do the same. The sooner we finish this conversation, the sooner you can get back to your secretarial duties.”

I suppose I realize I’ve met my match, when it comes to stubbornness of character. And really, I’m not offended. After all, we want our FBI men to be tough, stubborn, unrelenting sons of bitches, don’t we? At least when they’re not after us.

I take the chair he gallantly pulls out for me and wait for him to take the seat opposite. Drag an ashtray from the center of the table and make myself comfortable with it.

“I hope you don’t mind if I study your face,” I say. “It’s an occupational habit.”

“Not much to study. I’ve been told I’m no picture portrait.”

“That’s true. You look as if somebody carved you from a tree with a blunt axe. But beauty isn’t everything when it comes to photographs. If you’ve been in this business long enough, why, beauty’s sort of boring. Like Tolstoy. Beautiful people are all alike, but the ugly . . .”

“Now, that’s an interesting observation, coming from a beautiful woman.”

“Pshaw.” I tap a little ash into the tray. “I thought you intended to move things along?”

“As you like. You don’t mind if I take notes, do you?” He pulls a small leather notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Be my guest. I do take shorthand, if you need a break or something.”

“That would be against protocol, I’m afraid. You say you last saw your sister in June of 1940?”

“That’s correct.”

“And since then you haven’t spoken at all? Letters, telegrams?”

“Not a word.”

He set down his pen. “You don’t have any idea of her whereabouts, from June of 1940 until November of 1948? What she was doing? Husband and children and any of that?”

“Of course I do. Our aunt kept me filled in, from time to time.”

“That would be Mrs. Charles Schuyler, wouldn’t it?”

“My stars, you have done your homework, haven’t you? We know her as Aunt Vivian, of course.”

“I’m glad to hear it. So Mrs. Schuyler represents your only source of information on Mrs. Digby’s whereabouts—”

“And our brother, Harry. I believe he dropped in on them, from time to time, at whatever diplomatic post they’d been sent to.”

He casts me a sharp look, as if there’s some hidden meaning in this. “Until November of 1948, of course, when Mrs. Digby and her family vanished from their flat in London.”

“That’s right. I read all about it in the papers.”

“Just the papers?”

“Well, it was a sensational case, wasn’t it? Once the press got their hands on it. No signs of struggle or burglary or anything like that. They just packed their suitcases and left, and nobody’s heard from them since. Isn’t that right, Mr. Fox?”

“Not necessarily. Don’t you think Mrs. Digby might have tried to find some way to send word to those she loves?”