Our Woman in Moscow(59)
“I say it because it’s true. I haven’t told you everything I know, because I can’t. That’s the nature of this job. But I have always conducted my affairs in as honorable a fashion as I can. To lay as many cards as possible upon the table, depending on how well I can trust the person sitting across from me. I would like to trust you, Miss Macallister, and I hope you can trust me. I don’t believe I overstate the case when I say that your sister’s life depends on it.”
He’s not a handsome man, Sumner Fox, as I’ve already explained. His wide, blunt face bears no more resemblance to the exquisite men I’ve signed to the Hudson Agency than an army boot resembles a custom Italian shoe. The ruff of hair on his head is an afterthought, so pale it’s nearly white. His nose looks as if someone’s nudged it gently to one side. The most you can say of his looks is that they’re arresting—no pun intended—and yet I can’t seem to look away from him. I stare into his colorless eyes the way you stare into a mirror. I badly want a cigarette.
“What makes you think you can trust me, Mr. Fox?”
He stares at me as if this isn’t what he was expecting me to say. Then he reaches behind his back and lifts a manila envelope. His arm is remarkably long, like a gorilla’s. He offers me the envelope.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“What I was busy obtaining for you last weekend. You see, Miss Macallister, I already know a great deal about you. I hope that doesn’t disturb you. I know that your father took his life in 1929, when you were eleven years old, and your mother died of cancer when you were twenty. You attended the Chapin School in Manhattan from 1923 until 1935, when you graduated and enrolled at Mount Holyoke College in Massachusetts, along with your twin sister, and earned a bachelor’s degree in geology, of all things—”
“I like rocks,” I say.
“—and then traveled with your sister to Rome, where your brother worked in the consular services department of the US embassy.”
“Congratulations on your fine detective work, Mr. Fox. Those are all nice facts.”
“Signore Orlovsky,” says Fox, in perfect Italian, and without looking away, “may I beg you for a moment of privacy with Miss Macallister?”
“Yes, of course.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Orlovsky bow—briefly—and walk out of the studio.
“Your Italian’s a lot better than mine,” I tell Fox.
“Language is a hobby of mine. May I continue?”
I don’t especially want him to continue. I have a bad feeling about his continuing. Still, I shrug back as if I don’t care. As if I’m curious to discover what he knows about me.
“During the course of your winter in Rome, you began a relationship with a Russian émigré and fashion designer by the name of Valeri Valierovich Orlovsky. The affair broke off around the third week of March, just before your sister’s accident brought you both into contact with Mr. Digby.”
“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Fox. I don’t know where the hell you’ve been getting your facts, but I don’t see that my private life is any of your business—”
He shakes his head. “I’m not interested in prurient details, and I don’t care how you conduct your personal affairs. We are all different. We are all locked in struggle with our own demons. But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t make some effort to understand the psychology of everyone connected to this case, Miss Macallister. You asked me how I knew I could trust you, and I’m telling you.”
“Jesus Christ.”
He sends me a hard look. I presume that whatever tolerance he extends to my sexual history, he doesn’t enjoy hearing the name of his Lord taken in vain. “At the beginning of May, you made plans to leave Rome. You booked a second-class cabin in the steamship Antigone for you and Mrs. Digby—then, of course, still Miss Macallister—but at the last minute, she elected to stay in Rome with Mr. Digby. You traveled home to New York, sharing your cabin with a Mrs. Slocombe, who recalled that you were subdued and—I quote her—under the weight of some great sorrow.”
“That’s only because Mrs. Slocombe wouldn’t stop talking.”
“Two years after your return, you found a job as Mr. Hudson’s secretary, taking over more of his duties following his stroke in the summer of 1944. The agency enjoyed great success under your administration. During the war, you organized your more celebrated clients to sell government bonds, and for propaganda efforts under the direction of the War Department. Just about everyone who’s worked with you—clients, government officials, advertising executives, magazine editors, even business rivals—describes you as fiercely intelligent, honorable, tough but fair, and not above using your personal charisma to achieve advantage on behalf of the models you represent.”
Sometime during the course of this disquisition, I find a seat on the wide, deep couch. I cross my legs and light a cigarette from my pocketbook, and my God, I have never needed one more badly.
“Throughout your adult life,” he continues, watching my face, “you have conducted your private affairs with remarkable discretion. You donate significant sums of money to several worthy charities, but you choose to keep your contributions anonymous. Your social activities are chiefly undertaken with some business angle, such as fund raisers and publicity outings—your evening visit to the Palmetto Club last weekend, for example. You’ve taken pains to project an image of sexual sophistication, but in fact, since returning to New York, you appear to have had intimate relationships with only a handful of men. In rotation, like a baseball lineup.”