Glen Allen - The shadow war

[rest of the letter missing]

And that was it. While there were still many entries about the Puritans and their growing success in the New World, Benjamin knew there was nothing further about Bainbridge, either pater or fils. But as he was closing the journal he noticed, for the first time, a single, very faint mark in the margin next to the word Puramis. It looked partially erased. Leaning down so his face almost touched the paper, he saw that it was a small triangle, with what might have been a single dot in its center.

It might have been another of his father's shorthand codes, but Benjamin couldn't remember ever having seen this one anywhere else in his notes.

It was then a knock came at his door. He looked at the clock on the table-almost an hour had passed while he was reading his father's journal. Before he could say anything, the door opened and Wolfe entered. He was wearing an immaculate white dinner jacket.

"Chop chop," he said. "We're wanted for dinner."

"Dinner? Uh, why don't you go on without me. I'm a little busy here. And I haven't changed…"

"You're fine. Hurry, we don't want to miss the cocktail hour. I'll wait in the hall."

Benjamin went into the small bathroom, splashed some water onto his face, combed his hair and straightened his tie, then went back into the bedroom. He found his shoes where he'd tossed them next to the bed, put them on.

As he bent down to tie his shoes, he saw something under the bed. He squatted down and reached, slid it out from under the bed with two fingers.

It was a yellow piece of paper with blue lines-a page from a small legal pad, folded in the middle. He was about to open it when Wolfe shouted from the hallway.

"Benjamin! I hear the ice clinking!"

Benjamin threw the paper, still folded, on the bedside table, switched the lamp off, and left.

The dozen or more round tables in the dining room had been set with white tablecloths, gardenia centerpieces, candles, and white china. At the head of the room the massive antique table was covered with a deep red tablecloth. The crystal chandeliers were aglow, there was a modest fire in the fireplace, and light reflected from the gilt-edged mirror over the fireplace and the deep brown walnut wainscoting.

"Eureka," said Wolfe, ignoring the elegance of their surroundings. He guided Benjamin to a bar on one side of the hall, somewhat forcefully elbowing his way to its edge. He handed Benjamin a drink, something amber.

Benjamin took a sip, winced. "Scotch again?"

"Yes," said Wolfe, looking about the room. "Because you liked it so much last night."

Benjamin surveyed the room, noticed the "grandees" table at the front. He saw Arthur Terrill there, and on his left Edith Gadenhower. On Arthur's right was an extremely well-tanned gentleman with thick, shining, impeccably styled silver hair.

"Who's that?" Benjamin asked, pointing.

Wolfe turned, looked, chuckled. "Ah. That particularly well-preserved monument is George 'Former' Montrose."

"Former?"

"Former secretary of state, former chief of staff, former director of the CIA… From what I understand, he's a genial idiot, but with first-class connections. Montrose is the Foundation's front man for this new contract."

"Contract? You mean that 'paycheck' you mentioned in Arthur's office?"

Wolfe didn't seem to hear him. He was scanning the room as it filled with people, everyone standing around sipping their cocktails and chatting before dinner began.

Suddenly Wolfe started out through the crowd, saying to Benjamin, "Let's try this direction, shall we."

Stepping between the chairs and groups of people-Wolfe nodded to one or two but kept Benjamin moving forward-they arrived at a mismatched couple: a very tall woman and a very short man.

Benjamin couldn't help but stare at the woman. She was a striking blonde with her hair up in a French twist and dressed formally in a low-cut black evening dress. She smiled when she saw Wolfe, as though she knew him; her smile was brilliant, cool, enticing-almost fierce. Benjamin hardly noticed the man she was with.

"Dr. Gudrun Soderbergh," Wolfe said, making introductions, "this is Benjamin Wainwright." She nodded at him as she raised a cocktail-something clear and with ice-to her lips. She kept her eyes on Benjamin even as she drank, and Benjamin had to pull his gaze from her as Wolfe continued the introductions.

"And here we have Dr. Edward Stoltz." He indicated the short, very well-dressed man in his midfifties with black hair and a small, well-trimmed mustache. Stoltz nodded and said, "Greetings."

Benjamin gave Wolfe a quizzical look.

"Yes, I called them," Wolfe said. "I thought we might save some time."

"So, Benjamin," said Gudrun, "you're Mr. Wolfe's protege?"

"Not at all, Dr. Soderbergh," Wolfe replied for him. "Dr. Wainwright is a gentleman and scholar in his own right. I've merely commandeered his talents for the duration."

"The duration of what?" asked Dr. Stoltz. He was drinking a cocktail in a frosted glass with sprig of mint in it.

"Their investigation, of course," said Gudrun. "Of Jeremy's unfortunate demise. Isn't that why you asked us to dine with you?"

"Well, that and the stellar company," said Wolfe. He saluted Gudrun with his empty cocktail glass-which he immediately held up, looking to catch a waiter's eye for a refill. "You see, I believe you were among the last people to see Dr. Fletcher alive."

"And how do you know," Stoltz said with a certain irritation, "that we were the last people to see Dr. Fletcher alive?"

"Well…," began Wolfe. Then he saw a waiter passing, said "Excuse me," and hurried off in pursuit.

"I think what Mr. Wolfe meant," said Benjamin uncomfortably, "is that you were his last appointments. He met with you this week."

Gudrun shook her head. "Not with me," she said.

"No, no," Benjamin said hurriedly, "but he wanted to. I mean, he'd scheduled you for Friday, yes?"

Again Gudrun shook her head. "Not that I know of," then said, "I hope that doesn't mean you don't want to speak with me."

"Oh," was all Benjamin could think to say.

"With you, Dr. Soderbergh, most of all," said Wolfe, returning, his glass full again. "Gudrun," he said thoughtfully. "Wasn't that the name of some Norse Amazon in the tale of Sigurd? The one he spurned, and who then enacted terrible revenge upon him?"

Gudrun didn't flinch. "Amazon," she replied coolly, "is really just a word for a strong woman. And strong women tend to make men… uncomfortable. So they make up terrible stories about them."

Wolfe smiled but didn't respond. Benjamin couldn't see how any of this was serving as an interview and decided to take the lead.

"So, Dr. Stoltz, you did speak with Jeremy, yes?"

Stoltz looked at him as though he were a slow child. "Yes," he said, "and a most interesting conversation it was." Wolfe used that moment to steer Gudrun a few feet away and begin a conversation with her, Benjamin couldn't quite hear about what, but Stoltz was going on.

"But first tell me, Mr. Wainwright, what do you think so far of our little community?"

Benjamin wasn't sure whether Stoltz was referring to the Foundation or its people, so he decided to assume the former, as it was easier to categorize.

"It's beautiful. The buildings and grounds… and that extraordinary mural, in the manse?"

"Ah," said Stoltz, nodding. "The Bayne panorama. Odd you should bring that up. That was what brought Dr. Fletcher to me."

"Really?" said Benjamin, trying to conceal his surprise. "And what did you tell him?"

"Well, I began by telling him that it's from the late 1920s. It isn't quite a Gropper, he was too busy doing post offices and banks, that sort of public welfare thing. But I told him it's an excellent representation of Gropper's style: the heroic poses, the slick surfaces, complete lack of corners, even in the faces. And the enormous scale. It's no Man at the Crossroads, of course, but it's quite interesting."