Old Home Week
Chapter 1It was almost spring, not that it mattered much what season it was in Los Angeles. There was a lightness in the air; the smell of jasmine and honeysuckle, and a gentle breeze wafted those smells all the way to Stu's apartment. He stepped outside the door to his building and took a deep breath. Ah, that smells good, he thought. He walked to his car and put the top down, more than willing to turn the heater on low if it got too cold. At least that way he could enjoy the warm sunshine. It was the kind of day that made you wish you had flowers, and a girl to give them to.
It had been an unusually cold winter, cold even by California standards. He'd threatened several times to take a week off and go skiing, but somehow the work never let him. Every time he finished a case another one popped up, and now it was too late to go. He'd just have to settle for going next winter, he told himself as he drove to the office. Besides, it was too beautiful a day to worry about it. The kind of day you wait all year for. The kind of day that almost made you forget what was bothering you.
He got to the office ahead of everyone but Suzanne; that didn't surprise him any. He wondered if she had any kind of life outside of the office; even when he was early she beat him in. "Good morning, Stuart," he heard in that lilting French accent as he came through the door.
"Good morning, sunshine," he answered. "Suzanne, has Roscoe come in yet?"
"He's in your office, Stuart," she answered.
Sure enough, Roscoe was sitting in a chair in front of his desk. "Hey, Stu, I've got a great lead on a horse in the fifth named . . . "
"Roscoe, can you answer the switchboard for Suzanne?"
"She's sittin' there, Stu."
A nod of the head. "I know, but she might be going somewhere. Can you? Would you?"
"Sure. You know me. I'm flexible. Hey, wait. There's a horse in the third race . . . "
Stu went back out front and left Roscoe babbling in his office. "Suzanne, come with me." He held out his hand to her and she took it. He pulled her up out of her chair and yelled, "Roscoe!"
The aforementioned Roscoe came running out. "Yes?"
"Switchboard duty."
"Where are you two going?" The inveterate horseplayer asked.
"Out," Stu answered as he escorted Suzanne out the door. He walked her over to his car and went around to open the door for her. "Get in, please."
"Where are we going, Stuart?"
"Up the coast. It's too nice to be inside, and I don't want to go alone," Stu replied with just a hint of gaiety in his voice.
"But we . . . " Suzanne started to protest.
"There's nothing that we have to do that won't wait. Besides, I'm just borrowing you for the morning. I'll return you to your rightful owner later."
"Excuse me?"
"It's just a joke, Suzanne. I know you and Jeff care for each other. It's beyond me why the two of you won't admit it. So I'm borrowing you to keep me company while I try to remember why I live in Southern California. Does that explain it?"
There was a semi-perplexed look on her face. "Sort of. When did you decide to do this?"
That elicited the full-fledged Stuart Bailey smile. "On my way to work this morning. Don't you ever do anything on impulse, Suzanne?"
"No, and neither do you, Stuart," she laughed.
"That's true. Well, I thought I'd change that. Welcome to the new Stuart Bailey."
"There was nothing wrong with the old Stuart Bailey."
"Ah, there's that word. Old. That's what was wrong with me, I was beginning to feel old. Now, isn't it beautiful here?" Stu was driving north on Pacific Coast Highway; the city had slipped away and the Pacific Ocean lay to their left. The smell of spring was even stronger here. Try as he might, there was still something on his mind, and Suzanne could almost sense it.
The receptionist nodded. "It is. I've never been this far north on this street."
"Highway, my dear, highway. You must admit it's a lovely day for a drive up this way."
"It is rather chilly, though," she remarked, shivering slightly.
"That's easy to fix," was Stu's reply, and he reached over and flipped a switch. Soon enough there was lovely warm air blowing on their feet, taking the chill out of the air surrounding them.
"What's bothering you, Stuart?" Suzanne asked out of nowhere.
He hesitated a minute before answering her with another question. "Why do you think there's something bothering me, mother?" He had taken to calling her mother a while back, when he was distraught over something and subsisting only on alcohol; she insisted he eat something, instead. He, in turn, called her mother.
"Calling yourself old, doing something totally out of character, whisking me off to who knows where. There is something bothering you, isn't there?"
Stuart didn't say anything for a few minutes; he kept his eyes on the road and his hands on the steering wheel. Suzanne glanced at him and noticed how tightly he was holding the wheel, almost as if it would slip from his grasp if he dared ease his grip. When he finally spoke, it was only one word. "Yes."
"Tell me, Stuart. You know you can trust me."
"It's not that, Suzanne. I'm not sure I can put it in words."
"Try, please. I want to help."
An ironic laugh. "I'm not sure you can."
"Stuart." Her tone was firm but soothing. She might just be an employee of Bailey and Spencer, but she adored both of the men she worked for. And she was worried about Stu. He was behaving completely out of character; there had to be a reason why.
He sighed and relaxed his grip on the wheel. There was a lookout point not too far ahead, and when he got there he pulled into it and turned off the engine. "I got a call last week from Jean-André Durand. Jean and I worked together in France during the war. I was in the OSS and Jean was part of the French resistance. It's been a while since we talked, and the last time we spoke Jean was living in Strasbourg on the French-German border. He called me from Berlin.
"There's something going on in the city, and he's concerned. No, more than that, he's worried. He's heard chatter that sounds a lot like the old Nazi propaganda, but it's coming from the Russians. There's a lot of unrest, and the rumors have been rampant. He contacted Washington, and they want me to fly to Berlin and see what I can find out. I've got an uneasy feeling about all of it, Suzanne. Jean-André tried to laugh it off, said he's probably worrying for nothing. Told me it would be like old home week; one of my old G2 compatriots has been called in, too. Tony O'Connor, speaks fluent Russian and German, as well as enough French to get by. Tony's going as an independent consultant; he's not going to be constrained by Washington's rules like I am. Still, he's a good man and I'd trust him with my life."
"What has you so concerned, Stuart? It sounds like the type of investigation you excel in."
"Something's not right, Suzanne. I don't know how to explain it any better than that. Jean-André was distant and stiff sounding, even when he was trying to make a joke. I haven't talked to Tony in years; I have no idea where he's been or what he's been doing. And I have no idea what an independent consultant is supposed to be. Quite frankly, I thought I was an independent consultant. There's something the government hasn't told me, and I don't want to be stranded in the middle of East Berlin like a sitting duck. They gave me the option of turning the operation down, and I'm seriously considering taking them up on their offer. Still, if it turns out to be my own qualms and nothing else, I'd hate to miss the chance to work with Jean and Tony again."
"You already know what you're going to do, don't you? That's what you're having a hard time with."
"I hate going off and leaving Jeff by himself again. I've no idea how long this is going to take; I think that a week is optimistic, at best. Unless Jean is seeing something that's not really there. And there's always a chance . . . that I might not come back."
"How realistic is that possibility, Stuart? You've worked on things like this before with no . . .harm coming to you." Suzanne didn't even want to think about what it would do to Jeff if something happened to Stu.
"It's always a possibility, Suzanne. We're dealing with the East Germans here – in other words, the Russians. There's no such thing as 'safe' in East Berlin."
"But you're going to go anyway. I hear the commitment in your voice, see the excitement in your eyes. You just want someone to tell you it's the right thing to do."
"I . . . I guess you're right. Well? Is it?"
"I cannot answer that for you, Stuart. You must answer it for yourself."
Stu sighed. He sat still for another minute without saying anything, then started the engine, lit a cigarette, and pulled back onto Pacific Coast Highway, this time going back the way they'd come. "Would you go if it was you? Knowing what you know?"
She lowered her head and spoke to her hands, folded in her lap. "Oui."
Stu had lost the joy he'd felt earlier in the morning. Not much was said on the way back to Hollywood; the P.I. had a lot to think about.