“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?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t believe I fall inside that category, I’m afraid. All I’ve heard is what’s been reported in the press. One outlandish theory after another.”
“And do you have an opinion on any of them, Miss Macallister?”
“They all seem a little farfetched to me.” I tap some ash into the brass ashtray. “I’m sure you’d know much more about that kind of thing than I do. What do you think? I’m dying to know. Was Digby really a spy for the Soviets? Were they killed, or did they defect?”
If he’s shocked, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t even blink. “I don’t deal in speculation, Miss Macallister. I deal only in facts.”
I lean a little closer. “Come on, now. I promise I won’t spill the beans to the papers or anything. She is my sister, after all.”
You must understand that my heart’s beating like a dynamo. I hope he’s not the kind of fellow who looks at your neck to determine your pulse. I think I manage to keep the cigarette from shaking between my fingers, but it’s a question of mind over matter, believe me—of a self-control honed over years spent sitting across from men at desks and restaurant tables and boardrooms like this one. I raise the cigarette to my lips and stare inquisitively at the dent between Mr. Fox’s thick, straight eyebrows while I wait for him to speak. That’s harder than it sounds, by the way. Most human beings would rather swallow a live goldfish than a lump of silence.
Mr. Fox leans back in his chair. He wears a dark suit and a dark, plain tie, just in case you can’t guess what he does for a living. His shirt collar is white and crisp around his thick pink neck. “Let’s return to the known facts,” he says. “Mr. and Mrs. Digby lived overseas almost without pause since their marriage in June of 1940. Mr. Digby’s work took them to various US embassies and consulates around the world. Their last leave stateside occurred in 1947, just before Mr. Digby took up the post in London.”
“Is that so? I must have missed her. Shame.”
“But you did say that Mrs. Schuyler gave you regular reports on Mrs. Digby’s whereabouts and style of life, didn’t you?”
I shrug. “I didn’t always listen.”
“I doubt that.”
“It’s true. Anyway, they were always moving from country to country, those two, mingling with princes and popping out babies. How many was it? Three?”
He glances at his notebook. “She was expecting her third when she disappeared.”
“How lovely. Say.” I lean forward and frown. “If they’re in some kind of trouble, you’re not going to make me adopt the offspring, are you? I don’t get along well with children.”
“I’m happy to say that’s not a matter within the scope of our powers at the FBI, Miss Macallister. Returning to the matter at hand. You say you haven’t had any communication with her at all? Nothing recent, for example? Letters? Postcards?”
“Why should I? After all these years?”
“You tell me.”
I lean back again and cross one leg over the other. The chair squeaks agreeably. “You should talk to Aunt Vivian. She’s the one who used to get all the letters.”
“I already have.”
“Harry? Our brother? He’s out in Alaska somewhere, last I heard.”
“I’ve spoken to Mr. Macallister, yes.”
“What about her husband’s family? He’s got a mother or something, I seem to remember. And the father’s a real piece of work, from what I hear. Mr. Digby Senior, some kind of bigwig in oil.”
“Miss Macallister, you might be surprised to know that the FBI actually knows how to conduct a thorough investigation without recourse to any of your useful suggestions.”
“Touched a nerve, did I? Everything coming up dry? You’ve come to the end of the line?” I stub out the cigarette. “The end of the line being me, of course. Deadest of dead ends. I’m so sorry I couldn’t be of more use to you.”
“Yes, I can see the regret in your eyes, Miss Macallister.” He closes the notebook and replaces it in the inside pocket of his jacket. As he does so, I catch a glimpse of a mammoth chest.
I snap my fingers.