All of which has brought me to this point, agreeing so foolishly to meet this strange man, just because he’s drawn a picture of my daughter and claims to know something about Simon. I realize, as his voice reaches me through the darkness, just how very foolish I’ve been, how terribly reckless, all for the sake of a man who might or might not be worth the trouble.
“Please sit,” the man says, stepping forward from the shadows—or rather the depth of the shadows, because we’re still shrouded (as they say) in darkness. The glow from the hotel windows reaches only so far, and there isn’t much moon to speak of. A perfect night to run in a boatload or two of rum from Cuba. I point this out to my companion, by way of idle conversation, as I obey his instructions and settle myself on the edge of a wrought iron chair, trying to steady my vision without looking as if I needed to.
“That’s true,” he replies, taking possession of the neighboring chair, “but a mere shipment or two of contraband isn’t my chief concern, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, much as I deplore the activity.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you? I guess I should introduce myself, in that case. My name is Marshall, and I’m an agent for the Bureau of Internal Revenue.”
“You’re a Prohibition man?”
“Yes.” He reaches into the inner breast pocket of his jacket. “If you’d care to see my badge.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, but I believe it is. In fact, you ought to insist on official identification. The nature of this business is such that any number of unscrupulous men will try to convince you they’re one thing, when they’re really another.”
“But badges can be faked, can’t they?”
He lays an object on the table between us. “That’s true. Still, I’m a fellow who likes to preserve the formalities. I imagine you’ve found it difficult to find men you can trust, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and for what it’s worth, you can trust me.”
“Anyone can say that.”
“Yes. I guess I might be any kind of villain, as far as you’re concerned. God knows the bureau’s got enough villains of its own, badge or no badge. Still.” He lifts the object from the table and replaces it inside his jacket. He sits facing me, at a perpendicular angle to the hotel itself, so that one side of his face is faintly lit from the golden Flamingo windows and the other side is as dark as Biscayne Bay itself. His bones are just as solid as they appeared today on the beach, and across all the acreage of smooth, young skin covering that wide jaw, not a single particle of stubble dares to glitter above the surface. Mr. Marshall is the kind of man who shaves twice a day, come war or come hurricane, probably with an old-fashioned cutthroat blade instead of a modern double-edged safety razor.
“Assuming, then, you really are a Prohibition agent,” I say, “what exactly was your business with my husband?”
He straightens his jacket and rests one elbow on the table. “Before I answer that, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, I feel myself obliged to inquire after your own health. As I understand it, you’ve been through something of an ordeal, these past several months.”
“Oh? And what do you know about my ordeal?”
“It’s my business to know things. And even if it weren’t my business, I couldn’t help but read the story. You’ve been featured in every newspaper in the country, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, or didn’t you know?”
“I’ve been too busy to read the newspapers.”
He nods. “Well, in any case, I apologize for disturbing you during your . . . well—”
“Bereavement? Time of distress?”
“If you want to call it that. Although I don’t imagine you came down here to Florida for the purpose of relaxation.”
“My purpose in Florida is none of your business, Mr. Marshall. All I really need from you is your information about my husband, if you really have it. And you might tell me why you felt yourself entitled to draw a portrait of my daughter, without my knowledge or permission.”
“I apologize for the liberty. I only wanted to gain your attention.”
“You have it. For the moment. Now bring yourself to the point, please, before they miss me inside.”
Mr. Marshall tilts his head an inch or two, and I can’t help thinking what a torpid man he is, compared with Simon, who always seemed to be in motion—always in the middle of some emotion or action or complex puzzle of logic. Or maybe that was only for my benefit. Cool as January, Mr. Burnside called him. Maybe this expressiveness was only another one of Simon’s disguises, another of the masks he wore, each one custom-built for its intended audience.
“All right,” Mr. Marshall says, moving his lips only the essential minimum required for speech. “I guess I might as well start by observing that you didn’t seem a bit surprised, a moment ago, when I told you the nature of my work. Pursuing the illegal importation of intoxicating liquors into this country, I mean.”
“Maybe not.”
“Then it won’t surprise you, either, to hear that we—the bureau, that is, and I personally—believe your husband’s death, like the deaths of most men mixed up in the bootlegging business around here, was not a simple act of God.”
A good thing it’s so damned dark out here in the Japanese garden, because while I’m able to check the gasp in my throat as Mr. Marshall pronounces the words your husband’s death, I feel pretty certain my face betrays a flinch. You know the kind: that involuntary spasm that follows an unexpected slap.
You see, I was expecting something else. I guess I was expecting that Mr. Marshall was about to reveal to me some kind of startling secret. That Mr. Marshall was going to lean forward and take my hand and tell me, in a voice of terrible quiet, to prepare myself for a great shock, because by some miracle or some improbable contortion of known fact, Simon is still alive. Alive! Alive, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. It’s true. Because there’s been a mistake, an extraordinary mistake, or maybe even a strange and complicated business afoot. That another, anonymous man died in the fire on Cocoa Beach that night, and Mr. Marshall is about to tell me why.
Not this. Your husband’s death.
“Mrs. Fitzwilliam?” he says gently.
“No. I suppose I’m not surprised at all. I always thought there was something strange about the whole affair. Something more.” I swallow back a sensation of nausea. Gather some kind of composure. “Do you have any idea who might be responsible?”
“We have a couple of ideas, yes. You see, that’s my job at the moment. We’re trying to take apart a ring of bootleggers, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, an illegal operation so large and complex, it’s controlling pretty much all the traffic along the coast of Florida. I won’t bore you with all the details—”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be bored at all, Mr. Marshall. I like details. I’m not the kind of woman who sits back with her knitting, you know, and leaves the dirty tasks to the men.”
He nods, and the tip of his nose catches a bit of light. “I hear you drove an ambulance in the war.”