The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

“That’s far enough, Mr. Dickens. Why don’t you just sit down on one of those kids’ desks, and we’ll have ourselves a talk.”


Charlie pulled in his breath, startled, and the gooseflesh raised on his arms. Mata Hari—he would have to call her that until he found out who she really was—was in the cloakroom. She had likely come in through a back door, and he chastised himself for not having gone around to the back of the building where her car was probably parked. She must be able to see him, he thought, and he searched the wall on either side of the blackboard for what he knew was there: a peephole. His teachers had had one, so if they retired briefly to the cloakroom, they could keep an eye out for misbehaving pupils. After a moment, he spotted it, beneath Calvin Coolidge’s photograph. Just a round hole in the wall, an inch or so in diameter. He couldn’t see an eye at that hole, watching, but he knew it was there, and it made him wary. And apprehensive.

“Sit down, Mr. Dickens,” Mata Hari said sharply. “Right there.”

“Whatever you say,” Charlie agreed, trying to sound casual. He pulled out his handkerchief and brushed the dust off a desk next to the aisle. He sat on the desk, his feet on the bench of the desk in front, directly in line with the peephole. He took a drag on his cigarette and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

“But you are gonna come out here and talk to me, aren’t you?” he asked. “I sure would like to know who you are.” As if to emphasize his remark, there was a sudden, electric-blue flash of lightning, bright enough to briefly illuminate the room, which had grown perceptibly darker since he had come in.

In answer, he heard a ripple of amused laughter. “Not on your life, Mr. Dickens. If I’d’ve wanted you to know who I am, I would’ve told you before now. I’m staying back here in the cloakroom and you are staying right where you are.” Her words were punctuated by the loud clap of thunder that followed the lightning. It rattled the glass in the old building’s windows—what was left of them.

The cloakroom. So that was why they were meeting here, Charlie realized. She had deliberately chosen this place so she could conceal herself while they talked and watch him through that peephole. He was disappointed, but he reminded himself that this was only the opening inning of their little game. Just because Mata Hari intended to get things started this way didn’t mean they had to end this way. No question about it, he needed to know who she was and what her connection was to the camp. His story would carry a lot more weight if he could quote his source and say how she got her knowledge. But to entice her out where he could see her, he first needed to make a move that would establish him as in control of their meeting.

“Any way you want it,” he said with a shrug of one shoulder. He dropped his cigarette into the dust of the aisle, got off the desk and stepped on it, and sat back down again. “Personally, I think it’d be friendlier if we could talk eye to eye. You know, friend to friend. But you can stay back there if that’s how you want it.”

“That’s generous of you,” she said with a dry irony.

“Yeah. I’m a generous person.” He pulled out his wallet and removed the handwritten four-sentence note she had sent him earlier. “Let’s start off with what you wrote to me. It’s actually pretty explosive stuff.” He unfolded it and read aloud, raising his voice over another growl of thunder.

Dear Mr. Dickens,

I think you ought to know that the purchasing program at the CCC camp is totally crooked. To get a contract, a farmer or supplier has to hand over a percentage of what he expects to get paid. Sometimes it’s ten percent, sometimes fifteen or even twenty, but he has to pay it before he gets the contract. Nobody dares to blow the whistle on this dirty dealing because everybody wants the money they get for whatever they’re selling.