The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

And for the next few moments, while the lightning flickered, the thunder banged like an orchestra’s percussion section, and the wind—and now and then the rain—whipped against the old building, that’s what she did, reciting the names of a half-dozen local suppliers who had paid kickback fees, the amount they had forked over, and the kind of items that were being supplied to the camp. Charlie—who hadn’t known what to expect in the way of serious information, real information—was impressed. Whoever she was, she knew her stuff. He was talking to an insider.

When she paused for breath, he said, “How did you get all this? The names, I mean. The amounts. I need to know what kind of access you had.”

“You don’t want to know,” she said. “And I don’t want to tell you.”

He frowned. “Why?”

She didn’t answer right away, and when she did, she spoke reluctantly, as if she would rather not answer the question but felt compelled to. “It wasn’t . . . it wasn’t honest, what I did. I didn’t play fair.”

He frowned, wondering what she had done that she was ashamed of and wanting to make her feel better, to reassure her. “Look, Mata Hari.” He gave the name a special emphasis. “You’ve given yourself a spy’s name, and maybe you’re thinking there’s something dishonorable about spying. But the kickback scheme—it’s dishonest, start to finish. Illegal and immoral, too. So what does it matter if you didn’t play fair?”

“It matters to me,” she said quietly. “I didn’t set out to be a spy. I only did what I felt I had to do. So don’t ask how I did it. Just believe me. Give me credit for telling the truth. If you could get the records, you’d see that everything I’m telling you is accurate.”

“Well, then, how about the way the scheme operated?” Charlie said, moving on. After all, Ophelia was supposed to be getting the records. With luck, he’d have plenty of corroborating material, maybe as early as this evening. “Give me the big picture.”

She seemed happier to talk about that part of it, in the intervals between the lightning and thunder, which seemed to be coming at an accelerating clip. But she was focused on what she was saying, and she ignored the storm. At the camp, the various departments and divisions turned in their orders to the quartermaster’s office, which ran a regular advertisement in the Dispatch for what was needed. (Charlie knew all about this, of course. Corporal Andrews, the quartermaster’s assistant, brought the ads in a couple of times a month. The additional advertising revenue was definitely welcome.) The advertisement spelled out what was needed and invited bidders. Once the bids were in, the liaison officer (Ophelia Snow, as Charlie also knew) went to work, “qualifying” the bidders, who were then selected by the quartermaster.

“Sometimes they’re picked on price,” she said. “The low bidder gets it. But as time goes on, they’re usually picked on the basis of performance on a previous contract. That is, if your vegetables were fresh and good and you delivered on time, you’d get another contract. If you were still the low bidder, that is. It’s been pretty competitive.”

It sounded like a standard operation, Charlie thought. “You’re a supplier, I take it,” he said.

“Yes.” She hesitated, then in a lower voice, said, “No. Not now.”

Charlie heard the change in her tone. “Not now,” he repeated. “Why is that?”

She sighed. “Just listen,” she said, and went on to tell him in detail how the kickback system worked. The contract would be offered to the supplier, who would be told before he signed it that there was a fee involved, which would have to be paid out of the proceeds. If the supplier balked at this or seemed reluctant, he would be told that the contract would go to the next person on the list. There was nothing overtly intimidating about any of this, the woman said. It was presented to the would-be supplier as a simple step in the process and delivered with a friendly smile, so that people would think that this was just the way business was normally done in the CCC.