Keeping Secrets (12 page)

The visit from Richard Boscomb had sharpened my fear of Mark to a keener edge than before because now it was evident he had friends who could all too easily tighten the noose around my neck even while he remained miles away. How many others like Mr. Boscomb had been alerted to my situation? Had he confided in anyone here before he left for New Orleans?

“Lady, that's four bits,” said the taxi driver.

“What? Oh, of course, thank you.”

While in the shop I realized that if the pawnbroker—a small, scrubby little man with garlic strong on his breath—purchased and in turn sold the ensemble, there might come a day when Emory would see another woman wearing it, or at least a piece or two from it.

“Just the stones, take them out,” I told him, my throat constricted.

He peered at me above his eyeglasses, and for a moment I feared he would change his mind and send me away without taking any of it, but then he said, “There's a lot of gold here. I'll have to reduce my offer quite a bit—”

“It's all right. Go ahead,” I told him quickly.

From there I went straight to the post office to forward the money, then walked back home. I clutched the box that held the empty gold filigree settings and tried to console myself that at least I had these. Maybe one day I could somehow get money to have them reset with some opals that Emory would mistake for the originals. Yet I knew that hope was futile. For now, I would have to say nothing for as long as possible, and when the day came that Emory demanded to know why I had not worn the ensemble, I would think of something to tell him.

Once in the house again I went straight to our room, lay across the bed, and wept. After a while I heard a rapping on the door.

“Is anything wrong?” Nathan asked.

“No, nothing.”

“Did you hear something from Cabot?”

“Yes,” I answered. Why wouldn't he go away?

“Is he all right?”

“Yes.”

He paused for what seemed to me quite a long time before I finally heard his footsteps on the stairs.

14

Emory arrived home at the end of the first week in April—less than three months since he left. Having expected the tour to keep him away half the year, I was delighted to have him back so soon, amazed at his reports that the trip had gone so smoothly, the response a solid vote of favor and support—even including Carlos Barrista. Indoctrination of the people by word of mouth would soon begin.

He was exultant as he reported, “To get around fast in Mexico, all you need is a good horse, a little luck, and a tough ass,” but by the middle of the month an unpleasant surprise caused a quick change in his mood.

General Huerta, who had double-crossed Madero and overthrown the Mexican Government established by him, only to be forced into exile himself the previous year, suddenly appeared in New York. Emory flew into a tirade, which I could not understand at the time.

“I agree he has some nerve, but surely he can't cause much of a fuss,” I told him. “One thing all of Mexico agrees on is their hatred of him.”

My remarks fell on deaf ears. Emory paced back and forth in the sitting room, puffing abrupt and volatile clouds of smoke from the end of his cigar. Presently he put on his hat and said he was going out.

It wasn't long before I was able to see at least part of the reason for his anger. Huerta soon began issuing frequent press releases, claiming that he had been wrongly accused of killing Madero, but that he knew who was responsible, and was keeping it secret. What a despicable character he was.

Then on the first of May the fuse was lit. Huerta, we learned, was fomenting a new Mexican rebellion while installed in safe quarters in New York, meeting with “friends” in the style of a corporate official in a board room. He was suspected of being aided by one of the belligerent nations in Europe.

If Emory took the news badly, it was no worse than the way President Wilson viewed it. He immediately issued a statement to the effect that anyone caught planning a rebellion in the United States would be prosecuted severely. Only when this statement was published did I begin to see the full nature of Emory's wrath.

Government officials were going to be redoubling their efforts to nip revolutionaries in the bud, and one obvious place they were going to comb pretty closely was San Antonio. From then on we would be living under a new burden of danger, heavier than that before. It was a fairly certain guess we wouldn't be seeing any more of Barrista for a long time because he didn't dare step across the border. Possibly I would never see him again, if plans for the revolution failed.

Yet that was only a part of the mounting complications around us. The sinking of the steamer
Lusitania
had all of us, for the first time, more directly involved in the European war than anyone over here cared to be.

Actually there was less said about it around our neighborhood than I would have expected, considering the fact that what began as a predominantly German settlement years ago was by this time so interspersed with people of other origins—English, Italian, French, and Irish among them as well as people like us, with lineage they'd rather not discuss. Maybe it seemed safer to concentrate on the fact we were all Americans, first, and that was why the subject was largely ignored during across-the-fence chitchat sessions and coffees.

I suspect inside the privacy of homes a different story was being told. It certainly was in ours, and I know I was at least partially responsible for the conflict which arose between Emory and me one night because, in the back of my mind, I was always looking out for Woody. The situation was not helped by the fact that Emory had been drinking for a while when we began to talk. I'd learned only that day that a small newspaper in the German language called
The German Frie Presse
was printed by a man over on King William. Astonished I had never heard of it before, I asked Emory if he knew about it.

“Sure, so what?”

“I just thought it was interesting. I'll bet that poor fellow feels uncomfortable right now … since the
Lusitania
was sunk.”

He shrugged.

Irritated by his drinking as well as his attitude, I stupidly forged on: “I hope we don't get pulled into that war because of it. Do you think we might?”

“How should I know?” he replied belligerently.

“After all the dust was kicked up down in Mexico because old Huerta wouldn't salute the U.S. flag, I can't see Wilson letting Germany get by with killing a bunch of innocent Americans.”

“They were warned beforehand to stay out of those waters.”

“Well they have a nerve, declaring all waters around the British Isles, including the English Channel, a war zone.”

“That'll teach the British to cut off their raw materials and food supply.”

“The British search and seize contraband, all right, but they don't kill.”

“If they're starving the Germans to death, isn't that killing?”

“The
Lusitania
was a neutral ship, though. The Germans should have checked before they opened fire.”

“The ship carried a cargo of explosives. You expect them to just merrily let them pass through with it?”

“It also carried innocent civilians, and flew a neutral United States flag.”

“The German sub couldn't see the flag because the stupid British patrol boats got in the way. And there were no markings on the freeboard, either, to show it was neutral. Besides, Britain switches flags whenever it suits her purpose on those ships.”

“But they don't kill innocent people. German subs have torpedoed twenty-nine ships since they declared the war zone.”

“Well then why didn't the Americans heed the warning sent and stay off the ship in the first place?”

“I guess they couldn't believe anything that preposterous would happen.”

“Probably the Germans couldn't either.”

“Well if they were aimed for the
Lusitania
, do you think if they had seen the flag and an insignia on the freeboard, they would have held their fire?”

“That is a question they don't have to answer. The point is, they didn't see it,” he answered, and walked out.

Afterward I was dismayed with myself for letting an argument take shape over the incident, especially when I recognized Emory's points were as valid as mine. I was thankful when the whole affair was laid to rest. I pitied President Wilson, trying to get out of the mess gracefully, appealing to Germany for an explanation he could accept and thus buy continued neutrality. Between the Great War and problems cropping up now and again in Mexico, he must have felt as if he were riding the rapids in a canoe, paddling from first one side then the other to stay in the middle and avoid the rocks.

By late June we had begun to see the early results of our own efforts south of the border. Copies of the Plan de Pacifica Reforma had now been circulating for two months, and according to Barrista the term “Apostol de Reforma” was being heard from many voices. Since the whole country was in a state of chaos, I thought this reaction a very positive sign.

On the other hand a chilling episode occurred, which was to be repeated more than once in different areas, and reported in the papers. A group of six Mexicans were found near the city of San Luis Potosi—Madero's stronghold, and the namesake of his manifesto of 1910—with the Plan de Pacifica Reforma in their possession. They were immediately shot by a police firing squad in a public square.

Emory shook his head regretfully and said, “Now we have our first martyrs … I guess that makes the revolution official.…”

15

Emory was so happy when American agents arrested Huerta in El Paso, you might have thought him personally responsible. He bought two bottles of imported French wine—becoming expensively scarce—and sent Nathan out of town to deliver some papers. There was no possibility he could return before one or two in the morning.

I, too, was in a state of elation because, since the last payment to Mark I had not heard from him, nor had any of his friends come around. His silence had puzzled me at first because the payment was considerably smaller than the first had been, but as time went by my mind became privy to all sorts of plausible reasons. The most likely was that he had come to some form of destruction. I was almost ashamed of myself for entertaining the thought, but then I was also desperate to be rid of him and perhaps I would never have to know what really happened to him.…

I was eager to take full advantage of a whole evening of privacy with Emory, who was in an expansive mood. I cooked a big dinner and lit candles on the table, then changed into a new robe before we sat down to eat.

“I don't mind telling you I was edgy about that old bastard. He had his friend Orozco gathering troops just across the border, getting ready for the big assault, when they picked him up,” Emory said.

“Regardless, he couldn't have been much of a threat at this point, could he?”

“I don't know. There was a rumor he had some friends over in Germany backing him with money, and apparently a lot of it.”

“Oh … well, at least he's out of your hair now. I've always had the feeling you held something personal against Huerta.”

“You're right. When he was in power he forced me to loan him money—he did the same thing to Barrista and everybody else with money down there. I don't like people who tell me what to do with my money, and since the day I left Childers I've tried to avoid them.”

I raised my wine goblet. “Huerta's capture calls for a toast to success for the Plan de Pacifica Reforma,” I said, trying to keep the mood light.

“And all the new mines I just bought,” he added, and raised his glass.

I gulped. “You mean, you bought more?”

“This spring, I found some good properties available for next to nothing, so I picked them up. Now my operations will stretch farther south and east. Of course, if Barrista doesn't come into power, I might lose title to all I've got, so there's another reason why Huerta would have been in my way now more than ever.”

“Emory, where is all this money coming from? Has Tetzel begun financing your real estate ventures, too?”

“To some extent.…”

“I have a feeling there is something about this I haven't been told.”

He paused for a moment, as though to measure my reaction. “Virtually everything my mines produce is being sold to Germany.”

“Germany? You mean, for—”

“As the war goes on, they have a growing need for copper to make munitions. Tetzel has connections high up in the German Government. He has arranged for shipment through Norway to avoid the damned British blockade. It's part of our bargain, and the price is more than generous.”

“You didn't mention that in the beginning.”

“It didn't come about until a little later.”

I sat back for a few minutes, trying to take it all in.

“There's nothing wrong with it,” he said. “Look at all the munitions sold to the British from over here. And we are supposed to be neutral, aren't we?”

“Sure … I just didn't realize you were involved.”

“Well I am, like it or not.”

“With things in such a mess, why press your luck further?”

“I told you, because the price is down and the market for copper is up. If I have properties spread over a wide area, I can produce in at least some of them all the time. Others are doing it. I'm not the only mine owner in Mexico operating with one arm tied behind his back.”

“Are the others selling to Germany?”

“I don't know. It's of no concern to me.”

“Is that why Tetzel was really interested in helping the rise of Barrista originally—just using the two of you as a means of making a deal on the purchase of copper?”

“Of course not. We both know Barrista is going to be friendly with foreign investors; Carranza certainly isn't, and whatever other fools might get into power—well, it's anybody's guess how they'll feel about the country's natural resources. So Tetzel's just a smart investor, that's all.”