The Last Government Girl. Ellen Herbert

pounded down the porch steps. “Jess, Jess,” Bert, Mrs. Trundle’s adult son, called. Tall and stocky, Bert stood on the path in khaki trousers with Civil Defense pins attached to his shirt like military insignia.

      Jess wiped his hand on his dark trousers and walked down the garden row. Bert’s eyes searched Jess’s for what…disapproval, scorn about his rigged uniform. Jess understood. Men not in uniform felt they owed folks an explanation.

      Bert said, “Agent Friedlander’s on the phone for you.”

      Jess’s heart tightened like a fist. Their boss calling on Sunday night meant only one thing. He looked up at the window above the garage, where Alonso stood, his palm lifted to Jess. Alonso knew, too.

      Jess pivoted and ran to the house.

      “Wait up, Jess,” Bert called. At the back porch, Bert reached around Jess to open the screen door as if Jess, who had only one arm, was helpless.

      Jess, accustomed to people overdoing assistance, refused to take offense.

      On a cabinet door in the kitchen, a calendar listed Bert’s Civil Defense meetings as well as the dinners of fried spam and canned peaches Mrs. Trundle had planned for them.

      Bert stopped at the sink to wash his hands. He was a clean man, who appropriately enough worked for a laundry.

      Jess strode into the hall, floorboards creaking under him, the smell of mothballs and furniture polish strong in the humid air. At the telephone table tucked beneath the staircase, he lifted the receiver. “Jessup Lindsay,” he said. Wedging the receiver between his shoulder and cheek, he motioned for Bert to give him privacy.

      His hands red from washing, Bert pushed open the parlor door. Swing music spilled from the radio, the happy round notes of Benny Goodman’s clarinet.

      Jess took the pad from his pocket and wrote. “Okay Fred,” he told Agent Friedlander. “We’re on our way.”

      As soon as he hung up, squat Mrs. Trundle appeared in the parlor door, her face lifted to him, her white hair pulled into a bun so tight it made her eyes slant. She’d been eavesdropping. Again.

      Mrs. Trundle considered this narrow strip of land on Georgia Avenue, the house, their bungalow behind it, and the garage fronting the alley, her kingdom, where she ruled like a tyrant. She believed everything that happened here was her business. He would never have rented from the busybody if they hadn’t been desperate for a place to live in crowded DC.

      “Mr. Lindsay, I’m worried about my niece and her friend taking the streetcar late with their luggage.” She smoothed her dress over her big pillow of a bosom. “After you finish your business for the Bureau, would you kindly fetch them from Union Station?”

      “No, Mrs. Trundle, I won’t. My car is strictly for government use. Sorry.” More polite than he felt. “The young ladies ought to take a taxi.”

      A red dot bloomed in each pale cheek. “Well, I never…”

      He rushed back, feeling a twinge of guilt for refusing to pick up her government girls, not that they were in danger, not together.

      Inside the bungalow, he grabbed his badge, hat, and jacket.

      From the garage, their Packard’s engine pierced the neighborhood’s quiet.

      He sprinted down the path to the alley, the air sugared with honeysuckle. Thick vines climbed the garage’s brick wall and the wooden archway over the path, forming a leafy tunnel. Something shone among the vines: an electric wire.

      Alonso backed the Packard out. Jess slid in beside him. On the seat between them was Alonso’s beloved camera, big as a toddler in its case.

      Two barefoot colored boys came running, closed the garage doors, and locked them with the padlock. Alonso paid the boys to watch the garage and alert him if anyone tried to break in. Gas was so precious thieves siphoned it from vehicles all over the city.

      The boys stood at attention and saluted. “At ease, men,” Alonso called with a salute of his own.

      They rolled down the narrow alley between grim two-story tenements. This was the other Washington, Negro Washington. Alleyways like this lay tucked away all over the city. Behind a white neighborhood was a Negro one. The newspapers called the alleyways the secret city.

      Jess noticed cardboard stars taped in some tenement windows, signifying these families had a member fighting in the war. Patriotism existed here, where running water, indoor plumbing, and electricity didn’t.

      From several windows, oil lamps gave off soft glows, but from the window closest to the garage, an electric bulb came on, lighting the alley like a beacon.

      Jess stared at that bright window. “Ruth’s waving at you, Al.”

      Without turning his head, Alonso touched his fedora’s brim to her.

      “What happens when Mrs. Trundle discovers you’re sending electricity from her house to Ruth’s?” Jess asked.

      “Let there be light,” Alonso said, a smile in his voice. “Don’t worry, Jess. Mrs. Trundle never comes out here.”

      Women with babies in their laps and elderly men sat on stoops, fanning themselves. Someone played a spiritual on a harmonica. Voices sang along softly. Men rolling dice moved out of the way to let their sedan pass. Standing with hands on hips, the dice players glared at Alonso, a mulatto.

      Jess rubbed the notch in his chin. “No wonder Ruth brings you collards and cornbread all the time.”

      “Ruth needed better light to study. She wants to become a government girl, but I doubt that’s going to happen.”

      “Why not? This war’s opening up opportunities for everyone. Only in wartime would the FBI hire a one-armed man.”

      “They hired the famous Alabama detective, Jessup Lindsay. And you forced them to take me.”

      Jess took in Alonso’s profile, so like his own. “Brother, I let Fred know I never solved anything without you, that you and me are two crackers from the same cracker barrel.”

      The corners of Alonso’s mouth lifted at the word brother for they were half-brothers, not that anything between them felt divided. On his own, Jess couldn’t cuff a suspect, but Alonso could. They worked like a pair of hands and traveled from job-to-job. This one with the FBI was temporary. Once they solved this case, they’d be on their way. Unless they didn’t solve it quickly enough for Director Hoover and were fired.

      Alonso braked at the street. “Where was her body found, Jess?”

      “Arlington National Cemetery.” Jess took the map from the glove compartment. “Know where that is?” They had been on the job a month now and were still learning Washington.

      “Sure. Put the map away.” Alonso stuck his arm out the window, signaling a left turn.

      They took Georgia Avenue, which became 7th Street, through the city. Whenever their motor car crossed streetcar tracks, Alonso reached over to steady his camera.

      “He’s right on schedule,” Alonso said, a catch in his voice.

      Jess understood how his brother felt. They hadn’t found the killer yet. A young woman died tonight because they had failed to find this killer, and for that they grieved.

      “Oh, yes,” said Jess. “He’s punctual and ritualistic.”

      Everywhere, streets were brightly lit, and sidewalks filled with uniforms, Navy whites and jaunty sailor hats, marines and army in summertime khaki. A long line waited to get into the Apex Movie Theater on 14th Street to see Double Indemnity.

      “It’s after 10:00 on a Sunday night, but this city’s still having a Saturday night party.” Jess scanned the faces in the crowd. Was the killer among them? “Only the party guests keep changing.”

      This was the strangest case they had ever worked. They hadn’t