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THIS WEEK

THREE BAROQUE PUGLIAN CITIES
By John Mariani

NEW YORK CORNER
BENJAMIN STEAKHOUSE
By John Mariani

GOING AFTER HARRY LIME
CHAPTER  13
By John Mariani

NOTES FROM THE SPIRITS LOCKER

POST-ST. PATRICK'S DAY,
LET'S LOOK AT IRISH WHISKEYS
By John Mariani

  

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On this week's episode of my WVOX Radio Show "Almost Golden," on Wed. March 29 EDT at 11AM EDT,I will be interviewing travel writers MALACHY DUFFY  and EVERETT POTTER, who will talk about the Golden Age of Travel and answer your questions. Go to: WVOX.com. The episode will also be archived at: almostgolden.

NEW YORK CORNER

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GOING AFTER HARRY LIME
By  John Mariani

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

           

“What did you want me to do? Be reasonable. You didn't expect me to give myself up ... 'It's a far, far better thing that I do.' The old limelight. The fall of the curtain. Oh, Holly, you and I aren't heroes. The world doesn't make any heroes outside of your stories.” — Harry Lime, The Third Man.

 

            The phone rang in David’s room at 1 a.m., when he was dead asleep.
            “Hello, who’s this?” he asked.
            “Frank English. You called me.”
            David shook himself awake, then saw it was past midnight. What was that in Washington? Six, seven o’clock? He figured Frank English knew and called late enough just to bug him.
            “Yeah,” said David, “thanks for calling back, Frank.”
            “Whaddaya want this time?”
           “A name, a number, whatever you can give me.”
            “About what?”
            “I’m over here in London with Katie Cavuto working on a story. You know the movie The Third Man?”
            “Sure.” English was giving no more to the conversation than he chose to.
            “Well, we’re over here trying to find out if there was a possible connection between the Harry Lime character in the movie and the British double agent Kim Philby. It’s farfetched but worth looking into.”
            There was silence on the other end, and David knew English was trying to put things together. Then the FBI agent said, “About as farfetched as you can get. That bullshit has been gone over before, and besides, Philby’s been dead for a long time. What do you want from me?”
            “Well, I was speaking with Gerry Kiley and he said that there’s no way I’m going to get any dossier intel on Philby merely because I’m over here snooping around.”
            “You got that right. Why would they talk to an ex-cop from NYPD about a burnt out case?”
            “OK, MI6 and MI5 wouldn’t. I get that. But is there perhaps some ex-MI6 or MI5 agent you might have worked with—”
            English cut him off: “Hey, David, I wasn’t around in the 1940s to know any of those people, so I don't know what J. Edgar Hoover would have known. Plus, the C.I.A. didn’t even exist until 1950, and Hoover hated the whole idea of working with them.”
            “True, but the C.I.A. was around when Philby was exposed as a double agent  in ’63.”
           “Yeah, but I think they were a bit busy with plans to invade Cuba back then and not interested in what happened to some toothless British turncoat.”
            “So, you don’t know anyone?”
            More silence. “I don’t know. Let me ask a few of the older guys here. If I find something, I’ll call you back.”
            David, trying to lighten up, said, “Could you make it at a daytime hour in London?  It’s after one o’clock in the morning.”
            “Yeah, I know,” said English. “I’ll call you when I get in tomorrow morning, which will be like, two in the afternoon for you.”
            “Thanks, Frank. I appreciate it.”
            English had already clicked off.

 

                                                           *                                  *                                  *

            The next morning David thought of going back to the National Archives, but over breakfast with Katie she said, “Let’s just take the day off. See some sights. I haven’t gotten any appointments, do you?”
            David said all he had to look forward to was a call-back from Frank English.
            “So, where do you wanna go?” he asked.
            “The usual tourist must-sees: the Queen’s palace, Tower Bridge, Big Ben. Whatever we see, we see.”
            “Fine, but I have to be back at the hotel around two when Frank might call.”
            “Okay, that gives us four, five hours. I’m wearing walking shoes.”
            “Then let’s go for a walk. Let’s bring umbrellas. The sun’s out but you never know."
            The couple spent the morning as Katie had suggested, marveling at the majesty of London’s royal buildings, the sweep of the Thames beneath the bridge, and the vast stretch of the Parliament, newly scrubbed clean to a putty color that grew orange in twilight.
            After a quick pub lunch, David returned to the hotel before two and waited for Frank English to call. An hour went by, then another, then the phone rang. 
        No hello, just, “I’ve got a name and contact for you. May be worth nothing, but it’s all I could get.”
            “I appreciate it, Frank,” said David, a pen and paper at the ready.
           “I don’t know this guy, but apparently he was involved with the Philby scandal and may have some inside information. Retired ages ago from MI6 and lives outside of London. Name is Southey, Joseph Southey. Here’s his  number.”
            David wrote it all down and repeated it.
            “Thanks, Frank. I’ll put you in my memoirs.”
            “I’ll pay you to keep me out of them. So long, David.”
            David shut his eyes for a moment, thinking maybe he and Frank were back on track and that Joseph Southey might help turn over some new information from inside MI6.
            He called Katie, who had just gotten back to her room, and told her the news.
            “That’s great!” she said. “So, Frank English is a pretty good guy after all.”
            “I guess so,” said David, “at least out of professional courtesy. Okay, so let me call this guy and ask if we can see him tomorrow. See what it turns up.”
            As a reporter Katie knew that while every contact and interview did not reveal a great deal, there was always something to fill in the big picture, like the tiny piece of blue sky in a jigsaw puzzle landscape. She was holding out hope that, with all the pieces coming together, the picture would reveal a good story line for her work.
            David dialed Joseph Southey’s number, which rang six times before a man picked up.
            “Southey,” said the voice.
            “Mr. Southey, my name is David Greco. I’m an American over here in London, and I was given your name by an associate in the F.B.I.” David shouldn’t have said ‛associate’ but let it go.
            “And how might I help you, Mr. Greco?”
            David launched into a brief, well-rehearsed explanation of what he was after, acknowledging that it was a highly unusual request but that he and Katie were merely trying to find out information about the late Kim Philby, whom they understood Southey knew.
            Southey was quiet, then said, “Well, I can’t imagine what more I can tell you about the rotter. Most everything was in the papers and in books ever since, including Philby’s own completely delusional autobiography.”
            “Well, my colleague, her name is Katie Cavuto, has done a lot of research on Philby and still has some questions we thought you might be able to answer.  Would it be all right if we paid you a visit at your convenience?”
            “Oh, I suppose so. The Philby case was shut a long time ago and he’s been dead for years. I live in Hornchurch, Essex, about an hour out of Victoria Station (above) via the Underground. What time is it now? Nine. All right, catch any train and I’ll be here all day. Probably be out back in the garden.”
            “You’re a gardener, Mr. Southey? So am I,” said David, hoping to hold the man’s interest.
            “Well, then, even if I can’t tell you anything about Kim Philby, we’ll have something to chat about, won’t we?”
            David hung up and called Katie. “We’re in.Gotta catch a train to some place called Hornchurch. You ready for a trip to the country?”
            David was holding out hope that Southey could add new info to what they already had. At the very least another puzzle piece or, as Katie called it, background color. David began to think that even if Katie could prove Philby was not the inspiration for Harry Lime, that alone would be something.
            But Katie knew that would not be nearly enough.

 

 

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            Like most regions not far from London, Hornchurch began as farm country, shifted to industry in the 19th century, then, with the arrival of the electrified railway—the  District Line—in the 1930’s, developed into a suburb with a large commuter segment. Typical of such towns, most postwar homes were an amalgam of cheap materials cobbled onto the most egregious clichés of fake Tudor architecture, with long row houses interrupted by pubs of unflinching sameness and names seemingly picked at random out of The Canterbury Tales, like The Wife of Bath and The Tabard Inn.
            The train arrived right on time at the Hornchurch station, and, following Southey’s instructions, Katie and David had a five-minute walk along High Street to North Street, turning into a small cul de sac, at the end of which was Joseph Southey’s small house, indistinguishable from the few others on the block. 
            David rang the bell at the front door but there was no answer, so he and Katie walked around to the back, which opened onto a yard and garden cultured in the British manner, a balance of what appeared charmingly wild and what was carefully landscaped. An elderly man wearing a sunshade and gardening gloves was hunched over in the rear, cutting away large vines.
            “Is that giant hogweed?” David called out.
            The man turned and smiled. “Why, yes it is. Damn stuff invades everything. And I assume you are Mr. Greco and this is Miss Cavuto, is it?”
           Southey took off his gloves and sunshade and shook hands. He was in his late sixties, of average height, pot-bellied, mostly bald, with skin that showed he had spent a good deal of time in his little garden catching as much sun as the English climate allowed.
            “I’ve got the same stuff growing in my backyard in New York,” said David. “I cut it down, it keeps coming back.”
            “Use any weed killer on it?” asked Southey.
       “Yeah, mostly glyphosate,” referring to an all-purpose weed killer. “Doesn’t work all that well.”
            “Yes, well, I’ve tried everything. The real problem is my neighbors do nothing about their infestation, so the hogweed keeps insinuating itself into my little plot.”
 woman’s first name. Southey saw Katie was not going to join the conversation, so he said, “Well, then, let’s go inside. I’ll make some tea. Or would you Americans prefer coffee,” then, “If I have any.”
            “Tea is fine,” said Katie. “Please don’t go to any trouble.”
            “Tea is never any trouble. It’s an Englishman’s way of interrupting any and all unpleasantries in his life.”

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