Assignment — Stella Marni by Edward S. Aarons Page A

minutes later. It had stopped raining, and the East Side streets looked washed and clean in the early-morning hours. Durell lit a cigarette gratefully and they walked a little way in silence. The wind was cold. There wasn't much traffic. A few cabs cruised by, but McFee made no effort to hail one.
    "Well, Sam," McFee said. "You pulled out all the stops on that one."
    "I suppose I did."
    "Are you right about Blossom?"
    "I'm willing to bet on it."
    "I respect your judgment as a gambler, Cajun. As a matter of fact, I talked in Washington about Blossom — pretty touchy, considering he's in another department and I could be considered impertinent — and I also discussed him with Tom Markey. Markey is intensely loyal to Blossom, but both sources are disturbed. Blossom hasn't been himself. Not since he met Stella Marni. All at once, according to Markey, Blossom changed. He's kept most of the data in this case to himself: even Markey is in the dark about a lot of it. Blossom knows his business. His past record puts him pretty high in his department. But even the best of us has a weak spot, an Achilles' heel, Sam. In Blossom's case, it might be his years of confirmed bachelorhood suddenly meeting up with an irrational infatuation for the Marni girl. Anyway, Markey is completely at a loss over the sudden change he sees in Blossom."
    Durell dragged silently at his cigarette.
    "Still," McFee went on, "this isn't officially our baby. You went at it the wrong way, Sam. even though I was going to send you up here to look into it, in any case. We've got the word from State. It may be a matter for the Senate Internal Security Subcommittee, but these political refugees aren't merely a domestic problem. Every man or woman who returns to his homeland is a propaganda victory for the other side. State is alarmed about the growing numbers of those turning away from us. Something has to be done about it. Of course, all this is off the record."
    Durell nodded.
    "We know it isn't simply love of homeland that makes these people return. Up until recently, it's been the usual business of anonymous letters asking them to come home and mentioning relatives and friends in such a way that there is left no doubt that refusal means death and torture for those still behind the Iron Curtain. So they go home. But it's never been on such a wholesale scale as it is lately."
    Durell was impatient to check at his hotel for Stella Marni. "Blossom said something about a ring operating right here in New York."
    "Yes," McFee said thinly. "I've seen his reports. He did excellent work until he went haywire over the Marni woman. There's an organized ring operating in town that uses underworld, gangster methods beyond anything we ever ran into before. Blossom knows a lot more about it than he's put into his reports, I suspect. This ring is made up of Americans, Sam. They do it for money, I'm ashamed to say. They use these unfortunate people as merchandise in order to make a dishonest buck. I hate it and I hate them and I want them smashed."
    "You ordered me off the case," Durell said.
    "Officially, yes. But Art Greenwald is badly hurt. I like to take care of my own, and you feel the same way. I don't have to question that. I'd like some satisfaction for what happened to Art, the same as you."
    Durell stopped walking and flicked his cigarette into the street. His face was hard. "Let's not have any double talk between us, General. What do you want me to do?"
    "Officially, you are being reprimanded and sent back to work in your office in K Section. The thing is forgotten and done with as far as we are concerned. Sidonie Osbourne will cover for you in Washington. So will I, up to a point You're being reprimanded for insubordination and failure to obey discipline." McFee sighed. He looked small and gray and tired. "It never ends, does it? This world we live in..." He paused. "How far did you get with Stella Marni? Was she at that studio?"
    "Yes," Durell said. "And I made a