Buried Caesars (2 page)

My eyes had wandered for an instant to a photograph on the wall showing a younger MacArthur and a cowboy with a big nose and white hat. The cowboy, Tom Mix, had his arm around MacArthur’s shoulder and both were grinning at the camera. “I’m sorry, General,” I said.

MacArthur had followed my eyes and moved to the photograph, cigar in hand, to straighten it in case my gaze had moved it off center.

“I’m partial to Western movies,” he said. “Always have been. I’d see one every day if time permitted. The codes are simple and clear. Good and evil are immediately discernible and honor is the highest attainment.”

“In the movies,” I said, readjusting my sweat-moistened underwear and turning so I wouldn’t be tempted to look at the photographs instead of the General, who obviously had his own show to put on for a two-bit private detective.

“This war will last no more than two, possibly three more years,” he said, pacing again. “Those who predict fewer have not taken heed of the determination of the Japanese and the terrain in which the troops of General Douglas MacArthur must do battle.”

He paused to look vaguely in my direction. I nodded wisely. A knock at the door and the good-looking woman with the earrings came in with a pitcher of iced tea and two glasses. She put the tray on the corner of the desk and tiptoed out as if she were in a cathedral.

MacArthur poured two tall glassfuls and handed one to me. An ice cube crackled in my glass. I was afraid it would upset the General, who had taken a quick sip and was pacing, pausing, smoking and talking once again.

“When this war is over,” he said, “and the rising sun has set, this country will have to turn its attention to the next threat to the people of not only the United States, but the entire free world. Do you know what that threat is, Mr. Peters?”

I considered several possibilities—dehydrated coffee, near beer, French and German opera—but I kept my mouth shut, confident that the General had the answer or he wouldn’t have asked the question.

“Communism,” he said softly, almost resignedly; then his voice rose in determination. “If it weren’t for the Axis, we would be fighting Communists in the plains of Asia and the vineyards of Europe. I am not a fanatic, Mr. Peters. I am a pragmatist. This country will require a leader who is not afraid to face a further conflict, a leader whose hands are not bound”—and with this he held out his hands as if they were cuffed together—“by an executive branch more interested in its political perpetuation than in the need to make difficult and unpopular decisions to safeguard the shores of our country. And who will that leader be?”

I had a feeling I knew the answer to this one.

“Someone,” he continued, “who has the trust of the people and the vision to deal with broad global issues. The irony here is that less than a year ago, General Douglas MacArthur was retired and on the way to being forgotten. Now …”

MacArthur walked to the window behind the desk and motioned for me to come. I got out of the chair, feeling a slight twinge low in my back from the long ride, the moist underwear, and the rigid chair. I gulped down my tea, plunked the glass on the tray and moved next to the General at the window, wiping my brow with a less-than-clean handkerchief I found deep in my pocket.

“What do you see out there, Mr. Peters?” he asked.

I was beginning to understand the game. He would ask me questions and I would keep my mouth shut. What I saw was a lawn, a big green lawn lined with tropical trees. Across the lawn, the tip of the sun barely touched the distant hazy horizon.

“You see,” he said, not disappointing me, “the lush, trim solitude of the Pacific Coast. This tranquility stretches along the coastline of California and north into Washington and Oregon. Our President and our European allies would prefer to ignore this vital Edenic garden of America, but the Jap is not ignoring it. A Japanese submarine has shelled the coast of Oregon at Fort Stevens. Japanese airplanes have dropped incendiary bombs on southern Oregon. At my urging, antiaircraft batteries and barrage balloons are going up around defense plants in California.”

He paused to watch the effect of all this on me. I tried to look affected.

“General Douglas MacArthur,” he went on, “commands the troops of nations with inadequate supplies diverted to an assumed victory in Europe. My ships, my men, battle vigorously. Today we turn back the Japanese at Guadalcanal and hold our own in New Guinea. The tide has begun to turn. The Battle of Midway will prove to be the pivot, and the world will have to recognize what I have accomplished and with how little. General Douglas MacArthur will have protected the coast, won the war. Of that I have no doubt.”

I grunted and looked at MacArthur, whose hands were folded behind his back. He looked at the lawn and trees for a few minutes with a small smile, and ended with a sigh.

“Funds have been quietly raised to mount a political campaign in my name at a point in the future when such a campaign will be appropriate,” he said, resuming his pacing. “A civilian aide of mine, Andrew Lansing, has stolen these funds.”

“How much did he take?” I asked, moving to pour myself another glass of iced tea. The speech was over. We were getting down to business now. I didn’t know anything about war and armies, but I’d spent a lifetime with thieves.

“One hundred and eighty thousand dollars in cash,” MacArthur said. “But he took something much more valuable: a pouch of documents outlining my political campaign and a list of donors to that campaign. Present donors and those who have pledged support in the future.”

“You want me to find Lansing and get the money and the papers back,” I said.

“Precisely,” MacArthur said. His eyes were probing now. He was trying to decide something. I had the feeling he had more to say but wasn’t quite sure it was safe to say it to me. So I went on.

“Why not have some of your own people to do it? The army. The F.B.I. The cops.”

“And risk the information getting out that I am actively pursuing the office of President of the United States? Roosevelt would have an excuse for removing me from command in the Pacific, and I tell you, Mr. Peters, without Douglas MacArthur, who has the respect of the people of the Pacific Islands and knowledge of that theater, this war might be prolonged for years.”

“What aren’t you telling me, General?” I asked.

MacArthur’s face went tight and taut. A flash of anger opened his eyes and passed and when the anger passed MacArthur took a deep breath.

“You have no children?”

“No,” I said.

“I have a son,” he said. “I want my son to be proud of his father, his country. Arthur is the complete center of my thoughts and affection. I feel I am very fortunate in having him and my wife, Jean, in the twilight period of my life. Do you follow me, Peters?”

“Right into battle,” I said. “But something’s still missing.”

“All right,” MacArthur said with a deep sigh. “About five months before I was named Chief of Staff in 1930 I met a young woman in Luzon. I was divorced from my first wife, Louise, and … I met Isobel Rosario Cooper, the daughter of an Oriental woman and a Scottish businessman living in the Philippines. Isobel came to Washington and with my support lived in a suite in the Hotel Chastleton. I was, at the time, living with my mother in the Chief of Staff’s quarters in Fort Myer. My mother, and the press, were less than tolerant of such liaisons. My mother, whom I loved dearly, was most protective of my honor and my career. When I was a cadet at West Point, she took rooms nearby so she could actually see my window.”

“That must have been reassuring,” I said.

“I do not tolerate mockery, Mr. Peters,” MacArthur said, stopping suddenly and glaring at me. I apologized. MacArthur went on pacing and talking.

“I provided Isobel with all of her needs, money, an enormous wardrobe, even a poodle. Even the staunchest of us are the potential prey of our animalistic tendencies.”

“I know,” I said, and he nodded, acknowledging my support.

“Isobel began to deceive me, see other men, comment on our relationship in public,” he said. “I had to end the relationship. A short time later Isobel sold my letters to her to Drew Pearson, the columnist. I paid Pearson a substantial sum to suppress those letters. Supposedly, this money was passed on to Isobel. I had done nothing illegal, but it was vital that my mother not know.”

“Lansing has the letters,” I said.

“Precisely,” MacArthur answered. “The letters, campaign information, money. It is not only my honor and political career which are in jeopardy. My very image as husband and father might well be tarnished in history, beyond repair.”

I should have asked MacArthur why he kept the letters, but I could see the strain in his eyes. The General was not accustomed to confessions. Maybe it was a little easier because I was a stranger, a detective, and someone he had reason to believe was discreet.

The General paused, pulled himself together, and stood at attention, his back straight, his shoulders squared. I felt like saluting but I didn’t know how. He moved toward me and put out his right hand. I took it and felt his grip tighten. I had the fleeting feeling that I had just witnessed one hell of a performance.

“Major Castle will serve as liaison on this operation. He will answer your questions, provide background, make arrangements, supply you with whatever support you might need. I will see you as needed or not at all until you’ve accomplished your mission. Do you have any questions?”

I had a lot of them but I also had the feeling that the General didn’t want to hear them. He moved in front of me as I got up and put his hand on my sleeve.

“I can’t overestimate the importance of this mission, not only to me, but to the future of this nation,” he said confidentially.

I was convinced. The future of the human race was in my hands. The General took my arm, looked me in the eyes and smiled sadly at having put such a burden on one so unworthy. But his benevolent smile also let me know that he had faith in my ability to get the job done.

He guided me to the door and opened it. I stepped out.

“We will meet again, and soon,” he said and closed the door, leaving me alone with Major Castle who stood at ease a few feet away, waiting, his eyes on me.

“Follow me,” Castle said, and I followed him back the way we had come, into a living room decorated in early conquistador. He pointed and I sat in a bright chair with a Mexican rug on it, and reached over to touch an ugly clay statue with buggy eyes, no body and a limp penis. Castle disappeared in the direction of the office, where I assumed MacArthur was watching the last of the setting sun. He returned a few minutes later and handed me a leather pouch.

“Everything you need is in there,” he said.

“Money,” I said.

“Three hundred dollars. If more is needed …”

“More isn’t needed,” I said.

“There’s a complete biography of Andrew Lansing, including relatives, friends, acquaintances, organizations to which he belongs. There is also a detailed statement indicating the events that surrounded the act. The General would like you to read the material and then ask me any questions you might have. I’ll have sandwiches and beer brought in for you while you read.”

“I’d like to take this back to L.A.,” I said, holding up the hefty package, “and read it tonight, without you looking over my shoulder.”

“That won’t be possible,” said Castle. “Two days have already passed since the money and papers were taken. Another day could …”

I got up and handed the packet back to Castle.

“Forget it,” I said. “I’d like to save the universe, or at least lower California. I really would, but it’ll have to be my way. I’ve had the feeling since I got into that spiffy Packard with you and Tonto that I was being treated like a little boy who’s supposed to be quiet in front of the adults and do what he’s told. Well, Major, it doesn’t work that way. Not for me. I’m not in your army and I couldn’t take the orders when I was a cop or when I was working security for Warner Brothers. I didn’t warm to the uniforms and I didn’t enjoy feeling like if I went down there’d be another like me to pick up the flag.”

If I’d expected to get Castle angry I’d failed, but I hadn’t really expected it. I had read those eyes right. I needed room and respect. I couldn’t buy it with my clothes or my bank account. It was time to take a stand.

“At the battle of Missionary Ridge, in the War Between the States, General MacArthur’s father did just that,” Castle said. Our faces were inches apart. “He picked up the flag of the 24th Wisconsin and led a charge that broke the enemy and turned the battle. He was eighteen. They gave him the Medal of Honor.”

“It sounds dumb to me,” I said.

“You have something better to do with your life?” Castle asked.

“Maybe not,” I said. “It depends on how you look at things.”

“Honor,” said Castle. “Loyalty. They’re the only things worth living for.”

“How about a taco, a good night’s sleep, and a dark woman?” I said, our noses almost touching.

Castle broke first. My guess was that he didn’t want to go back to MacArthur and let him know I was causing trouble.

“You win, Peters,” he said. “We do it your way. Corporal Chester will drive you back to Los Angeles. I’ll be in touch with you at ten hundred hours tomorrow.”

I considered a few more questions, but Castle turned and left the room.

I went out of the house and got into the Packard. This time I got in the front seat. The sun was down and Corporal Chester was relaxed. He was a different man away from Major Castle.

“A tough man,” I said.

“The General or the Major?” Chester said, his eyes on the road.

“Both.”

“Been through a lot, said Chester. “Major was on Bataan. Escaped. Made his way to Manila. Hid in a wine barrel for a week while the Japs looked for him. He was nuts, the way I hear it. Filipinos helped get him to some island. Way I hear it, the Major—he was a Captain then—didn’t talk, didn’t sleep. They got him to Australia and MacArthur took him in, took care of him, gave him a field promotion. That was only a few months back.”

“So Major Castle may not be back from Bataan yet,” I said.