Rex Stout (16 page)

“If you’re correct, his part is done.—All right, Voorman. About Molleson. If you know him that well. All right.”

Denham turned and moved off, towards the group around the sofa across the room. Voorman, in no haste, followed him; there was no laugh in the yellow-green eyes now, and no calculation or concern; there was only a dream, beyond guessing if there had been other eyes to see it.

The door, the massive paneled door in the center of the wall opposite the windows, was opened by a footman to admit a newcomer. Voorman stopped, observing; the dream left his eyes, receding back of them to its retreat, leaving nothing there but fox. He moved again, towards the door.

“Mr. Secretary! We hardly knew whether to expect you.”

Voices came from the group around the sofa, that of Martin Drew above them: “Ah, Schick! Abandon ship!” The newcomer, much too short and fat for a fox, having shaken hands with Voorman, waddled across. Seven or eight pairs of eyes appraised him, coldly hostile and hopeful at once like veteran bidders at an auction. Vice-President Molleson, his face suddenly even redder than before and his eyes too uneasy to manage a straight regard, removed his cigar from its vise to say: “Did you give it up, Theodore? I hope you fellows got more things settled than we have.” Voorman spoke: “Gentlemen, Mr. Theodore Schick, the Secretary of Commerce.” He pronounced some names; there were perfunctory nods. Martin Drew said, “Are they still biting their nails over there, Schick?”

Theodore Schick’s shrewd eyes looked more amused than impressed. He nodded but once, at old white George Milton
at the end of the table ten feet removed from the group, who was not even looking at him. Schick addressed Hartley Grinnell: “Could I have a drink? Bourbon or Irish. I haven’t been drinking the damned sherry, but I couldn’t help smelling it.” He turned to Molleson: “Well, Bob. I thought you were going to a ball game. It didn’t matter; it would have been Wardell’s show anyhow. They would have loved to unhorse him, but they were all afraid to try his job. He rode them down and made them like it. It wasn’t bad; Lewis has character.”

Molleson inquired, “Is Brownell still under arrest?”

Schick nodded, and then nodded thanks to Grinnell as he accepted his drink. “Incommunicado. And likely to remain so.” He sipped. “Wardell is now going to look under all the stones there are. There will be a lot of discomfort.” Schick smiled at Molleson. “He is curious about your leaving the meeting, Bob. He asked leading questions about you.”

The Vice-President grunted without removing the cigar from his mouth. “He can go to hell. Did they adjourn?”

“No. They’re considering … certain proposals. Various steps have been decided upon, various others are being pondered. I opposed nothing and supported nothing. As soon as Wardell had gone, victorious, I left. I came here at the request of my friend Martin Drew.” He smiled at Drew, and then around at the others. “I suppose you eminent gentlemen came to Washington to call on the President. Unfortunate, isn’t it? He’s out.” Schick sipped at his drink. “Is this highball what I came for, Drew?”

Martin Drew said, “We’ve got to have a President. If the office is vacant, Molleson is it. We’re telling him that. I thought it probable you would agree.”

“I would have, yesterday.” Schick’s shrewd eyes half closed. “Today, I’m afraid not. I’m opposing nothing and supporting nothing. In the past twenty-four hours the country has turned into a keg of dynamite. I will not help light the fuse; it’s too dangerous for my taste. It suits my temperament to find shelter and watch through a hole. I knew your game, of course; those who do not know it can guess at it. I have today heard it discussed, by the Attorney-General, among others. I tell you, Lewis Wardell has character; he dominates Oliver and will not hesitate to use the army in any emergency that presents itself. You gentlemen will need a strong hand. Additional troops are on the way from Fort Myers. Voorman,
you have no equal at intrigue; can you shoot? I can’t. I have no inclination that way at all.”

Voorman said, “You went to a good deal of trouble to come here, Mr. Secretary.”

Schick smiled at him admiringly. “To the point as usual, Voorman. And so nicely. But for the handicaps imposed by the clumsiness of democracy, you would be a Cardinal Prince manipulating a kingdom. I came here neither to bless your project nor to spike it, but on a personal errand. I am all for shelter.” Schick moved; the chairs were close in the circle and he sidled between two of them to get out. He went beyond the end of the table and stopped directly in front of George Milton; and said, without any effort to make it těte-à-těte by lowering his tone:

“You know me.”

The old white head nodded. “Sufficiently, Mr. Schick.”

Schick smiled. “Still no concessions, sir? Quite right. My personal errand is with you. You helped me once. I am aware that it was incidental to your own interests, but that made it no less vital to me. I came here to tell you that within an hour the Cabinet will decide upon your arrest. You are not very young, and I thought you might wish to avoid it.”

George Milton nodded again. “Thank you. It is impossible to avoid the consequences of the activities of fools.”

“That may be. As you please, sir. The idea, I believe, is to extract from you the facts as to your dealings with Brownell, and as to the kidnapping of the President by the Gray Shirts and his present whereabouts.”

“Good. Not a bad idea, for donkeys.”

“Yes, sir. I would advise …”

Schick went on with his advice, but an interruption caused it to receive even less heed than it might otherwise have got. A footman had entered the room, walked around the group at the sofa, approached George Milton and stood at the proper distance waiting for Schick to finish. Schick stopped. George Milton asked, “Well?”

“There’s a man to see you, sir.”

“Who is it?”

“He said, Kramer. The man who was here yesterday.”

George Milton put his hands on the arms of the chair to lift himself up and, ignoring Schick’s proffer of assistance, got to his feet and straightened himself. He said, “Schick. More donkeys.” He directed a long white finger at the group
around the sofa and wiggled it back and forth to include them all. “You are right to despise them. You appear to have discernment. Have you, or are you merely a coward?”

“Both.” Schick smiled. “I believe I may say, both.”

“What would you say if I were to furnish evidence tonight or tomorrow that the President’s disappearance was arranged by himself and his wife? Would that interest you?”

“If it went beyond conjecture. If it went into evidence, yes, indeed. I would find it very entertaining.”

“Good. Am I correct in assuming that such evidence would turn the country and Congress overwhelmingly against him?”

“If the evidence were good he would not have a vote or a follower. But … evidence.”

George Milton nodded, and turned to the footman. “Go slowly. I am not a racehorse.”

Schick watched them as they crossed to the door, the footman holding back his steps, the octogenarian banker-capitalist-entrepreneur clinging to his lifelong contempt for his enemies—here, the advancing years—by keeping the efforts of his old muscles below the level of their remaining powers.

In the hall the footman turned to the left. George Milton followed. They passed around the head of the wide stairs and to the other side of the house. The footman opened a door and George Milton went through; the door was closed softly behind him. It was a room much smaller than the library, with a desk, a few chairs, and books and newspapers. Standing by the desk was a man, large and muscular, with blond hair, wearing a greenish-gray suit and a brown necktie. George Milton said to him:

“You’re late.”

“Yes, sir. There’s more soldiers on the streets, and they’re stopping—”

“It doesn’t matter. What about it?”

“Well … I’ve come for the money.”

“Will you get anything for it?”

“I don’t know. She had no package when she left the White House a little before noon, and she met a Secret Service man in front of the Department of Justice and ate lunch with him. She hasn’t seen Wardell; of course she may have phoned him. Brownell is in jail. I’ve got a man on watch, but she probably
wouldn’t carry a package anyway; she would fasten it under her clothes.”

“You will see her at eight o’clock.”

“Yes, sir.”

George Milton went to the desk and unlocked and opened a drawer. From it he took a small package, neatly wrapped in brown paper and held by rubber bands. “Ten thousand dollars in hundreds. If she delivers it, look at it before you pay her. Bring it here at once. If you don’t get it, come anyway. I don’t like to leave money out all night.”

“Yes, sir.” The man put the package in his inside pocket and buttoned his coat.

“And Kramer.” George Milton’s lower jaw was working. He was aware of the fact, and hated it, but it would not be controlled; it was too late to attempt to subdue the inner convulsions of excitement which for half a century had dotted the days of his adventures into power, possession, and greed; and latterly it had become no longer possible to keep the convulsions entirely within. They tore cruelly through the defenses weakened by age, and he could not keep his jaw still. But his voice told him, and others, that he was still George Milton. “And Kramer. I have known you to show energy and initiative. If that girl doesn’t get it? If obtained tonight, I will pay you twenty thousand dollars for that diary; and if it contains what I hope for, fifty thousand.”

The man shook his head. “No, sir. There would he no possible way.”

“If it contains what I want, a hundred thousand.”

“It couldn’t be done, sir, not for a million. I’d take the risk, I don’t need to tell you that. Around every foot of the boundaries of the White House grounds soldiers are touching elbows.”

“Bribe them. Create a diversion. Are you a man or an errand boy? What are a few soldiers?”

Kramer shook his head. “I wouldn’t try to touch it. I’m working for you, and I’ll tackle most anything short of suicide. No, sir.”

“What are you afraid of?” The old white man’s voice was thin with contempt and derision. “You could bleed nothing but water. Are there no men left? The only one to be found with iron in his juice is the lunatic who calls himself Lincoln Lee. Miserable trepid little worms.” The lower jaw would not stop working. “Worms!”

“Maybe. Lee’s in jail. Even if he wasn’t, I don’t see him climbing the fence at the White House tonight. The girl may get it. Or she may set a trap.”

“Well? That means?”

“Nothing. I’ll take care of that.”

“Indeed. Praiseworthy, Kramer. Bah! Worms! Errand boys. Go on. Go!”

“Yes, sir.” The man picked up his hat from the desk, felt at his breast pocket to make sure of the money, opened the door, and went. He descended the broad stairs, nodded at the footman who stood in the lower hall, and left the house. Outside, on the terrace, he met a man approaching to enter–a stocky young man moving briskly with springs in his calves. Kramer slowed up to appraise him in passing, and the other did likewise. Kramer took in the other’s face, but his own face did not appear to be the focus of the other’s eyes; their point of interest seemed to be below his chin, say, his brown necktie. Kramer passed, and proceeded down the path through the lawn, muttering, “Well I’ll be damned, I know where
that
guy ate lunch.” The other had gone to the entrance and pushed the button, and at the release of the latch from within had instantly made use of his shoulder to ensure an opening, against the caution of the footman, wide enough for an entrance. In that manner he got inside without delay, which was no reflection on the footman as a footman, since he had been selected by Mrs. Hartley Grinnell, daughter of George Milton, not to repel invasion by force, but adequately to fulfill his function as an appurtenance to gentility.

Upstairs, George Milton had returned to the library. He had found the group around the sofa still intact except for Voorman and Theodore Schick, who were over by a window talking, the latter with a fresh highball in his hand. Apparently Denham, prompted by Voorman, had maneuvered them into a new position in the attack on Molleson, for the Vice-President had lit his cigar and was sitting back, thoughtful and judicial, nodding in agreement as Martin Drew expounded the crisis anew. George Milton crossed over and stood at the edge of the circle, surveying contemptuously its members and the object of their enterprise, but he was not in fact either hearing them or seeing them. He was reflecting bitterly that he was too old to permit himself to be apprehended and conveyed to an unfamiliar terrain for an encounter with a Lewis Wardell. And more bitterly, that this unparalleled clash
of all the weapons of a nation, this grandest engagement of his career, should have come perhaps too late, when the temper of his own sword could no longer be trusted to withstand any strain he or the enemy might put upon it. Twenty years ago … even ten … ah …

Behind him he heard the door of the room open, and footsteps across the strip of wood to the rug. He did not bother to turn; he knew the footman’s steps. The servant passed him and approached the master of the house, who sat at the other edge of the circle.

Hartley Grinnell looked up. “Yes, Thomas.”

“A man to see you, sir. He says he is from the Secret Service. He has a badge.”

There was a murmur. A pause of silence. George Milton, who seldom waited for his son-in-law to speak, snapped at the footman, “Fool! Mr. Grinnell is not at home.”

Voorman, coming over from the window, spoke. “Don’t let him in.”

The footman was red. “He is already in. I’m sorry, sir—”

They all turned. The door had opened again, and a man had entered. He came towards them, briskly, not at all menacingly, just a man with business in hand. They stared at him. Grinnell rose to his feet and said, “Get out of my house.”

“Yes, sir.” The man stood up to them, and took a pad of paper from his coat pocket and a pencil from his vest. “Mr. Hartley Grinnell? In a few moments. You will pardon me, gentlemen; I am instructed to report the names of all I find here. I think I know all of you.” He began writing.