Rex Stout (17 page)

Grinnell stepped towards him. “Get out. Thomas! Put him out. Get Allers. This is unlawful invasion—”

“Nothing’s unlawful, sir. That’s what martial law means.” The man went on writing.

Molleson said, “Hello, Moffat.”

“How do you do, Mr. Vice-President.”

He finished scribbling and returned the pad to his pocket. George Milton moved back a few paces. He could hear the breath coming and going in his nostrils, and he would not have others hear it. The man said:

“Mr. Grinnell. I am instructed to take you to the Department of Justice, and to tell you, if you inquire, that you are to account for the war editorial in your newspaper this morning.” He turned. “Mr. Voorman. You also.”

Voorman’s mouth twisted. He asked softly, “And to my inquiry, why?”

“I am instructed to tell you that the Attorney-General will be there to question you. Come, gentlemen. Go ahead of me.”

Hartley Grinnell was white. He would have blustered: “Do you mean I am under arrest?”

“I’m to take you. Come, let’s go.”

There was a movement in the group. Chick Moffat stepped back for room. Denham emerged and moved towards him. Chick put his right hand in his coat pocket and said sharply, “Talk from there.”

Denham stopped. “Look here, sonny. Mr. Grinnell and Mr. Voorman are not here. You will understand that. Martial law is for the preservation of order, not for outrages on prominent citizens. They are not here. Get out.”

Chick said, “I’m ignorant on those points, Mr. Denham. Come along and explain them to the Chief.—You two, come on. Step.”

But Denham was born to shatter resistance. He moved forward, calling, “Drew! Come on, let’s throw him out.” Martin Drew responded, not reluctant. Chick went back another pace or two, drew his pistol from his pocket and displayed it, saying crisply, “This is as far as I go. Don’t come closer.” Denham and Drew paused; Drew said contemptuously, “He won’t shoot, come on,” and started. There was a shattering explosion, simultaneous with cries of warning, and Drew crumpled to the floor. For an instant there was no sound and no movement, then Denham and others started for Drew. Chick commanded: “Back!” They stopped. Drew was pulling himself up, holding to a chair. Chick said:

“Take it easy, Mr. Drew. I took you in the leg because if I’d tried for your arm I might have killed someone behind you. The rest of you keep back till I’m out of here. A little further—Thanks. Mr. Voorman, Mr. Grinnell. We’ll go now. To the door, please, and make it snappy.”

The publisher and the lobbyist moved to the door. “Open it, and don’t try any tricks.” He sidled after them, and followed them out. The footman went over and closed the door. Denham went to Drew, and said for someone to phone for a doctor. George Milton pinched his nostrils to take the smart of the powder smoke away.

At half-past seven Wednesday evening Alma Cronin was in her room eating crackers and mushroom soup which she had taken from a can and heated on the electric plate she kept in her bathroom. She had not been able to get away from the White House until six-thirty. The flood of personal telegrams and letters which had been arriving since dawn for Mrs. Stanley were for the most part going disregarded, but it had been Alma’s task to sort out from them the few that might require acknowledgment or prove pertinent to the crisis. Mrs. Robbins had asked her to return for the evening, and she had promised to do so later.

At six-thirty she had left. She was worried. The man who was to call on her at eight o’clock surely wasn’t such a fool that the possibility of a trap had not occurred to him. Would he not be watching in front of her house to observe those who entered? He might even know Chick Moffat, a member of the White House squad, by sight. The house she lived in was not large, three stories, built of stone up to the sidewalk, one of the better classes of those hundreds of buildings in clusters here and there in various parts of Washington, consisting of room-and-bath apartments designed for the profit of the owners and the convenience of privates and lesser officers in the army, male and female, which carries on the work of the government. It had a small garden-court in the rear. Alma’s room was one flight up, in front, with windows on the street.

She bought crackers and a can of soup and hurried home, to telephone Chick a warning. She could not get him. She tried his apartment several times; there was no answer; and even called the Secret Service Bureau; he was not there. She gave it up, and ate the crackers and soup, and worried. She was restless and uncomfortable and on edge. Various elements were contributing to her inquietude, but they were all merely differing aspects of the central fact that she was twenty-four years old and that life, which had hitherto presented itself to her as an arena for interesting and lively discussion, had suddenly begun to display to her the realities of its passions and conflicts. Harry Brownell, with whom she had
several times spoken, who had been to her eye a discreet and polished person impressively intimate with power, had become a man in jail, suspected of an execrable treachery. Mrs. Stanley, who had been an affable, amusing and ubiquitous First Lady, a central figure in the national tableau, had become a woman whose husband was missing and who, far from appearing stricken with grief or anxiety, seemed rather to be filled with a pleased excitement at her opportunity to contribute to the noise of affairs and alarms. Arthur, the nice little man with spectacles in the receiving-room downstairs, to whom one went for lead pencils or fertilizing tablets for the flower-pots, was, like Harry Brownell, in jail, and all day and all night a detective sat on the stool in the room downstairs. Chick Moffat—though this was not a part of the public cacophonous tone-poem of hatred, jealousy, suspicion, and fear, but a private tune in another key—Chick Moffat was the most disturbing phenomenon of all. It was he who chiefly had jerked life out of all the formulas she had got ready for it. It was as if she had been watching an exciting play on a stage, absorbed but properly detached, and one of the actors had suddenly descended from the platform, walked up to her and begun addressing his lines to her and … well … for instance, bent down and kissed her. Of course, Chick Moffat had not actually kissed her, but what the devil, there must come a time when even a man as backward as he was …

There was a knock on the door. She went over and opened it, dashing cracker crumbs from her lips with the tips of her fingers.

“Chick! Hello. Come in. I’ve been trying to phone you.”

Chick Moffat stepped inside, shut the door, and grinned at her. He kept his hat in his hand. Alma said, “I hope you’ve dined. As you see, nothing very fattening here.”

Chick looked at the cracker package and the empty soup bowl. “I haven’t had a bite since our lamb chops, but I’ll tend to that later. No time; I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get here at all; we’re arresting everybody in the phone book, starting with the A’s and going right through. What were you calling me for? Is the deal off?”

“Sit down.”

“I hadn’t better, unless your friend’s not coming. In that case, I’ll go out and bring in a couple of hindquarters and we’ll have a feast.”

Alma said, “You’re so businesslike.”

“Am I?” Chick looked surprised. He stood, considering the idea, looking at her. Their eyes met, and they both stood. Alma was making desperate clutches, within, at the only straw in reach, the good old stand-by of her sense of humor and unfailing appreciation of the ridiculous. She thought: I know what was in the cup Tristan and Isolde drank out of, it was mushroom soup. But since it could not have been that thought which encouraged Chick, there must have been something else in her eyes; for all at once he let his hat drop to the floor, put his arms around her, and kissed her. For an instant she held her breath, and then helped him. His embrace was close and tight, and tighter; his kiss was not expert, but unquestionably earnest and thorough. She began to feel dizzy, and pushed at him; then she was free; he had released her and stepped back. She realized that she was holding onto the sleeve of his coat, and dropped her hand.

Chick said, “Is that what you mean, businesslike?”

Alma nodded. She laughed, and stopped. “Chick. Oh, Chick, kiss me again.—No, don’t. No! There isn’t time.”

“Is the deal off?”

“No. Not that I know of. How long have you been wanting to kiss me? I was trying to phone you to come in the back way, because I thought that man might know you and if he saw you come in he wouldn’t come.”

“For a long time, about seventy years I think.”

“Would he be watching?”

“I expect so. I parked in Brush Street and came in through the court. You see, I’m studying to be a detective.”

“I might have known you’d have that much sense. It’s ten minutes to eight.”

Chick nodded and stopped to pick up his hat. “I’ve got to get under cover. If you don’t mind, I’ll use the bathroom instead of the closet, it’s in a better position. No talking now, no nothing. When he comes, stall. Pretend you’ve got it and you want to see the money. Anything. I won’t wait long.” He started for the bathroom.

“But Chick! What are you going to do? Isn’t it dangerous—”

“I’ll do something. Take the money away from him and cut his throat. I’ll think up something.” He opened the bathroom door.

“But, Chick—”

“Now’s the time to shut up.” He was in the bathroom, but
stuck his head out. “Just one little thing. Will you marry me?”

“Certainly.”

“Okay.” The door closed.

Alma took three steps toward the bathroom door; then stood and smiled at it. There was danger, no doubt of it; the man was much bigger than Chick and looked strong as an elephant; but why shouldn’t there be danger? Chick would know what to do; certainly he was armed. But suddenly she went white: what if the man was armed too and Chick got shot? She started for the bathroom door; she would stop this business. She was afraid of guns and detested them; she could see a gun in that man’s hand pointing at Chick … but she stopped. There was no chance of Chick’s getting hurt now; he and she would never hurt each other, and nothing would ever hurt them. Never.

She crossed and got the cracker package and the empty soup bowl and put them out of sight in a drawer, brushed crumbs from the chair and the rug, and glanced around the room. Then she sat down in the chair and picked up a book, but did not open it; it rested on her lap as she sat and smiled at the bathroom door. She became so lost in the feeling of the smile that she was not at all startled when a knock sounded on the entrance door; she was halfway across the room toward it before she remembered what the knock meant. Then her heart, already fast-beating, changed to a new rhythm and she went on and opened the door.

The man was there. She looked up at him; he was even bigger than she had remembered. He nodded. She said, “Come in.” He entered, and she closed the door.

She said, “You’re on time.”

He nodded. “Right on the dot, Miss Cronin.”

She was resisting an impulse to glance at the bathroom door. She moved away, towards the middle of the room; the man hesitated, and followed. When she turned he tapped at the breast pocket of his coat. “I’ve got the money. Ten thousand dollars. If you’ve got the diary we can do our business in one minute. I’ll just take a look at it.”

She said, “I suppose I may take a look at the money?”

“Certainly, Miss Cronin. But I’ll look first, if you don’t mind. Where is it?”

“I haven’t got it.” Alma put her hand to her mouth, horrified; she had not had the slightest intention of saying
that. But she was saved the trouble of attempting a recovery; she saw that her part was over as she observed the change that had suddenly come over the face of the man. Her back was partly turned toward the bathroom door; the man was partly facing it. Alma heard Chicks voice behind her, sharp: “Put ’em up. Alma, jump away, quick!”

She was too slow. Being not at all familiar with the play of guns, it took her half a second to get the import of it, and that was too late. The man with the brown necktie was as fast as he was big; in one swift rush he had Alma in his arms clasped against him, and was halfway across to the bathroom; she was no more to his strength than a feather pillow. Chick saw he could not shoot, leaped forward and tried for a blow with the metal of the gun; the man ducked, jumped back, crouched, and tossed Alma, hurled her through the air straight at Chick. With it he jumped forward again, swung at Chick’s jaw and staggered him, and before Chick could recover enough balance to get his gun up the man had his own revolver out and was swinging it. It landed, glancing a little, on the side of Chicks head, and this time he went clear down.

Alma was on her knees, scrambling up. The man pushed her back, muttered with plenty of breath, “I’d sock you too for a dime,” turned, and went, closing the door behind him.

Alma didn’t get up; she went on her knees to Chick. He lay still, his arms flung out, his legs bent double. There was a little blood on his head, creeping from the edge of the hair. She shook him; he flopped back. She felt his pulse; it was there, and did not even seem weak. She called his name, looked around, shook him again, called his name. She scrambled to her feet, started for the door, turned and came back again. Coming back, something on the floor not far from Chick glistened at her eye; she picked it up and looked at it, and the sight of it stunned her; momentarily Chick was out of her mind, everything was out of her mind except the paralyzing and incredible fact that she held in her hand President Stanley’s wrist watch, with the engraving on the back—the watch she had once before held in her hand, the day she had carried it down a corridor of the White House and met a Secret Service man coming for it. Then—it had dropped from that man’s pocket! He had had it! The President’s watch, which he always wore!

She ran to the telephone. She waited five seconds that
seemed a thousand for the operator; then another wait for an answer from the number of the Department of Justice. There was a sound from the floor; Chick was stirring; she called his name, but stayed at the telephone. There was a voice on the wire, and she demanded to speak to Lewis Wardell at once. The clerk demurred; she must give him the message. Chick was on his elbows; on his knees, on his feet. He was speaking to her; she was telling the clerk she must have Wardell.