Rex Stout (22 page)

A snap judgment might have called the four military men either gulls or rascals, or both, for embracing the plot contrived that afternoon in Suite Eight D, but were they such fools after all? As it was presented to them there appeared to be no question of turpitude involved, certainly no mutiny or treason; it was merely a difference of opinion on the interpretation of the law of the nation, and if the august and erudite Supreme Court could split five to four on that, as so often happened, might not the army be granted the benefit of a choice? Especially in this unprecedented crisis, with no time, not a minute, to waste, with the enemy overseas ready momentarily to gorge his present prey and poise himself for a leap at the criminally unprotected throat of Uncle Sam.

Was the office of President vacant? The Cabinet autocratically said no, and stopped the wheels of government. Congress, inept and cowardly, declined to function; it was even rumored—Senator Allen was authority for that—that tomorrow they would adjourn
sine die.
Secretary Wardell, with the Cabinet behind him, was violating the rights and restraining the liberties of innocent and prominent citizens, disrupting the morale of the people with lies and misrepresentations, endangering the very existence of the government by his usurpation of the functions of law and his blindness to the vital and urgent necessity for national defense.

But there was another answer to the question, was the office of President vacant? The answer was yes, and there were plenty to uphold it, representing the most responsible, influential, and “patriotic” elements of the country. One was Vice-President Molleson; it was his duty under the oath, and his desire through his devotion to the Constitution, to assume at once the burdens of the office which was lawfully his. He was under the Constitution the President of the United States, and he intended forthwith to act in that capacity. A program had been prepared and had received his sanction:

It was only after many objections, waverings, and arguments that the generals finally committed themselves. The bluntest of them, as well as the ablest and most intelligent, Major General Hedges, very nearly ended the affair in an impasse, time and time again, by his insistent demand for a guarantee that President Stanley would not be returned to the White House for one week. The repeated and impassioned declarations of Cullen, Reiner, Denham, Voorman, and the rest that they had no knowledge of what had happened
to Stanley or of his present whereabouts, remained without effect on the general’s open incredulity. He finally refused to continue the discussion unless they would sign a document stating their complete innocence of complicity or knowledge in the matter of the kidnapping of President Stanley. It was drawn up, signed, and Hedges sat and read it with a scowl of dissatisfaction.

Voorman said, “See here, General. If we signed a thousand papers like that it wouldn’t clear up the point that bothers you, and all of us, most. What really bothers you, and us too, is not who kidnapped Stanley and what has happened to him, but what if he is found alive and well tomorrow afternoon? Well, if he is, he is. I can’t answer that for you, none of us can. I don’t know whether he’s dead or alive, in the bottom of the Potomac River or up in an airplane or locked in the basement of the Japanese embassy. We have to take our chance on that and go ahead. What is the alternative? Wait to see if Wardell can find a President when we have one right here, under the Constitution? While the whole country goes crazy and God knows what will happen, and our friends abroad are beaten into impotence, annihilated? We’ve waited two days and two nights, two of the most crucial days in the history of modern civilization. What is the alternative? Just go on waiting? Certainly there is a risk; where there is no risk there can be no daring; and I think this country needs a little daring for a change.”

Hedges still scowled. He nodded, and read the paper again, and folded it up and put it in his pocket. “All right,” he said. “But you understand the extra risk we assume, my brother officers and myself. We are officers of the United States Army, but we are also men. We are devoted to the interests of our country, but we are also devoted to our own interests. That’s natural. If Stanley does return tomorrow, and we are in the war, he will be Commander-in-Chief of the Army. Granted that we will not be punished, that he will show respect for our good faith in choosing the authority to be recognized in his absence, what chance do you think there would be of my name being mentioned when he is discussing the high command?”

“None whatever, General. None whatever.”

“Then why won’t you guarantee us a week? In a week the situation may be so well developed that a name will be inevitable.”

Voorman threw up his hands. “Then you don’t believe that paper?”

“I don’t believe a damned word of it.”

“Very well, then you don’t. The risk, the peculiar risk, that you describe exists. Of course. But there is the reverse of it too. What if President Stanley doesn’t return at all? What if he is dead? If the Gray Shirts got him, he probably is. In that case, Robert A. Molleson, seated before you, is the President of the United States—not for a day or a week, but for three years. That’s the reverse of your risk.”

Hedges stared at him. He said, at length, and meaningly, “By the favor of assassins.”

“I’m not interested in the assassins. I know nothing about it. But that would be the fact.”

In the end Hedges surrendered on that point. He had others. His brother officers likewise. They wanted assurances from Molleson that he would stand firm and not shift his position on any detail, and got them. They demanded guarantees from Cullen and King of the coöperation of railroad officials, and of ample and immediate funds until the usual Treasury channels were unobstructed. They began to talk in terms of a campaign; they brought up details of strategy; they sat forward in their chairs and their eyes gleamed; Kittering demanded a map of Washington and one had to be sent for.

It was after seven o’clock when Voorman pushed his chair back, crooking a finger at Molleson. He rose and started across the room, toward the little inside hall which led to a bedroom of the suite, and Molleson got up and followed him. When they were inside the bedroom Voorman closed the door and confronted the other with a tired and sympathetic smile.

He said, “It’s time for you to go, Mr. President.”

Molleson could not stand still. His hand wouldn’t stay in his pocket, his head would not rest at this angle or that, his feet could not find solidity. He had no smile of acknowledgment for the “Mr. President.” He said, “It’s only a quarter past seven.”

“I know, but you should be at the White House not later than half-past eight, and you must have something to eat. Go to Willy’s and devour a steak and a couple of highballs. A man’s no good on an empty stomach—remember when we couldn’t find our lunch on the Rapidan? Give it to them straight over there; I wouldn’t waste much time arguing if I
were you. There’s always a chance that they’ll go with you. Don’t take it for granted that they won’t. If they do, so much the better.”

Molleson shook his head with certitude. “They won’t.” His head wouldn’t stop shaking.

“All right. In any event, come back here as soon as you leave. No matter when. I imagine we’ll be here all night. Have a good meal now, you’ll need it.”

“I’m not a damn bit hungry.”

“You will be after a cocktail or two.” Voorman took his hand, firm, reassuring. “Good luck, Mr. President.”

When the general order was issued Thursday noon for the release of persons under detention, a few exceptions were made. More for punishment than precaution, the guards who had been on duty in the White House grounds and the sentry who had been at the rear entrance were kept locked up; and Val Orcutt had been returned to Erasmus Hospital, to a private room, and a guard maintained. Chief Skinner did not fancy taking a chance of losing the one person who had been present at the scene of the kidnapping; besides, Val’s head had been pretty well bruised and hospital care wouldn’t hurt him any. No one was permitted to see him but his mother, and she was limited to one visit a day.

At nine o’clock Thursday evening Mike Nolan of the New York detective force sat on a chair tilted back against the wall of a corridor on the third floor of Erasmus Hospital, pressing the tips of his thumbs together to keep awake and wishing absentmindedly that the nurse with a patient in Room Fourteen would walk past again. The door of Room Six was on his left, a couple of feet from his chair.

Footsteps smacked on the linoleum, from the right, and Nolan idly turned his head for a glance. It was a man new to him, a large man on a stride, with blond hair, wearing a greenish-gray suit, carrying a felt hat in his hand. He was taking in the numbers on the door. Catching sight of Nolan, he came straight up.

“I’m looking for Val Orcutt.”

Nolan shook his head. “No can do, mister. He’s not receiving.”

The man pulled some papers from his pocket, found a slip among them, unfolded it and handed it over. Nolan looked at it. It was on a sheet torn from a memorandum pad, with
Department of Justice—Bureau of Secret Service
printed at the top. Written in ink was the date, and
Permit bearer to talk with Val Orcutt. Lewis Wardell.

The man said, “We’ve got a new line on him. We think maybe we can jog his memory a bit.”

“Maybe you can.” Nolan had stood up and was looking him over. “My orders are pretty tight. I’ll have to telephone.”

“Sure, go ahead. Nobody can okay it but Wardell; he’s at the White House. Say Extension Nine. He’s with the Cabinet.”

Nolan glanced around; there was no orderly in sight. The nearest telephone was at the desk around the corner, by the elevator; it would not do to leave the door unguarded, and he didn’t care to leave the stranger there alone. He shrugged his shoulders, put his hand on the knob of the door of Room Six, and said, “All right, come on.”

The man shook his head. “Sorry, but I have to see him alone. That’s orders. You’d better telephone.”

“Yeah? What’s so deep and confidential about it?”

The man smiled. “There’s plenty of things confidential about this case, Sergeant. Everybody knows something that no one else must know. If you’re going to phone, hurry up, this isn’t supposed to wait.”

“When did you get this paper?”

“Fifteen minutes ago. At the White House.”

“It says Bureau of Secret Service.”

“Yes. Wardell had a pad in his pocket. What do you want me to do, show you his fingerprint on it?”

“Now don’t froth at the mouth.” Nolan stuck the paper in his pocket. “You’re not counting on abusing him any?”

“Of course not.”

Nolan nodded, turned, opened the door of Room Six, and went in. Val Orcutt was in an armchair with his back to the floor lamp, reading a newspaper; there was a pile of them on another chair beside him. He was dressed; his head was still enclosed in a bandage, but his face certainly exhibited no pallor. Nolan said, “Here’s a visitor for you, Orcutt. Official. I told him you don’t need any massage.”

The man had entered. He nodded at Val, and stood. Nolan looked at his face, thoroughly in the better light, shrugged his shoulders again, and went out and closed the door. The
man said, “If you don’t mind,” picked up the newspapers from the chair and put them on the bed, and sat down. Val watched him and said nothing.

“Your name’s Valentine Orcutt.”

Val agreed. “That’s it.”

The man smiled at him. “You’re not a bad-looking lad.”

“Much obliged.”

“Sure. You’re just a nice young fellow. I’ve got a kid, but he’s only eight years old. You live with your father and mother out on Acker Street? I’ve seen the house. It’s all right. Does your father own it?”

“No.” Val folded his arms.

The man was smiling at him. “You’re not going to wear your tongue out, are you, sonny? Correct.” He had kept his voice down, and now made it still lower. “You don’t need to be afraid of me. I’m not official.”

“I’m not afraid. I answered your question, though I don’t know why you asked it.”

“No reason. Just a friendly question. I’m not official, I’ve come to see you on private business. Did you ever hear of George Milton?”

“Certainly I’ve heard of him. If you mean the banker.”

The man nodded. “That’s the one I mean. Only he’s not exactly a banker—that is, he’s a good deal more than a banker. He’s the richest and most powerful man in America.”