Rex Stout (23 page)

“Good for him.”

The man hitched his chair up a little. “That’s what he is, Val. And he wants to make a deal with you. The difficulty is that he can’t very well see you just now, and the deal must be made quick. I may get kicked out of here any second, if that detective decides to use a telephone. You’ll have to take my word on this. You’ll have to believe that I’m a man that never goes back on his word, and neither does George Milton. He sent me to see you. Look me in the eye.”

Val Orcutt was doing that; he met the other’s gray-blue eyes without effort or challenge, without inquiry. The gray-blue eyes were earnest, steady, intent.

The man said, “George Milton will give you five hundred thousand dollars. Half a million dollars, in cash, if you will tell what you know about President Stanley. If you will tell me, now. You’ll have to take my word for it. My word and his word, and they’re good, Val. Five hundred thousand dollars in cash.”

The expression on Val’s face did not change. He said, “That’s a lot of money.”

“It is that. You see, George Milton’s not cheap. He doesn’t offer you a measly ten or twenty grand. He makes it worth your while. He’ll pay it to you in cash, as soon as you get out of here and it’s safe. This is straight, Val: half a million dollars. Think of what you can do with that, the home you can buy for your father and mother, the trips you can take, all the things you ever thought of. Just tell me. You can trust me.”

Val was silent. He remained so. The man said, “Tell me. My God, Val, five hundred thousand dollars!”

Val shook his head.

“You don’t trust me, Val. You can. You must. Absolutely.”

Val spoke. “Sure I trust you. The trouble is I couldn’t tell anything that would be worth a five-spot. I’ve already told everything I know.”

“Now come, Val. You see, I know better. I know a little, but not enough. It’s bound to come out in the end, and what’s the difference if it’s tomorrow or a week from now? The difference to you is half a million dollars. If you don’t tell me now it will become known anyway, and you’ll go on driving a grocery truck. You wouldn’t be such a fool. I know it’s hard for you to trust me, but George Milton would rather lose his eyesight than break his word, and so would I. Don’t be a fool, Val. Don’t pass up the only chance you’ll ever have to meet real money.”

“I’m sorry, mister.” Val pulled his shoulders up and let them fall. “I could use the money all right, but I haven’t got anything to tell.”

“Listen here.” The man hitched his chair up again. But before he could go on there was an interruption. Seated with his side to the door, he heard the turning of the knob, and swung his head that way. The door moved, came in fast, wide. The man started fast too, but he stopped. There was no girl around to use for a shield, and the steadiness of the automatic in Mike Nolan’s hand and the readiness of the look on his face made a bad combination.

Nolan snapped, “Right straight up! You lousy pup. Keep ’em good and high.—Orcutt, you’d better fix your necktie, you’ll be having more visitors pretty soon, and this time they’ll be official. They’re curious why someone wants to see you so bad he steals memo pads and forges signatures.
—Come on, you. Walk out slow. There’ll be a limousine here for you in a few minutes. So you thought it would be a good idea for me to phone, did you? You’re cute. You thought I really ought to phone. You …”

He had intended to say, “You ornery bastard,” but he became aware, without glancing aside, that a nurse was watching with open mouth from down the hall, and that it was she from Room Fourteen. So he said instead:

“You cute little cameo.” It sounded so silly that he blushed as he heard it coming out, and he wondered where the hell he had ever picked up an expression like that.

A woman and ten men ate fried chicken and hot biscuits at the White House at half-past seven Thursday evening. Many matters had been considered by the Cabinet during the afternoon, but others which they had expected to decide had been perforce postponed on account of the time consumed in a heated and prolonged discussion of the status of Harry Brownell. That had finally been brought to a conclusion by Mrs. Stanley, by her announcement that she would withdraw unless Brownell was readmitted to membership in the Council without prejudice. There had been further telephonic communication with Oliver at the War Office and Davis at the Department of Justice, and Brownell had kept his seat. Not by unanimous consent: Theodore Schick, Secretary of Commerce, who had been present in the morning, had gone off no one knew where; Vice-President Molleson could not be found; and Lewis Wardell refused to budge, even after the appeal and ultimatum of the wife of the President. But he acknowledged grudgingly the right of the majority to decide, and Brownell stayed.

An additional reason for the failure of the Cabinet properly and promptly to fulfill its functions during the afternoon had been the occurrence of the famous affair of the
Cranmer
, with its four hours of feverish excitement and its subsequent bitter and faintly ludicrous disappointment. The
Richard Cranmer
was a British freight-boat which had been at a Brooklyn dock for some days, taking on cargo. At noon Thursday she had
steamed out of the harbor, bound across the Atlantic for Liverpool. At one o’clock two United States warships, cruisers, hurriedly got up steam and started out after her; and though no public announcement was made either of the fact or the reason for it, it was soon whispered, and then screamed from the headlines of the papers in extra editions, that three dockworkers had definitely and unmistakably seen the President of the United States on board the
Richard Cranmer
, being carried on a stretcher along one of the lower decks toward an officer’s cabin.

Of all the ten thousand rumors that the President had been found, during those three days, this one aroused the most hope, furnished the bitterest disappointment, and made the most trouble. A wireless to the freighter requesting her to turn around and head back for the port got from her the reply that she was sorry, but her cargo was urgently needed in England, she had properly and legally cleared the port, and she would continue on. A second wireless peremptorily ordering her back got a similar reply, more regretfully but equally firm. By that time the cruisers had a head of steam on, and they weighed anchor and took after her.

At noon that day the American people had been unquestionably and overwhelmingly anti-war. No argument against war, good or bad, had persuaded them; the wave had rolled in under the crest of a typical collective syllogism: a war-gang had kidnapped the President; those who had kidnapped the President ought to be shot; therefore, they would shoot no one except those who wanted them to begin shooting somebody else. But four hours later it was quite different. Ten million radios were turned on, none lacking an audience, while fields waited for the plow and the remains of luncheon ham and eggs dried on the dishes. The dirty treacherous English had their President out on the ocean, carrying him around on a stretcher; he was sick, he was hurt, he was badly wounded, he was dead. But the cruisers would get him, blow the English boat to the bottom of the sea, and bring him back; and then … If a diminutive fraction of the threats uttered that day against the English had been fulfilled, the skeleton in Napoleon Bonaparte’s tomb would have grinned in ghoulish glee.

A little after four o’clock word was flashed throughout the nation that the
Richard Cranmer
had been overtaken, stopped, boarded, and searched. The stretcher had been found on
which, according to the captain of the freighter, a mate with a busted knee-cap had been carried to his bunk; but no President. The American people found themselves in the silly and uncomfortable position of aiming a cannon loaded to the muzzle with vindictive rage, and the target suddenly removed. Some shrugged their shoulders and ate their dinner; some got drunk; most stuck by the cannon and began looking around for the war-gang.

The members of the Cabinet had credited the tale of the three dockworkers barely sufficiently to instruct the Secretary of the Navy to send out the cruisers; they had not really believed that the President would be found on the freighter, but the chance of it and the waiting for it disrupted their proceedings, already hindered by the Brownell wrangle. They had to consider the reply to the Japanese representations regarding an alleged Russian base in the Philippines; the reported decision of the Congress leaders to adjourn
sine die;
the continuance of the contraband list for American ships leaving home ports; various similarly vexing questions; and the total failure of the efforts to find the President or even a clue of any promise. It was none of these, however, not even the last, that caused their most anxious concern. Vice-President Molleson had not appeared at the White House since Wednesday morning. Wednesday night two detectives, assigned to the task by Wardell, had picked up his trail as he was leaving the home of Hartley Grinnell, but it had been lost again towards noon of Thursday, when Molleson had entered the Senate Office Building and not come out again. What with the tunnel to the Capitol, and the various entrances to the two buildings, it was simple for him to escape surveillance there if he was aware of it and had reason to circumvent it.

The Cabinet knew nothing of the gathering in Suite Eight D at the Pilgrim, but they were aware of the desperate determination and the resourcefulness of the opposition; and they knew that Voorman was lost, Daniel Cullen and Caleb Reiner were lost, and the Pierces had come down from New York and gone from the Union Depot no one knew where. A little after six o’clock fresh and doubly disquieting information came over the telephone from the Secretary of War. Oliver reported that he had had occasion to get in touch with Major General Kittering and had been unable to locate him. On account of Kittering’s notorious devotion to duty, that had seemed strange; so strange that upon reflection Oliver had
entertained an incredible and disturbing suspicion. He had instituted a systematic effort to reach every officer of high rank in the vicinity of Washington. They had all been found, more or less where they should have been, except four; Major Generals Kittering, Hedges, and Jones, and Brigadier General Ridley. The fact that it was this particular four, Oliver said, from various considerations which he need not detail, made the suspicion somewhat less incredible and vastly more disturbing.

Billings, who had been on the phone, gave the information to the Cabinet. After a brief discussion they called up Oliver and asked him to leave Major General Cunningham in his office and come at once to the White House. Mrs. Stanley went to arrange with the cook for the fried chicken and hot biscuits, that none might leave. Brownell sent to the Executive Offices for new developments on the day’s problems. Lewis Wardell phoned Chief Skinner that he might not return before midnight and that Skinner should continue with full authority. Oliver arrived, and soon after was followed by Attorney-General Davis, who had spent the afternoon at his own office on matters that would not wait. They discussed the generals. Oliver informed them that he had instructed Cunningham to establish contact immediately with all officers in the neighborhood from the rank of captain up, and report results to the White House.

At half-past seven Theodore Schick came in. He closed the library door behind him; his polished heels clicked on the parquet and then were muffled on the thick rug. They looked at him in surprise. Wardell, with nothing much left in him but nerves, blurted:

“Schick. Do we want Schick here?”

Schick bowed and smiled. “As you please, madam and gentlemen. I will go, of course, if you prefer. But do not regard me as an enemy; I haven’t the temperament for it.”

Liggett said, “What do you want?”

Schick was smiling. “Well. This is a Cabinet meeting.”

“It has been, all day.”

“True. But you haven’t needed me, and I can’t go even half a day, in a time of stress, without highballs.”

Davis waved an impatient hand at a vacant chair. “Sit down, Theodore. I know you. We need a jester anyhow.”

But before Schick could start for the seat Mrs. Stanley interposed by herself rising. Schick jumped to pull her chair
back for her. She twisted to nod him thanks, but it was perfunctory far beyond the wont of her liveliness, though her tired and worried face did manage the hint of a smile. She said, “It is time to eat, gentlemen.—I know what brought you, Mr. Schick, in spite of the absence of highballs; you smelled my fried chicken. Wherever you may have been.”

Schick bowed. “To look for discernment, Mrs. Stanley, is to find you. May I?”

She took his arm. The others were up, and followed.

At the meal, by agreement, they discussed and decided domestic and foreign matters of lesser weight which had been neglected in the afternoon. Wardell chafed; if the word might be used with regard to a Cabinet officer approaching a breakdown through the failure of his efforts at direction in a major national crisis, it could be said that he was petulant. He snapped at Brownell, was rude to Mrs. Stanley, and insulted all of them. The others were not much better. Mrs. Stanley, who loved a well-eaten meal, was resigned to no hope for this one and hurried it up. She said to Schick, “We talk and eat and move in a nightmare. It’s horrible.”

At half-past eight they were back in the library. They completed consideration of the contraband list and agreed that it should be extended by Liggett at his own discretion. At a quarter to nine a report came from Major General Cunningham. Many officers had not yet been found, but that was to be expected. Some absences, however, were being looked into, especially that of Colonel Graham, aide to Major General Hedges, who had received a note by messenger at his home and had immediately left without informing his wife of his destination. Oliver said, “I know Graham. He’s a good officer, but he belongs to Hedges.”

The door of the library opened, and a footman entered. He crossed to the large table where they were seated, and stood hesitating. They looked at him. Before Mrs. Stanley could speak, Wardell snapped: