Rex Stout (11 page)

“No. I don’t want to see. No! Goddam it, of all the—” Wardell jerked back in his chair and rubbed his hand hard over his face. “Excuse me. It wouldn’t do any good for me to see. Lock them up, and report to Chief Skinner, all of you. Tell Skinner I said it might be a good plan to send you out to Fifteenth Street to try to pick up a trail from that truck. There’s a lot of men already on it.”

Heath from New York nodded, and went.

Wardell looked toward the far corner of the room and called: “Lee! Get up and come here.” There was no movement. Wardell called again. Then he turned to Chick: “He’s still unconscious.”

Chick, grinning, rose from his chair and walked to the corner, and poked with the toe of his shoe, not rudely, at the posterior of the man lying there. “Come on, Lee, shake a leg.” Still no movement, and Chick reached down and grabbed an arm, rudely this time. “Come on, cut out the faking.” Then he straightened and took a backward step involuntarily at the incredible and intense ferocity of the voice that came suddenly from the floor:

“Take your hands off. Don’t touch me.”

Lincoln Lee moved. Without haste, and even somehow with dignity, he lifted himself to a sitting posture, drew a foot back under him and without assistance from his manacled hands came up to his feet. He walked across the room, with Chick Moffat following, and stopped in front of Wardell. There was something in his carriage and behind the composure of his face and eyes which made it not very easy for Wardell to stick to his chair.

“You can’t even compare Grier’s story with Fallon’s, can you?” he said contemptuously. “They are my men. A man is made over when he becomes mine. I’ll tell you just one thing: I had nothing to do with the childish kidnapping of President Stanley. As a favor I tell you that. I am not above generosity.”

“Thanks.” Wardell was looking up at him. “I’ll return the favor by putting you where there are a lot of others like you, so you’ll feel at home.”

“You’re a blackguard.” Lee was still quiet. “You’re a coward and a blackguard, and therefore it is nonsense to suppose that you can interfere with my destiny. Try.”

Wardell was still looking up at him, and he did not take his eyes away when he reached his hand out to the desk and moved it around until it came into contact with the block of buttons. He pushed one. The one thing he was sure of about Lincoln Lee was that it was futile to talk to that face. He sat silent, and Lee stood silent. When a man entered in answer to the bell Wardell called him over and said:

“This is Lincoln Lee, head of the Gray Shirts. The men who brought him are across the hall. Turn him over to them and tell them to lock him up.”

“Yes, sir. Where, in the building?”

“If there’s a safe place. In any case, nearby. I may want him later.”

“Right.” The detective turned to Lee. “Come on, General, take a walk.” They moved off, Lee in front. At the door they stood aside for two men to enter, then went out.

The two newcomers were from the front office. One of them had reports on the chloroform, reports on the search for Val Orcutt, on other searches and gestures and conjectures, a pile of reports that filled a basket; the other had telegrams and telephone messages, those not to be disregarded culled during the past hour from the ocean that was sweeping over them. The telephone on the desk rang, and Wardell took up
the receiver. It was Oliver, Secretary of War. He said that a discussion he had just left had convinced him that an approach should be made without delay on George Milton, the financier. He could offer no suggestions as to the kind of approach; Milton was the cagiest man in America and merely to question him would lead to nothing; but some kind of line should be taken, something should be attempted in that quarter. As Wardell hung up the receiver a third man entered the room. A detective had arrived with another person, a woman, who had seen the Callahan truck leaving the White House grounds; also, there was word from the jail, from Chief Skinner, that the sentry who had been on duty at the rear entrance had changed his story and was now saying that he had seen and recognized the driver on Callahan’s truck when it entered the grounds, but had not noticed him when the truck left.

Lewis Wardell hunched over in his chair, his elbows resting on his hips, his hands clasped, his head sunk. The others had left the room; only Moffat remained. For a while Wardell stayed like that, then he lifted his head and blinked red eyes at Chick Moffat, who had got out of his chair and started for the door.

“Wait a minute,” Wardell said. “You see how it is. How would you like to camp here and help me get it all?”

Chick hesitated. He opened his mouth, hesitated again, and finally shook his head. “I’m not the man for it, I haven’t got that kind of a head. You’re snowed under; you ought to have the Chief here, and maybe someone else, like Sampson from the Internal Revenue. He’s a good man.”

“I’ll take you.”

Chick shook his head again. “Anyway I’ve got to get some sleep. I’m no good without sleep.”

“I’ve had none. I’m going on to the end.”

“Sometimes a general can do that, but an army can’t. I’m sorry, sir, I appreciate your offer, but I’ve got … I can’t do it.”

Wardell grunted, and looked at him without saying anything. He looked a long moment, then grunted again and said abruptly, “All right. After you’ve had your nap you’ll report to Skinner.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Chick had gone Lewis Wardell sat staring at the piles of reports and telegrams on his desk. As he reached out
for the first pile he said to himself half aloud, “Even that man has something on his mind, and it might be anything.”

Down on the sidewalk Chick Moffat walked to where he had parked the modest black sedan which he had bought only two months previously in the expectation that Alma Cronin might like to go for a ride now and then. Two or three soldiers were standing around. Dawn had come, but it was not time yet for the sun; life’s pulse was at its lowest. The street lights winked and went out as Chick stopped beside his sedan. The mild breeze from the west carried the smell of green growth from Potomac Park and of moisture from the river. Chick looked around with his foot on the running board; there were a dozen or more cars parked here and there, but not much sign of activity. As he climbed in behind the steering-wheel he muttered:

“If that old owl puts someone on my tail may he swell up and bust.”

At eight o’clock that morning, Wednesday, Chief Skinner with six Secret Service men presented himself at the White House. He was received by Mrs. Stanley, downstairs; her eyes were red and tired, her lips were colorless, and she was keeping herself under control. The Chief asked her if she had any special instructions or suggestions.

She shook her head. “I would prefer that you proceed just as you would anywhere. Omit nothing. I suggested that to Mr. Wardell on the telephone, and he agreed. Mr. Brownell and I searched thoroughly, we thought, but of course not professionally, and we were too alarmed and excited to know very well what we were doing. I understand that you are to remove nothing without consulting me, and that Mr. Brownell is to be present when you are in the President’s study.”

“Yes, madam. Certainly.”

After Mrs. Stanley had turned to go she turned back again. “Please let me know when you have finished.”

“Certainly, madam.”

The Chief had already instructed his men; they separated and the search of the White House began.

Nine o’clock.

The maid weighed not much over a hundred pounds, but she atoned with spunk for the deficiency in size. She was black-haired, with cheek-bones and a pointed chin, and her uniform was not very clean, for she had changed it for work since serving breakfast and had not expected any callers. She held the door firm to its crack of ten inches against the insistent pressure from the outside. She said:

“Mrs. Brownell is out too. I don’t know when she’ll be back. You’ll have to wait downstairs. The elevator man shouldn’t have brought you up.”

The man in the hall, towering above her as he peered through the crack in the door, said impatiently, “I can’t wait. There’s something I have to get from Mr. Brownell’s room. Let me in and I’ll explain.”

The maid shook her head and decided to close the door. But it didn’t budge; and suddenly she was pushed violently backward as the door felt the force of a shoulder with two hundred pounds behind it. She regained her balance and, disdaining to run, stood and screamed. But the man was evidently as speedy as he was powerful, for the first scream had barely got started when a hand covered her mouth, her arms were pinioned to her sides, and she was lifted into the air. He carried her across the foyer into the living-room, sat down in a chair and stretched her across his lap, on her back, his hand sealing her mouth as tight as the clamped lid of a fruit-jar and his other arm pinning her motionless from the hips up.

He said, “If you’ll stop kicking we’ll have a conference.”

She kicked.

“All right. Listen anyway. I’m a Secret Service man. If you’ll give me a chance I’ll show you my badge. We’re looking for the President, I suppose you’ve heard of that, and we’ve got an idea that there are one or two little things in Mr. Brownell’s room that might help. I don’t want to hurt you—in
fact, I’m determined not to. I’m not going to hurt you, and I won’t steal the silver or your money or diamonds—I won’t even carry off the rugs. If you’ll promise to act sensible I’ll turn you loose and we can arrive at an understanding. You can watch my every movement and satisfy yourself that I won’t even make a mess for you to clean up. Just give me your promise; I can see that you’re the kind that will keep it if you make it. Will you behave yourself? If you promise absolutely to behave yourself, raise your right leg.”

She had stopped kicking to listen. Now her right leg came up, stretched horizontal, and stayed there. He eyed it—it was small but not without shape—then his arm confining her relaxed a little and his hand left her mouth. She would undoubtedly have got the scream out, and she meant to make it the most shattering scream of her life, if it had not been for the necessity of filling her empty lungs in preparation for it. As it was, though she made the intake a convulsive gasp and at the same time jerked her body to one side, he was quick enough to stifle the scream and keep her from getting loose. He had her again.

“That wasn’t nice,” he protested. “We’ll pretend you don’t know your right leg from your left so there won’t be any hard feelings. Now excuse me.” He went forward from the chair till he was squatting on the balls of his feet, laid her on her back on the floor, straddled her, holding her arms against her sides with his knees, and, with his free hand taking a handkerchief from his pocket and unfolding and shaking it out, stuffed it into her mouth. He did this speedily and not very tenderly, for she was producing quite a racket by kicking her heels against the rug on the floor. He carried her into the kitchen and tied her hands and feet with dish-towels he found in a drawer; with another towel he bound the handkerchief in her mouth; with others he secured her firmly, both arms and both legs, to a kitchen chair. He straightened up and looked down at her.

“Now,” he said, “You’ll have plenty of time to think up a good way to tell your legs apart.” He went back to the living-room, stood looking around, and shook his head. He crossed to the other side, went through a small hall, and found a bedroom. There he began to search for “one or two little things.”

Ten o’clock.

In the library in Pittsburgh, Ben Kilbourn stood beside the massive pinkish desk talking into the white telephone. He was saying, “No! Get him then. I tell you we can’t—Oh. I’m sorry. Just a minute, Senator Allen, here’s Mr. Cullen.”

He handed the instrument to the gray-eyed man in the swivel chair, and stepped aside. Cullen spoke.

“Allen? Cullen. What about it?”

Two hundred and fifty miles of wire brought the Senator’s careful wary voice, his careful cultured pronunciation. “They haven’t found him yet.”

“I know that.” The steel man was sarcastic, and impatient almost to explosion. “I’m not cut off from civilization. What about Congress? You’re meeting today?”

“We’re meeting, and adjourning.”

“You mean at once? No business?”

“Oh yes, there’s business. We pass a joint resolution of concern, trepidation, and sympathy. Then we adjourn.”

“Good God.” Cullen paused an instant, taking it. “Then you’re licked.”

“I don’t know if we’re licked. I would say not. Ten minutes ago Reid remarked to me that the only thing for us to do is to stay under a tree until the shower’s over.”

“Then you’re licked. Reid too, huh? I know you haven’t got much guts, you’re too clever to have guts, but I thought Reid was a fighter. Listen, Allen.—No, listen to me. I’m through waiting, and the country is through. I’ve been patient as a coupon on a South American bond for two months, and I’m through. The situation is dangerous. We want action. We’ll find the President, or get another one, what’s the difference? It’s time for action. That’s my word to you. You’ve got yourselves into this mess down there with all your meetings and dickering and coaxing, and the thing for you to do now, today, is what you should have done a month ago. Get it on the floor and fight for it. Put your resolution, a straight war declaration with no belly-aching, and shove it through. They’ll scuttle, most of them; the others you can ignore. Get Reid
and Wilcox and Corcoran and a few others you can depend on, and as soon as they get through with their concern and trepidation, go ahead.”

“Listen, Cullen—”

“There’s nothing I need to listen to. Go ahead. Act. Today.”

“But you’ll have to listen to this.” Senator Allen’s voice was a little less careful, and was conceding more to the common vulgarities of stress, than it had ever done before. “I’m sorry, Cullen. You know how sorry I am, but you don’t know what’s going on down here. Wilcox is scared, so scared he stutters. He wouldn’t be seen on the street with a war man. Corcoran isn’t scared, but he not only would not help in the move you suggest, he would violently oppose it on the floor. I told you what Reid said; he isn’t scared either, but that’s what he thinks. A war resolution today would get one vote. Mine. The next incident of my career would be my burial.”