Rex Stout (12 page)

Cullen said, “Huh. You’re scared too. Where did all the cold feet come from? You’re a fine bunch of statesmen. We need a new crowd down there. Why are they all running?”

Allen said, “Because a war man kidnapped the President.”

“Do they know that? Who?”

“No. They surmise it. They don’t even surmise it, they feel it. They suspect everybody. They suspect you. I wouldn’t be surprised if this line has been tapped and we’re being listened to.”

“Jackasses.”

“You know of course that Wardell has been placed in charge by the Cabinet. That makes it worse for us, in fact impossible. Brownell is responsible. You don’t realize what the atmosphere is, not only in Washington. A mob threw stones at Albert Courtney in Philadelphia this morning and would have dragged him out of his car if the police hadn’t saved him. Voorman here in Washington is sticking to his house on good advice. I have it pretty straight that at this moment the Cabinet is in session, making a list of men to be summoned and questioned and perhaps detained. The first on the list is George Milton; another one is yourself.”

Cullen said, “Huh? The damn fools are crazy.”

“That’s what I’m telling you. If you are summoned to Washington, I would advise you to come only by train, don’t try to drive, and don’t use your private car, it’s too conspicuous.”

“Why should I go to Washington? To hell with them.”

“Of course, you will do as you please.”

“I’ll try to.”

The steel man replaced the receiver. He sat with his hands on the desk in front of him, two tight fists, tricky, powerful and dangerous, but with nothing to hit.

He said, “And by God, those are the men we pay to run our country. One of them lets himself get kidnapped and the rest have got nothing but milk in their livers.”

Suddenly he yelled at Ben Kilbourn, “What the hell are you grinning at? With your damn pink cheeks! Are you taking a tonic?”

Kilbourn said, “Yes, sir, it’s a tonic.”

At twenty minutes past eleven Lewis Wardell and Chief Skinner sat in the office at the Secret Service Bureau and looked at each other. Wardell looked tired, tense, and determined; the Chief looked skeptical and acutely concerned. The latter was saying:

“I know all that, but I’d go to the Cabinet. I’ve seen a lot of circumstantial evidence since I put on long pants. If it proved to be a washout it would be mighty handy to have them on record back of you.”

Wardell said, “I have the authority of the Cabinet. Why start an argument and waste a lot of time? I think you’d better go and get him.”

“If you say so. You might as well put it in writing.”

Wardell sat a moment with folded arms and tight lips, then with sudden decision turned to the desk and took pen and paper and wrote.

Since Chick Moffat had left that office at dawn, a few things had happened. The District of Columbia had been placed under martial law, with Major General Francis Cunningham in direct charge but reporting hourly to the Secretary of War, who in turn reported to the Cabinet. The unofficial search of premises by aroused citizens, throughout an area of over a million square miles, was under way—inefficient, unorganized, and anything but thorough, but for the most part well-meaning and indisputably in deadly earnest. Another attempt by Wardell to get something out of Lincoln Lee had been totally without result, and Lee had been sent to the
District jail. Liggett and Billings, Secretaries of State and Agriculture, had brought Wardell a communication from the Cabinet suggesting that a bold and strong line be taken immediately with certain of the nation’s financial and industrial leaders, naming names; Wardell thanked them and suspended action, for by that time, past ten o’clock, he had received two reports both of which pointed in an amazing and most unlikely direction. Chief Skinner had returned from his search of the White House; nothing had been found which by any stretch of fancy would be considered a clue, and the search, thanks to Mrs. Stanley’s cooperation, had covered every inch within the building. But the enterprise had not been entirely fruitless, for outside, in a covered passageway at the rear, one of the men had discovered an interesting object buried halfway down in a filled garbage pail: a bottle of chloroform two-thirds full. The garbage pail had been there twenty-four hours; the man who had filled it thought he remembered that it had been partly filled on Tuesday morning and the remainder dumped in this morning, Wednesday. He did not remember seeing the bottle, and could not tell whether it had come from one of the house receptacles or not.

The Chief took the bottle from his pocket and handed it to Wardell. “We had to wash it off It was good and messy. No chance for any fingerprints.”

Wardell took the bottle and got up from his chair. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be back in a minute. There’s someone across the hall I want to show this to.” He went out; and it was when, after a short absence, he returned, that he began the tale and the discussion which resulted half an hour later in Chief Skinner’s advice—ignored—that he go to the Cabinet before taking action.

At eleven-thirty Harry Brownell sat at his desk in his private room in the Executive Offices. He had left the Cabinet meeting—the others remaining in session—an hour previously in order to meet the newspaper men, and that uncomfortable business had just been finished. The representatives of the
press had been next door to savage. When Brownell offered them one or two thin morsels and said that was the lot, they snorted with rage. One of them, dignified and impressive in a morning coat, protested in a voice which excitement betrayed into a squeak, “Do you realize, Mr. Brownell, that is our function and duty to let a hundred and twenty million American citizens know what is being done to find their President?” A chorus supported him; one shouted indignantly that he had hung around the Secret Service Bureau for eight hours, with the reward that at sunrise he had been escorted to the sidewalk and told to stay there. Brownell threatened, warned and cajoled, gave them another little morsel, and finally got rid of them.

They had been gone only a few minutes, and Brownell had barely begun to get his thoughts in order for some proposals intended for the Cabinet in the afternoon, when his secretary entered to say that Chief Skinner was there to see him. At Brownell’s nod the secretary went out.

Chief Skinner entered with his hat in his hand, walked across the room, stopped smack against Brownell’s desk, and stood there looking at him with his head cocked a little on one side.

Brownell said, “Good morning, Skinner.” He returned the look at the other’s silence. At length he put his eyebrows up and said it with another inflection, “Good morning?”

Skinner sighed, and said, “Mr. Wardell says he would like to see you over at his office. The one that used to be my office.”

Brownell’s eyebrows came down and moved towards the center. “He must be getting delusions of grandeur, using you for a messenger boy. What’s wrong with the telephone?”

The Chief shook his head. “Beyond me. He has an idea he would like to see you right away and you should come back with me. Can that be managed?”

“Why …” Brownell stopped. Skinner looked at him; saw him wet his lips and saw the working of his temples; and reflected that a man who couldn’t control his temples would never make a good poker player. Brownell resumed, “I can go, of course, if it’s important. Has he got hold of something?”

“Maybe. He’ll tell you about it.”

Brownell got up and went to the closet for his hat. In the outer room he paused to tell his secretary where he was going and give some instructions; then the two left together, out through the side and across the grounds.

When they arrived at the Secret Service Bureau they
found that the stage had been set. At any rate, the Chief found it so, and threw Wardell a glance of approval; Brownell merely saw that a dozen or more men were in the room, standing around apparently with nothing to do; Wardell was seated at his desk bent over an open drawer. At Brownell’s approach he closed the drawer and straightened up.

Brownell nodded a greeting. “Skinner says you want to see me.”

“Yes.” Wardell stared at him, into his eyes. “I need a talk with you. I won’t stand on ceremony. First I must ask you a favor. Will you stand there with that group of men, among them?”

The men had collected at one end of the desk. Brownell looked at them, and back at Wardell. “Certainly. If there is any reason why I should.”

“Only the obvious one that you are to be identified.”

Brownell opened his mouth, then closed it again and without speaking moved to the group. It made an opening and he mingled with it. Wardell left the room. In a moment he returned, ushering before him a woman—a woman of substance as to flesh but not fat, middle-aged, not excited but not entirely composed. Wardell stopped her three paces from the group.

“Mrs. Delling. Is the man you were speaking of among these?”

The woman looked at the men, a face at a time. She saw tall ones and shorter ones, big ones and medium-sized, and was not at all disconcerted by the dozen pairs of eyes returning her regard. She took her time and finished the group. At length she nodded, and pointed an unwavering finger.

“That one. The well-dressed one in black, with a blue tie and a big nose.”

Wardell spoke. “Will you step forward, Brownell?” The group fell back; Brownell moved directly in front of the woman. “You mean this gentleman, Mrs. Delling?”

Her tone was positive. “That is he, yes, sir.”

“How sure are you?”

“I never make a statement unless I am sure. We owe it to truth, I think, never to abuse it.”

“Very good. Thank you. Now if you will go back where you were, and wait there. Under no circumstances are you to leave.—That’s all, men. Wait in front for assignments.”

The woman left. The men filed out after her. Chief Skinner started along at the rear, but Wardell called to him to remain, and he closed the door and came back. Brownell did not
move from the position he had taken in front of the woman. When the door had been closed he turned only his head to say to Wardell:

“Of course this is some kind of nonsense, but it’s fairly irritating. The explanation?”

“Sit down.” Wardell took his own chair and jerked his thumb at another. “Come on, sit down, I’ll explain.—Sit there, Skinner.” The President’s Secretary moved to the chair with deliberation, flipped apart the tails of his morning coat, and sat.

Wardell said, “I’ll explain if necessary, but it would be quicker and better if you did it yourself. Suppose you tell me all you know about the disappearance of the President.”

The Chief of the Secret Service, on a chair at one side, was thinking to himself,
He’s made a mistake. He shouldn’t have let him see that woman. Brownell was absolutely worried, now he’s relieved.

Brownell said, “I’ve told you all I know. You are the first person I told, and the only one.”

“You told me a tale. Now I want the truth.”

“You have it. All there is of it, from me.”

“No good, Brownell. I know things. I want the truth. No matter what it is, it’s your best bet now.”

Brownell sat and looked a moment, then leaned forward in his chair to get his eyes into Wardell’s. He said slowly and bitterly, “So someone’s got to you, have they? Even you. And you think if you can shut me off you can go ahead. What’s the game? How have you framed it?”

For long seconds the two pairs of eyes met, hostile, suspicious, and pointed with purpose. Wardell finally abandoned it. He snapped, “All-right,” turned in his chair, and reached down and opened a drawer of the desk. From it he took first a stack of handkerchiefs, then the bottle of chloroform, and placed them on the desk.

He said, again getting Brownell’s eyes, “Here are three facts for you. First, Monday night at nine o’clock you bought from Mrs. Delling at her husband’s drug store on Acker Street, a bottle of chloroform. Second, here are nine handkerchiefs, taken this morning from the bedroom of your apartment, identical with the one found on the White House lawn smelling of chloroform. Third, this bottle, still two-thirds full, found by Skinner this morning at the White House, is the one you bought from Mrs. Delling. It is the
brand they sell.” Wardell paused, and made his voice a whip: “Now I’ve explained, let’s hear you.”

Brownell said quietly, “It’s a fairly good frame-up. I’m handicapped by not knowing for certain whether you’re in on it. If you are, it would be a waste of time talking to you. I’ll go to the Cabinet.”

“You’ll go nowhere. Frame-up hell. Come, Brownell, for God’s sake give it up. You can’t go through with it, it’s hopeless. Tell me about it, let’s wind it up. Where is he? Let me put him back in the White House and you can settle with him.”

Brownell was still quiet. “I didn’t know you were so clever, Wardell. I don’t believe you are. Perhaps you’re straight after all. Maybe I’ve been put up on you.”

“You’ve put yourself up. What did you do with the chloroform you bought on Acker Street Monday night?”

“I bought no chloroform.”

“What! You saw her pick you out.”

“I bought no chloroform.” Brownell leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and slowly rubbed the palms of his hands together; and though his face certainly was heavy with concern, Chief Skinner was thinking to himself,
He’s just too damn pleased about something.
Brownell said, “Look here, Wardell, let’s say you’re straight. God knows I am. I didn’t buy any chloroform, and I’ve never been in Acker Street; I don’t even know where it is. I don’t know anything about that woman picking me out, but it could be done from pictures; whoever arranged it with her could handle the details. Haven’t they got any other witnesses who saw me? They should have. As for the bottle which you say Skinner found in the White House, wouldn’t it be fairly stupid of me to leave it there? Similarly, it was stupid of them to plant it there, but that’s their business.”

“It wasn’t in the White House. It was in a garbage pail outside, and it is the kind and size you bought from Mrs. Delling.”

“The kind I didn’t buy. No. If it was outside perhaps it wasn’t planted; it may be the one that was actually used. As for the handkerchief, that may also have been arranged, or it may be only a coincidence. The Secret Service man, Corliss, found it; I carried it in my pocket for some hours before turning it over to you; I didn’t realize that it resembled any of my own. Whoever burglarized my apartment for you, if that
was straight, must have reported that he found several different kinds among my supply, mostly quite common varieties; I am informed by my wife that I am not as particular about handkerchiefs as I should be. So. If others have arranged this show and you’ve been taken in by it, there’s my explanation. If you’re a member of the cast, forget I’ve bothered to explain. In any event, it won’t work, and you’re wasting a lot of precious time. Don’t think this isn’t going to the Cabinet, because it is.”