Rex Stout (24 page)

“Well, what is it?”

The servant seemed relieved to know whom to look at. “The Vice-President, sir. He’s outside.”

There were glances. Wardell said, “Well, I suppose he’s still Vice-President. Why doesn’t he come in?”

“Yes, sir. He told me to say he was there.”

“Ask him to come in.”

The servant went. They looked around at each other.
Billings grunted to Liggett, “I thought the fat pig had his feet in another trough.” Theodore Schick murmured to Mrs. Stanley, “If Achilles sulks in his tent, he should be aroused before an unworthy hand snatches his sword and shield.” She, quick-witted, shot him a sharp and startled glance, then half closed her eyes and nodded vaguely. Schick smiled, not maliciously. They all looked at the door.

Molleson entered. He crossed over to them, to the table, and stood. No one said anything. His face looked flushed, his necktie was not straight, and the bottom button of his vest was undone. He stood straight, and blinked at them. Schick murmured to Mrs. Stanley, “The Vice-President has had more highballs than I have.”

That was all Molleson needed, a little something to shoot at. He was, after all, an old campaigner, and had seen plenty of rough-and-tumble. He grunted, “Huh, Schick. I haven’t seen you since yesterday at Grinnell’s, when you were giving George Milton a tip.”

Schick waved the insinuation away, but he lost a little color. He said, “Ouch. Don’t count on a diversion from me, Molleson, I’d rather watch.”

Billings spoke. “There’s your chair, Bob.”

“The hell it is.” Molleson blinked at Mrs. Stanley, and said, “I beg your pardon.” He looked at Brownell. “So you’re here. More of Wardell’s comedy.” He took in the group. “If you think you are making history, boys, it’s damned poor history.” He inclined his head to Mrs. Stanley. “I beg your pardon.”

They looked at him. Oliver said, “Sit down, Molleson. We want to ask you a few things.”

They waited. Molleson hesitated, then went to the vacant chair, the only one left, pulled it back and got into it. He was directly across the table from Mrs. Stanley, with the Secretary of Labor on his right and Billings on his left. There was no chair at the end, where the President always sat; Mrs. Stanley had refused to occupy it. Davis was whispering something to Liggett and Liggett was nodding.

Oliver said, “Don’t misunderstand us, Molleson. You were one of us. You left us. That’s the fact. We are doing our best in an impossible situation. It will remain impossible until the President is found. You are making it harder for us. We resent that, and we demand an explanation of it.”

Molleson said, “I didn’t come here to make explanations.”

Davis observed quietly, “You must have come for something.”

Liggett spoke. “Whether you came for explanations or not, they’ll come first if you don’t mind.”

“I came for something.” Molleson put his hand to his mouth; his chest jerked in and out; he took his hand down. “I have nothing to explain. Except one thing perhaps. In this room on Tuesday afternoon the Secretary of Commerce suggested that in the absence of the President the leadership of the Administration was the natural and constitutional duty of the Vice-President. I declined it—no, I did not decline it; I failed to support the suggestion.” Molleson threw his head up. “I was wrong, I was cowardly to evade the constitutional responsibility of my office. When a man permits himself to be
elected
to an office, he must hold himself ready for the burdens of its more unlikely contingencies as well as its routine demands. The responsibilities of an
elective
office are peculiarly and especially not to be evaded. You gentlemen of course have no reason to feel that, that sacred duty. Your first obligation is naturally to the President, to the man who appointed you. Mine is to the country, to the American people. I should have realized that and accepted the leadership when it was offered. I do realize it now. I am ready to accept it now.”

He kept his head up, and looked around. Brownell: “It was never offered to you.” Billings: “Did you think that up all alone, Bob?” Schick: “I believe I made the suggestion, but it was unanimously unsupported.” Liggett: “Do you mean you want Wardell’s job?” Davis: “We chose no leader; we delegated to Wardell the task of finding the President. I imagine it was thought that you would be engaged at the Capitol, and needed there, as one of us.”

“I’m not asking for apologies.” Molleson’s face was redder; he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead.

Wardell snapped, “And you’re not getting any. Come to the point. This is interfering with important business. What do you want?”

“It isn’t a question of what I want.” Molleson laid a fist on the table. “It is what the Constitution requires and the country expects.”

“I have noticed,” Theodore Schick offered, “that sooner or later everyone falls in love with the Constitution.”

Wardell disregarded him: “And what does it require?”

“That the office of President of the United States be not
vacant. Consult the Attorney-General. Davis? Can there be any other interpretation?”

“Certainly not.”

“Well?”

“It is irrelevant. The office is not vacant.”

“No? We have a President? Where is he?”

There was a chorus of reproaches. Davis held up his hand. He was smooth and quiet. “Listen, Molleson. Don’t try to start that argument. There’s no sense in quibbling. We all know how it is. The Constitution says,
In case of the removal of the President from office, or of his death, resignation, or inability to discharge the powers and duties of the said office, the same shall devolve upon the Vice-President.
It all depends upon what is meant by
inability to discharge;
the question has arisen before. The Constitution does not define it and does not say who shall. In the present instance we, the Cabinet, the heads of the administrative departments, are defining it; certainly we have as good a right as anyone. We say the office of President is not vacant.”

Molleson’s fist, on the table, tightened. “I don’t.”

“What do you say?”

“I say that since Wednesday morning I have been, and I now am, President of the United States.”

He glared around. Schick murmured, “Ah, we have it.” Billings said: “But you see, Bob, you’re outvoted.”

“I recognize no right to vote. You can’t vote down the Constitution. Would you attempt—”

Liggett broke in: “It wouldn’t hurt to have a vote on record. Would it?” He looked around; there were nods. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Stanley, and Brownell, we’ll confine it to the official members. The understanding is that this Cabinet agrees that the office of President is not vacant and that therefore the provision of the Constitution for succession is without relevance. Ayes, please?”

They were grunted and murmured.

“No’s?”

Silence.

Davis said, “Come, Molleson, make it unanimous.” Billings: “Forget it, Bob, it’s no use. Be with us.”

Molleson stood up, shoving his chair back so that it nearly toppled over. His face had gone suddenly pale, a startling change from its florid habit; he looked sick. “Gentlemen.” His voice trembled; not for calculated effect as it so often had in
his Senate fights before his elevation to the rostrum; this tremble was from a heart pumping desperately to supply the demand for courage. “Members of the Cabinet. I demand, immediately, occupancy of the Executive Office and custody of the Seal. I demand this in furtherance of the duties of my office and under the Constitution of the United States.”

Billings shook his head. “Too bad, Bob. Too damn bad.”

Davis said, “You’re a fool, Molleson. You’re next door to treason.”

“Is it treason to adhere to the Constitution? Gentlemen, you have heard my demands. I advise you, I plead with you, do not plunge the country—”

He stopped. They all looked at him. Schick said softly, “Yes. Go on. Plunge the country—”

Molleson, with compressed lips, his face red again, shook his head. He backed off, into his chair, turned to shove it, and turned again. “My demands, gentlemen?”

Liggett said, “Don’t be an ass.”

“You refuse. Whatever happens, the fault is not mine. I tell you, it is a grave responsibility … the fault … whatever happens …” He was sputtering. He turned and started away.

Brownell had looked at Oliver, Oliver had nodded, and the two had left their chairs and passed around the group into the line of the door. Molleson, seeing them, swerved. Brownell caught at him. Oliver went to the door and stood with his back against it. The others, around the table, except Schick and Mrs. Stanley, were on their feet. Davis started toward the door.

Molleson jerked away from Brownell. “What’s this?”

Oliver said, from the door, “You can see what it is. Do you think we’re such fools as to let you out of here?”

Molleson glared. “I think I’m going out. Get away from the door.”

Oliver and Davis were against it, side by side. Molleson started towards them. Davis said, “There’s ten of us, Molleson. You might as well go back and sit down.”

Brownell put in, “We don’t want him in here. Unless you think he might tell us who’s been interpreting the Constitution for him. I don’t.”

Schick’s suggestion came from the table; he hadn’t bothered to get up. “Lock him in the President’s study. Put a bed in there for him. He can’t kick on that.”

Molleson’s face had gone white again, and again his voice
trembled. “Davis … Brownell … you damn fools … has it occurred to you … what if Stanley’s dead?… I’m President, you damn fools … this is treason.…”

“Ease up, Molleson.” Oliver walked to him. “You’ve heard of the fortunes of war. We’re under martial law, and I’m the Secretary of War. You’re under arrest, and you’ll stay that way until President Stanley is back where he belongs. And if it should turn out, God forbid, that he’s dead, you’ll stay that way until you explain how the idea happened to be in your head at this curious moment.”

Vice-President Molleson stared at him, not defiantly.

That night, Thursday night, at three hours after midnight, more than a score of army officers of various ranks were gathered in the office of the Secretary of War. All were in uniform. Some of them were busy around a table on which were arranged stacks of Manila filing folders; others were seated or stood around; one, a brigadier general, was in low-toned conversation with the Secretary at his desk. All faces were tense, and weary with distaste; they were engaged in a business fraught with a particularly nasty danger and offering no glory whatever by way of compensation. Major General Cunningham, in an armchair in the center of the room not far from the table, was fingering one of the Manila folders, glancing through its contents. Two orderlies stood at the door.

Cunningham spoke to an officer who had turned from the table to face him: “All right, send in this Captain Farrell.”

The officer spoke to one of the orderlies, and the orderly turned and left the room. In a few moments he was back, preceded by a youngish man in mufti. The officer beckoned this latter over, and he came and stood before Cunningham and saluted. Cunningham looked him over, then spoke sharply:

“Captain Farrell. Colonel Arthur Hamlin visited you last evening around ten o’clock?”

The other was erect and stiff, holding himself together.

“Yes, sir.”

“He took you to the Chesapeake Club, to a room where other officers were present?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was Major General Kittering there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What was said?”

Captain Farrell tightened his lips, and breathed.

“Well? What was said?”

“I can’t tell you, sir.”

“Do you mean you didn’t hear it? Were you deaf?”

“No, sir. I heard part of it. After about half an hour I left.”

“Tell me what you heard.”

The captain looked unhappy. His fingers, at his sides, were rubbing against each other. He pleaded: “I beg you, sir. I left as soon as I fully realized what was being suggested. I am not in any way culpable. I beg you, sir, do not compel me—”

“When you left, where did you go?”

“I returned to my quarters.”

“Did you report the matter to Colonel Salmon of your regiment?”

“No, sir.”

“You didn’t. Having information of a mutinous plot, you did not report it to your superior, and you now wish to withhold it from me.”

“No, sir.” The captain went on hastily: “I mean, as I heard it, it was not a question of mutiny. It was a question of authority—”

“Nonsense. The definition of mutiny is not your affair, the Regulations attend to that. I can waste no more time with you. Your human obligations to your brother officers do not exist when they are in conflict with your plain duty. You know that. Will you tell me what you heard at that meeting? Yes or no.”

The captain’s shoulders sank a sixteenth of an inch. He pulled them up again. “Yes, sir.”

Cunningham nodded. “Good.” He turned and called, “Colonel Nash!” An officer hastened up. “Captain Farrell has a statement to make. Go across the hall with him and take it down. You may question him.—Captain, I want it complete.”

“Yes, sir.”

The two saluted, turned and went. An officer came from the table. Cunningham handed him the folder and took from him a fresh one, and flipped it open. He glanced at it.

“Captain James Foster. Who’s this?”

The officer told him “Company Y, Hundred and Thirteenth. Up from Fort Corliss. At the Capitol. Colonel Blaine.”

“Oh yes.” Cunningham nodded. “Send him in.”

Again an orderly was sent out, and returned, this time with a captain in uniform who was short, dark, and looked sleepy.

Cunningham said to him: “Colonel Blaine is under arrest. Colonel Atwood has your regiment.”

“Yes, sir. So I understand.”

“What have you been doing since six o’clock last evening?”

The captain grimaced; he had to keep his mouth shut against a yawn before he could answer. “I was on duty until nine o’clock. Then I turned in and went to sleep.”

“What do you know of the affair Colonel Blaine was concerned in? I don’t mean rumor; what do you know?”