Rex Stout (29 page)

“Chick, I believe you’re pro-war.”

“I’m not. Even if I had been I wouldn’t be now. A war would be a tame show after these three days. In the space of three little days I’ve shot a billionaire in the leg, bound and gagged a President of the United States, and socked a beautiful woman in the jaw.”

“And killed a man.”

“Yeah. I couldn’t help that.”

“It’s still swollen.”

Chick bent over and looked carefully at her face, her cheeks and chin. He shook his head. “Not a sign of it. If anything, you’re better looking than you were before.”

“Thanks. How much do I owe you? If you lose your job at the White House you can start a beauty salon. Special unique treatment. Chick, will that speech keep us out of war?”

“Sure it will. I don’t know how long, but for a few minutes anyhow. It all depends.”

“Wouldn’t it have had the same effect if he had said it to Congress on Tuesday? Or on the radio Monday night?”

“I don’t know. I know he thought it wouldn’t. He was sure the cards were stacked against him and he didn’t stand a chance. So he shuffled the deck.” Chick grinned. “It certainly was some shuffle. Another three days like that would kill me. The nicest little stomach-ache I got was hearing that Lincoln
Lee was in the garage. That was swell. That, and the wristwatch. But the wristwatch was my own fault, I was a magnified fool ever to have it in my pocket.”

“You couldn’t help it. Mrs. Stanley made you.”

“Of course I could have helped it. If she was fool enough to think her husband would lose his appetite because he had left his watch at home, that was no reason for me to give in to her. I should never have had it on me. I was responsible; it was up to me, and I should have told her nothing doing.”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t.”

“You’re glad?” Chick raised his brows at her. “I thought you didn’t approve of cave-man techniques.”

“I don’t. But if it hadn’t been for the watch you wouldn’t have had to bring me here where the President was, and I would never have known anything about it. You would never have told me, would you?”

“Sure I would. On our Golden Wedding Anniversary.”

“Oh.” Alma passed that. “Well, I’m not going to wait that long for you to tell me what really happened.”

“You know what happened.”

“I do not. What happened Tuesday morning. You might as well tell me, why not?”

Chick grinned. “I guess I’ll make you coax me.”

“I don’t know how to coax. But if you don’t tell me I’ll ensnare you. You know; I’ll set my cap for you.”

“Oh my God. In that case—here’s what happened Tuesday morning: I woke around ten and the butler drew the curtains and brought my tea—”

“Don’t be smart, Chick. Please tell me.”

“All right, then I’ll make something up. Like this: at nine o’clock Tuesday morning Val Orcutt put the empty baskets in his truck at the White House. The President came up and they looked around to be sure no one was looking, and the President got in the back of the truck. As Val approached the entrance going out he slowed down and picked out a moment when the sentry had his head turned and then went through. That wasn’t so important. He drove to a side street and stopped alongside my sedan where I had it parked. We had to wait to make the transfer, trying to make sure it wasn’t noticed. The President got out of the truck and into the sedan, and I got in the truck. The President drove to this address and let himself into his apartment with my key.

“In the back of the truck I fixed up my face a little and put
on an old cap, and took the driver’s seat and drove over by the park. Val and I picked the right moment and got into the middle of a thick clump of bushes. I took this walking stick—you can see the place on it here—and cracked Val on the side of the head. I had to grit my teeth to do that, and you should have seen the look on his face when he knew I was going to hit him—of course it had all been arranged—that boy is a lad. He’s a lad clear through. I left him there on the ground and again picked my moment to go back to the truck. I forgot to say that we had stopped at a cigar store and Val had phoned his boss that he had hurt his ankle and would put the truck up and wouldn’t be back.

“I drove around some, out Southeast, looking for a good spot. Finally I found one, in front of an empty house on Fifteenth Street. I waited again for a clear coast, got out of the truck, went through the yard of the empty house to an alley and up that to another street, got on a street car and came here and ate sandwiches with the President. And do you know something? Would you believe it? I came within an ace of forgetting to wipe Val’s fingerprints off the President’s penknife which we left in the back of the truck. Wouldn’t that have been just absolutely sweet?”

“What about your own fingerprints?”

“I had gloves. I wasn’t leaving any of my spoor anywhere around that truck at all, thank you.”

Alma looked at him. The admiration in her eyes was frank, tender, faintly possessive, and just a shade fearful. She said, finally, “And you knocked Val Orcutt down with that stick, in cold blood, deliberately. That was much worse than hitting me, you just hit me on the spur of the moment. Of course I understand you had to do something with him, but … B-r-r-r-rh! I don’t see how you could do that. Why didn’t you use choloroform on him?”

“I’m no anesthetist. With chloroform I might have killed him. Anyway, he needed the mark of a good wallop to show how honest he was.”

“Who put the chloroformed handkerchief on the lawn?”

“Oh, Brownell did that when he went out to look for the President. He had it in his pocket all the time.”

“Well.” Alma sighed, looked at him, and let her eyes wander around the room. “It’s too bad no one will ever know about this—this apartment. It deserves to be turned into a
historical museum. It’s a nice room, Chick. You’ve made it very attractive.”

“Yeah. I kind of like it.”

“I should think you would hate to think of giving it up.”

“I do, a little. Not because it might be a historical museum. It will be one of my fond memories because it’s the place where my wife and I lived together in secrecy and obscurity before we got married.”

“Huh.” Alma snickered. “I suppose that’s blackmail. Anyhow, you’ll have to agree that there wasn’t anything obscure about our chaperon.”

Around nine-thirty Saturday evening four people were walking down a hall on the second floor of the White House. They had met by appointment in a room down stairs. They passed an open door on the left, and a closed one on the right, and then came to a closed one on the left—the door of Mrs. Stanley’s sittingroom. They stopped, and Harry Brownell knocked on the door. Hie voice of Mrs. Stanley came through to them: “Come in.” They entered, and Chick Moffat, through last, shut the door.

Mrs. Stanley stood by a table, trying to make a rose hold its head up in a vase. In a chair nearby, at ease, doing nothing, sat the President. He looked tired and a little worn, but there was light in his eyes to greet the visitors, and a genial smile.

“Well.” He smiled at each in turn. “Alma. Harry. Chick. Val. Come and shake hands with me.”

They crossed to him. Mrs. Stanley joined them. She invited them to sit down. Brownell said he thought they shouldn’t, that the President was badly in need of rest, but that was waved aside and Chick and Brownell pushed chairs up. Val Orcutt watched Chick and seeing that he got right back in his chair and made himself comfortable, did the same.

The President said, “How’s your head, Val?”

Val put his hand to it. “It’s all right. It’s a little sore, but it’s all right. I’m going back to work Monday.”

“Good.” The President looked around at them, and said again, “Alma. Chick. Harry. Val. Though I shall see you, and
you will see me, frequently, I think it was a happy idea for us to make this gesture and have this brief meeting.” He smiled at his wife. “Thank you for it, Lillian,—I don’t know whether to try to thank the rest of you or not. I’ve learned from experience that when I have unusually deep and warm feelings it is better for me not to try to put them into words, and certainly my feelings have never been deeper and warmer than they are to you four people now. So if you’ll just take the thanks for granted …”

They nodded. Alma said, “You don’t need to try to thank me, Mr. President, for I haven’t done anything anyway. But since you’ve asked Val Orcutt how his head is, you might just inquire about my jaw.”

Mrs. Stanley laughed. Chick grinned. The President smiled, and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Alma, but it’s too obvious that it’s perfectly all right. But it’s false modesty for you to say you haven’t done anything; I can shut my eyes and still taste your mushroom omelet.—But though I shan’t try to thank you, I should like to offer each of you a gesture that will be a little more lasting than this little meeting. A memento, a favor for each of you … Mrs. Stanley and I have discussed this. She thought I should make each of you a little gift, but that is only because she loves to choose gifts for people. I outtalked her; I would rather you would choose your own. That is the last favor I shall ask of you—this week.” He smiled. “Alma?”

Alma smiled back at him. “This is wonderful, Mr. President. I was hoping—anyway, it’s wonderful. I have no father and no family. I want you to give me away at my wedding.”

“Ah! Soon?”

“Well …” Alma blushed, and they laughed at her. She defied them: “Yes, indeed. As soon as possible.”

“Good. That will be a great pleasure, and nothing shall interfere with it.—Harry?”

Brownell folded his arms and stared at the roses, thinking. Finally he said, “I can think of only one thing that would be adequate. I want permission to cut off Vice-President Molleson’s nose.”

“Ha! So do I, Harry. But it can’t be done. Something else.”

“Very well, sir. I need a wristwatch.”

“You shall have it. Mrs. Stanley will select it for you.—And, by Jove, that reminds me.” He turned to Chick. “My watch has stopped running again. Something must have broken when you dropped it.”

“Yes, sir. I have no doubt.”

“I hope it can be fixed. It was a gift.” He smiled at his wife. “And now, Val, what will you permit me to do for you?”

Val Orcutt swallowed. He was not at all overawed; he had of course spoken to the President before; but this seemed to be different. And in fact it was different, as he proceeded to explain.

“You see, Mr. President, on my way here tonight I kept saying to myself that this was the chance of a lifetime. Of course I didn’t know if you was going to ask us what we wanted, but there was no reason I shouldn’t mention it anyway. You see, I had reason to know that what I had done was really worth something, or at least what I knew about. Because day before yesterday in the hospital a man came to me and offered to give me five hundred thousand dollars if I would tell him what I knew about you being kidnapped.”

They stared at him. Brownell asked, “Who was it?” The President said, “Indeed, Val. That’s a lot of money.”

“Yes, sir. That’s what I told him. Naturally I told him I didn’t know anything.”

“Naturally for you, Val. I made no mistake about you. It’s too bad that every man and woman in the country won’t have a chance to be proud of you for it.”

“Yes, sir.” Val nodded. “I don’t know who he was, but he said the money would come from George Milton.”

The President nodded, and looked thoughtful. Brownell observed, “I tell you, after George Milton has been ten years in his grave, he will still be just a little shrewder than anyone else.—Anyway, we here are proud of you, Val.”

“Yes, sir. So that showed that what I knew was certainly worth something, and this was the chance of a lifetime, and I thought it over, and I decided that I would ask you for three things.”

“All right, Val. If they are within my power.”

“Oh, they are. There’s no trouble about that. The first thing is that I would like to have a big photograph of you, and you write on it,
To my faithful subject, Valentine Orcutt
, and sign it.”

There were no laughs, but the smiles could not be stopped in time. Mrs. Stanley and Alma bit theirs off; the President’s, friendly, could not offend.

“But you’re not my subject, Val. Only kings have subjects. This is a republic.”

“Yes, sir, I know all that. But that’s what I want on it.”

“Then, by Jove, that’s what you’ll get on it. And your next one?”

“Thank you, sir. The second one is about the arrangements in the basement. There ought to be more shelves. Half the time when I make a delivery I find my empties piled there on the concrete, and they’re covered with dust and then I have to clean them off, and even then they’re nothing to brag about. There ought to be some shelves there on the left as you go in, back of the two wheelbarrows.”

This time there were no smiles. Alma looked at Mrs. Stanley and saw the tears standing in her eyes, and looked away to hold her own back.

The President said, “All right, Val. It seems to me that a man who has just turned down half a million dollars ought to be entitled to a few shelves. All right, Val.”

“Thank you, sir.” Val swallowed. “This last one is a little different. I may not have the education for it, but maybe you could manage it without too much trouble. Of course maybe we won’t go into the war after all, but if we do I’d like to be an officer instead of a private. Could you manage that?”

They all, even the President, exploded with laughter. Alma’s tears came now, gaily trickling down her cheeks. But the President became sober:

“Are you pro-war, Val? Do you think we should enter the war?”

Val looked wise. “I don’t know, sir. I suppose it’s just that I wouldn’t mind getting into one.”

“Yes. I suppose that’s it.” The President nodded. He looked around at the others. “That’s their strength, damn them. They use boys like Val for their strength.” He lifted his shoulders. “Well, we’ll see who is stronger; and we won’t let them ruin this little meeting. If we enter the war, Val, you shall be an officer, and you’ll be a good one.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you very much. That’s all for me.”

“I wish it were more. Perhaps I shan’t be able to restrain Mrs. Stanley from choosing a little gift for you.—Your turn, Chick.”