Rex Stout (3 page)

“Well, Martin. I thought you didn’t read newspapers.”

“I don’t.”

“If that man, Lee, is in Washington, why don’t the police arrest him?”

“They would if you would tell them where he is.”

“Bah.” There was a faint amusement in the thin voice. “I tell you, ferment of the dregs.”

“Yes? Would you tell me what you are doing in Washington?”

“There is no necessity, Martin. You have already mentioned it. I am having a pleasant visit with my son-in-law.”

Martin Drew blew clouds of smoke, and made no concession of courtesy when the other waved a skinny white hand in front of his face to get air. Martin Drew spoke. “Look here, George. You said I was stupid. Keep that label for yourself. I tell you that, and I came here alone, but I’m not alone. We had a little talk this noon in New York. You know who the group would be, but others were called in too. I doubt if even you should ignore them. We agreed pretty well on everything. I don’t need to tell you that we’ve got to go in the war damn quick, right now, you’re not that stupid and you know the situation in Europe and Siberia as well as I do. I know you were against the Russian loans in the first place and maybe you were right, but now we’ve got to see them through, Soviets or not. Anyway that’s only a fraction of it, and Japan would be worse. We declare war this week, or God help us. Tomorrow’s the day, and it can be done and will be done. Stanley’s out of it, but Congress is sure. There are only one or two things that could possibly interfere, and one of them might be the Gray Shirts trying to scare people that
don’t need scaring. Damn it, don’t you see the psychology of it? Congress is patriotic, thank God. They don’t need scaring, not any more. Let a few Reds stand around and yell tomorrow, what’s the difference? I told you I come from a group, and I bring the decision of a group. Tomorrow, and Wednesday, and Thursday—until war is voted—there are to be no Gray Shirts on the streets of Washington, and damn few anywhere else. Is there anything wrong with that?”

The white head was nodding, the eyes looked closed. Martin Drew almost shouted, “Goddam it, are you asleep?”

The thin voice sounded, “Of course not, Martin. I am laughing.”

Drew glared. “You damn old pirate.”

“Thank you, Martin.” The eyes could now be seen to be open. “But don’t misunderstand me. I am not laughing at the Gray Shirts; I would not make that mistake, as certain persons in Germany once made the mistake of laughing at the brown ones. I’m laughing at you and your group. You overlook so many things.”

Drew blew out smoke. “For instance?”

“Well. I hardly know where to begin. Most important, perhaps, President Stanley’s enormous popularity, and the fact that he is an extremely persuasive talker.”

“He’s lost it. Enough of it.”

“Possibly. What if tomorrow noon he persuades Congress to delay, and in the evening takes to the radio? Would you like to listen in? I believe that is the phrase.”

Drew shook his head. “He can’t swing it.”

“Possibly. But he is also ingenious. What if he calls for war, but asks—giving reasons, there are quite a few good ones—that it be limited to the Pacific front?”

Drew stared, and then abruptly got up. He said, “Good God.”

“Stupid?” The thin voice was thinner from ferocity. “You and your group. That had not occurred to you? You grossly underrate President Stanley. Don’t forget he is a mongrel—the Mediterranean in at the night-window.—Ha! That movement betrays you; your squeamish sentimental backing off from facts. Of course he’s a mongrel, and mongrels are never completely calculable. They cannot be trusted. They are often beggars and bums, but infrequently they are geniuses, and you can’t trust them. They will submit to incredible degradations, or—and here I believe is where President
Stanley may possibly belong—they will have visions or lightning strokes of insight too swift for you. For you, Martin, far too swift.”

Drew sat down again. He had crushed his cigar into a tray. He said, “What else?”

“Well … do you want more?”

“No. What good are your Gray Shirts against that?”

“Relinquish that assumption, Martin. It will simplify things. Whatever I may be ready to tell you will be told. But nothing from me will ever be for your group of idiots. Understand that. Cut loose and we’ll see.”

“I wonder.” Drew frowned. “I wonder if you’re not a damned old idiot yourself.”

“I am George Milton.” The thin voice was a blade in the air. “You asked me what I am doing in Washington. I am here, that is all. I have been here for a week. I have been occupied. After all, it is the Congress that votes. But, as a commentary on your childish assumption that the program has been definitely arranged and that the tunes will follow in proper order, let me say that I am waiting on each hour to decide the following one. But proceed, by all means, you and your group; you will possibly do more good than harm. We are all after the same fish, but I have preferences as to tackle and bait—and my companions.”

“Have you seen Stanley?”

“No. There is no use, till he can be disarmed.”

“Will he try to talk us off tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. Long odds, yes.”

“If he does, how sure is Congress?”

“The House, short of a stampede, well in hand. The Senate, probable, but at bottom incalculable. Nothing will tell but the vote. If it is against us, the proper diversion at the proper moment might bring reconsideration. The night will tell us something, the morning more. I have a telephone at my bedside. Ask me at breakfast.”

Drew took out another cigar and cut off its tip. He was frowning. After a moment he opened his lips to speak, but the sound of the door opening stopped him. Grinnell, standing on the threshold, hesitated a moment before he spoke:

“Senator Corcoran is here.”

Drew looked a question at George Milton. The old white head wagged faintly, and Drew nodded to Grinnell.

“Bring him in here.”

Mrs. Burton, with her widespread palm, patted at the cavern of her open mouth. “Oh dearie me,” she said, and yawned again. “I suppose if I stayed up till eleven o’clock every night I’d soon get used to it, but I couldn’t do that anyway with Harry’s breakfast at half-past six in the morning. Excuse me, Mrs. Brenner. Yes, no doubt about it, you’re certainly right, if Japan wins the war the next thing we know they’ll be taking California and Nebraska and that is where our food supply comes from. I may say that I know something about that, since my husband is a grocer. You’d be surprised at all the names of places on the boxes and cartons, it’s astonishing. You can’t help but agree to that, Marion; at least we’ve got to protect our food supply.”

Marion Vawter snorted. “Nonsense. I guess we’ll manage somehow to get something to eat. I say we should keep out of the war. That’s all I say.”

“Oh, forget it.” This was a new voice. “That’s what Charles says when the children come from high school and begin on the war. He says forget it. He says they won’t fail to let us know when we’re in it and what’s the use of talking about it. That sounds sensible to me. You know, Charles was an election inspector when we lived in Richmond. Anyway, I certainly don’t come to these meetings to talk about war. Is this a Mothers’ Club or what is it?”

Leadership spoke next; leadership reposing, as it had for five years in the Acker Street Mothers’ Club, in the person of Viola Delling, the wife of Delling the druggist. There was a persistent half-belief throughout the membership that their president was a D. A. R., though none had ever had the effrontery to get her down to a yes or no on that.

“But my dear Kitty.” However authoritative Viola Delling might find it necessary to become, there was always understanding and friendliness in her voice. “Shouldn’t we talk about it, after all? Don’t you suppose Betsy Ross ever mentioned war to her friends as she sat sewing our flag, our first Stars and Stripes? Don’t you suppose Martha Washington discussed the activities of her husband, the Father of Our Country,
when she entertained gentleladies at Mount Vernon? I imagine, too, that Mrs. Abraham Lincoln—”

There was a giggle on the outskirts, and a shrill younger voice: “That would be fun, let’s discuss the activities of our husbands, selling real estate and wrapping up groceries and mixing prescriptions …”

A general titter ran around, but no open laughing. They did respect their leader, and had no clear idea of the reasons for their invariable and immediate response to Harriet Green’s deviltries.

Viola Delling smiled tolerantly. “Well, Harriet, no one expects you to be serious. But war is serious, very serious. Of course we must enter it, our duty and mission are plain.” She sighed. “It is too bad that our President is reluctant in the face of duty.”

But that was perhaps too strong; almost, indeed, a major error in tactics. A swift storm assailed her:

“He’s not reluctant!”

“President Stanley’s all right! He knows what he’s doing.”

“Why don’t you wait and see what he says?”

“He’s got a right, hasn’t he? It’s his business to do what he thinks—”

“Viola! You criticizing the President!”

“Maybe if there was enough reluctant like him—”

And so on. Viola Delling got her smile set and rode the storm with it, but nodding to show that there was really no argument. At the right moment she put up a hand palm out. “My dears! Certainly. Certainly! The President is the arbiter of our destinies. I have every confidence in him. Whoever attacks the President attacks our country, and I imagine you know how likely I am to do that. I imagine I don’t need to defend myself. You girls have all seen my home on many delightful occasions; you have seen the Stars and Stripes draped in its place of honor above my bed. But what confronts us is war!” Her voice took on vibrancy. “Our duty and our mission and the defense of our homes! We cannot leave that to others, other mothers and other sons!”

A mutter came from Marion Vawter: “When they get somewhere near our homes it will be time enough to defend them.”

“Ah!” The leader smiled at her. “Then it will be too late.”

“You’re right, Viola.” An oldish plump woman was nodding approvingly. “Some of you are too young to remember the
last war. I’m not. I remember it only too well—the papers and the pictures and the things—my younger brother went—he lives in Norfolk now. What the Germans did! And what they would have done if we had let them win. That war showed us what the Germans are. Beasts! They would do to us exactly what they did in Belgium if they got a chance. I saw a picture—”

“Of course—” Viola Delling was trying to head her off. She said “Of course” three times, making it louder each time, but the plump woman was wound up:

“I saw a picture nobody was supposed to see, the cashier at the bank showed it to me one day when I went to make a deposit, we made a deposit every day when we had the hardware store. It was some German soldiers and a baby and two children, and the soldiers were holding up some pieces—hey, what are you pinching me for?”

Viola Delling dived into the opening. “Gertrude. Yes, that was terrible. But of course this time the Germans are on our side—that is, the attacks on our commerce, the insults to our government—our allies will be those whose ideals measure up to our own. I’m sure the Germans have nothing but remorse for the past, and it is blessed to forgive.”

Nods agreed with her; a few snorts, the loud one from Harriet Green, were disregarded. The plump woman got new breath:

“I don’t care, I won’t trust the Germans. The rest of you can do as you like, but I won’t trust them. Look at their new king, Hitler. I saw a picture of him. Well! But anyway, whatever happens, I’m behind the President. Whatever happens, mind you!” She looked defiance at the leader. “I’m in a better position than the rest of you to know what kind of a man he is. My son, Val, delivers groceries to the White House every morning with Callahan’s truck. He used to have a better job, but I tell him there’s no disgrace in any kind of work so long as it’s honest. He goes to the White House every morning, and many times he’s seen the President walking there in the grounds. He often smiles at Val. Several times he spoke to him. You ought to hear Val describe his voice and the way he looks! Well, as you see, I’ve got good reasons for what I say. I’m behind the President whether I trust the Germans or not.”

The Acker Street Mothers’ Club nodded politely but were not impressed. They had heard of Val Orcutt and the President
before. Mrs. Brenner, who had previously been worried about the food supply, got the floor:

“Look here. What I don’t understand is like this: the war has been going on over a year. England and France and Germany and Russia and all of them are fighting and killing, but they can’t hurt us any because they’re too busy. Why can’t we just send our army to California and when a Jap pops up anywhere just simply shoot him? It seems to me that’s the menace. Why do we have to go declaring war against everybody at once?”

There were several approving nods. Harriet Green said, “Now that’s an idea.”

But Viola Delling smiled tolerantly. “I’ll tell you why, Freda. It wouldn’t be honorable. We must assume our share of the burden, the bitter along with the sweet. I guess we all know what that means, all mothers know. Who of us would be willing to sacrifice honor for happiness? Then can we without remonstrance see our President—that is, well, our country’s honor should be as precious to us as our own. More so. Do you girls think, does one of you think—”

There was a double interruption. A bell rang somewhere, and simultaneously a dark-haired skinny woman who had been sitting motionless and silent on the edge jumped up from her chair and leaned forward, toward the leader, as far as she could get over the intervening chairs. Her eyes were blazing, and as she began to speak she also began to tremble.

“You make me sick! Do you hear that? Viola Delling, do you hear that? You’re a dirty old pig! You talk about our honor and our sons, I’d hate to be a son of yours! I’ve sat here and listened to you and kept my mouth shut, and I kept thinking I ought to go home …”

Hands were pulling at her. The bell rang again, and Mrs. Burton, muttering something about answering the door, edged her way out of the room. Viola Delling maintained great control: