Rex Stout (4 page)

“Mrs. Tice. I’m sorry. We know you lost two sons in the World War, and we know about the one you have left, and we’re sorry. I personally am also sorry that you think it necessary to dye your hair, since nothing is lovelier or more honorable than the white hair of a grief such as yours. No greater service could be rendered—”

The dark-haired woman shook herself loose and screamed at the top of her lungs, “Shut up!” Then all at once she stood
up straight and was silent. A shiver ran over her, then another one, and she turned to go. Harriet Green got up from her chair to follow her. At the door leading to the hall they had to squeeze past Mrs. Burton and the newcomer who had rung the bell.

Before any comments could become vocal Mrs. Burton was back in the room. Beside her was a young man, tall, red-faced and awkward, but with a good pair of eyes. He stood with his hat in his hand, his jaw set not to grin.

Mrs. Orcutt, the plump woman who was behind the president, arose from her chair and called to him, “Well, Val! You’re late enough. I said ten-thirty.” She informed the Acker Street Mothers’ Club, “Val always comes to take his mother home.” They knew that.

Val Orcutt nodded. “I know, I couldn’t help it.” He added as if an apology were needed, “I didn’t want to come in. Mrs. Burton made me.”

Mrs. Burton, after finishing a yawn, explained, “I thought he might give us the latest news of the riots.”

Most of them were up from their chairs. A chorus invited the young man, “Yes, do!”

“There’s no riots.” Val looked annoyed. “There’s been a few fights around. The cops won’t let you stand still anywhere. Nothing much.”

Viola Delling got her smile on him. “But isn’t it true that Washington, our capital city, is overrun with Communists?”

“I don’t know. They didn’t run over me.”

The leader was for pressing on with it, but she knew when an audience was through. Some of the members were cross, and all of them were sleepy and ready to go home. So Viola Delling kept her leadership by heading the file to the bedroom where they had left their wraps.

On the sidewalk, strolling homeward with her arm through that of her son, Mrs. Orcutt asked, “Why were you late, Val?”

Val Orcutt coughed. Though he was twenty-six, and quite healthy and alive, and really not a fool, it was true that he had never, in any important respect, told his mother a lie in all his life. “Oh—why—nothing interesting. Well, interesting maybe. Listen here, mawm. You know I always know what I’m doing. Now just don’t ask any questions.”

This library, though it happened to be in Pittsburgh, might have been almost anywhere—that is, in any large American city. It definitely lacked the touch of genuine culture which, in the Grinnell library in Washington, had been supplied by the daughter of old George Milton as a successful covering—like a layer of cream on Grade A milk—for the vulgar source of its existence. This library, though anything but niggardly, was raw and unassimilated. First the interior decorator, not too well chosen, had done his worst, and then the owner had failed to restrain his independence. Green tapestry cushions, a gift from someone, were scattered on a red leather couch. An immense chromium humidor was against one side of the fireplace from an eighteenth century French château. Tooling on the backbones of the books made it appear likely that literary classics were indeed worth their weight in gold. On the massive table of a pinkish wood from the Brazilian forests, among a miscellany of papers and accessories, stood four telephones of different colors. The white one was a private line to Washington, the blue one, private to the executive offices of the Federal Steel Corporation, the brown one, private to the Penn Trust Company. The black one was just a telephone.

The forceful-looking, firm-jawed, middle-aged man who was in a chair pulled back from the fireplace, and who surely would have been taken on sight for a member of the high staff of big industry, was the pastor of the First Presbyterian Church. The one seated at the desk, not much older but considerably more worn, with the appearance of an evangelist at a revival meeting, the fire of rapture deep in his gray eyes but still burning, was the Chairman of the Board of the Federal Steel Corporation. His secretary, the third man, was standing at the end of the desk talking into the black telephone, but all he was saying was the word “Yes,” repeating it at intervals.

At length he returned the receiver to its rack and faced his employer. “It’s all right,” he said. “He read it all to me. It’s not a masterpiece, but it’s all right.”

The steel man nodded. The pastor smiled, amused, and observed, “So much for freedom of the press.”

“Huh?” The steel man was hoarse. “I suppose you know that my bank owns that paper.”

“I knew it in a way, yes.
A priori.
Not empirically.”

“Oh. See here, Prewitt. Don’t imagine you’re imposing on me. I have great respect for you, but not because you use words that I wouldn’t bother with.” He turned to his secretary. “What’s the matter with you? You’re as white as a bride. Go and sit down.” He pushed a button in a row on his desk.

The secretary murmured, “I’m all right.”

“The hell you are. Look at you. Sit down.” To the pastor: “Kilbourn and I have had a day of it.” He glanced at the electric clock on the wall. “Past midnight! It will soon be over—begun rather.” He twisted his head to the opening of a door. A man stood there. “Ferris, bring some port for Mr. Kilbourn, and I’ll have a glass of milk. You, Prewitt?”

“I might help with the milk.”

“A pitcher and two glasses. Bring the port first. Damn it, Ben, why don’t you sit down?”

Ben Kilbourn was standing close to the desk, leaning against it, steadying himself with his hand on its edge. The blood had gone from his face to leave it white, and his eyes were fixed on his employer as if through a fear that should they once get off they would not be able to find the focus again. He opened his mouth to speak, but got only a futile gasp instead of words. The second attempt was more successful.

“Mr. Cullen, I wanted to say, I’m resigning. I’m quitting my job.”

“The hell you are. Sit down first and resign afterwards.” The steel man was on his feet, grasping his secretary by the arm and turning him. “Come on, do you want me to carry you? Prewitt, kick that chair around.”

The secretary’s protests were feeble. They got him into a chair, and with his muscles relaxed he began to tremble. The man arrived with the wine, and Cullen took the bottle and glass and poured it himself. With a grunt of command he held the glass to Kilbourn’s lips and persevered until it was drained. “As soon as you show me some color you can have another one,” he promised. “Then you’d better go to bed and get some sleep. You can resign tomorrow, no hurry.” He turned to the pastor. “He was shell-shocked in the last war.
This last week I’ve pushed him pretty hard and it’s got on his nerves.”

The pastor said, “It isn’t eminently Christian to work a man into a breakdown.”

“Huh? I’m not a Christian.”

“Now, Cullen. Don’t forget I’m onto you.”

The steel man backed off. “That’s your bluff. I like it in you, Prewitt. I’m about as Christian as a bald eagle, but if you think that worries me any … Feeling better, Ben?”

“Much.” Kilbourn was swallowing to keep the port down. The blood was sneaking into his cheeks and his eyes looked better. “I knew this was coming. I’ll take another shot of that.”

Cullen filled the glass and handed it to him.

“Thanks.” He gulped it, with no respect for the years it had taken to arrive at its label. “You’ve certainly got spots of decency, no doubt about it.”

Cullen never grinned, but the fire, the concentration in his eyes, could relax for humor. “On resigning you give me a recommendation, huh?”

Kilbourn nodded. “Put it that way. I won’t ask you for any. I’m no good.”

“You go to bed and go to sleep. Sleep all day tomorrow. We’re finished with this. If you want—”

“Finished?” The secretary laughed, one sharp high-pitched cackle. “You mean we’ve started it. We’ve helped to start it. I’m sick, I know that. I must be. I’m not naturally soft, I’m as hard as you are. I suppose it’s the hangover from that damned shell-shock, anyway I’m sick and no good. It’s funny, I didn’t realize until tonight what we’ve been doing. I don’t blame you, I don’t blame anybody. Go ahead with your newspapers and your movies and your bribes and your radio, persuading the morons to go get their heads shot off to put your steel mills back on three shifts, what the hell? It’s your game and what’s going to keep you from playing it? I’ve been helping you with it. Only tonight I’ve gone sick on it. The vote is tomorrow, and it’s all done, absolutely, and I’ve just realized it. I don’t mean the horrors of war, I mean it’s just too damned dumb. Maybe I do mean the horrors of war, since I’m sick maybe I don’t know what I mean.”

He had to stop to swallow, and when he lifted his hand to put it in front of his mouth it was trembling again. He muttered, “Could I have a little more wine?”

The steel man, pouring it, observed with real gentleness and sympathy struggling through his hoarseness, “Ben, all you need is plenty of sleep. Here, this is all you get or it will keep you awake—”

A low-toned buzzer sounded from the desk. Kilbourn like an automaton started to rise, but Cullen pushed him back and crossed to the telephones and picked up the white one.

The pastor put his hand on Kilbourn’s shoulder, and listened with him.

“… No, this is Cullen.… Voorman? Go ahead.… Good.… Good.… It doesn’t surprise me, what do you think we pay you for?… Tilney couldn’t swing it anyway.…”

It went on. After ten minutes the steel man hung up, and as he turned back towards the others the fire in his eyes was up to rapture again.

“God bless our country,” Ben Kilbourn said, and gulped the wine.

The pastor’s jaws were firmer than ever. “Is it war?”

Cullen nodded. “Tomorrow.” He glanced at the clock. “Today.”

The pastor breathed deeply. “We are then in need of God.” He swallowed, and cleared his throat. “Its time for me to make my oration then, Cullen. I’m afraid it won’t be as good as Mr. Kilbourn’s, it hasn’t the background.” His voice, forgetting about resonance, seemed thin.

Cullen said, “You got an oration, Prewitt? Here’s our milk sitting here, better drink it first.”

“No, thanks. Or—here, I’ll take it. I can’t very well get into heroics sipping milk. I dropped in this evening to tell you something, I couldn’t make it earlier.” He drank a third of the milk. “You know, of course, that on the past five Sundays I have preached against war. You know I abhor it.”

Cullen nodded. “That’s your business. Did it affect my Easter check?”

“No. Some it has. Not yours. You’re a good sport, and a man. So am I. That’s what I came here to tell you. If war is declared tomorrow—today, I know quite well what the expectations of my congregation will be, including yourself. They expect that next Sunday I will find that God has changed his mind. Well, He hasn’t, and neither have I, and I won’t. I am against war for good, and I shall say so.”

Cullen said, “Huh? We’ll kick you out.”

“I shall say so.”

“Maybe. It’s six days till Sunday. Nonsense, Prewitt, you’ll be committing suicide.”

“Of course. But here’s my real confession: my difficulty is not a spiritual one, it isn’t even emotional, it’s intellectual. Mr. Kilbourn said it: it’s just too damned dumb. My choice is not between life and death, it is between intellectual suicide and corporeal. I’m against war for good. I wanted to tell you that, Cullen, and I also wanted to warn you that I am not alone. You may be in for trouble that you little suspect. There’s a lot of courage around, I have only my own mite, and you may get into trouble.”

Cullen stared at him. “That’s not courage, it’s only cold feet. I like you, Prewitt, but you can’t lay down on us. You’d better sleep on it. Come around tomorrow. I’ll be busy, but come in for dinner. My wife will phone you.” He turned to his secretary. “You need sleep too, Ben. Go on up and tuck yourself in. I’ll get along without you tomorrow. You’d better forget about resigning till the war’s over.—Come on, Prewitt, I’ll see you to the hall. I’m tired.”

“There’s no use in my coming tomorrow, Cullen. My mind is made up.”

“All right, we’ll see. Come along. Good night, Ben.”

The steel man and the pastor went out, and Ben Kilbourn was left alone. He sat staring at the wineglass in his hand. He noted that his hand was not trembling. He thought that was odd, and waited, watching it, for a long time. Finally it did in fact begin to tremble. He watched it. Suddenly he got up, let his arm go back, and hurled the wineglass at a framed photograph of the Board of Directors of the Federal Steel Corporation on the wall beyond the desk. It hit smack and was fragments.

He looked at his hand to see if it was still trembling and muttered to himself bitterly, “I guess I’m sick.”

The Maryland Avenue Garage was one of the most modern and efficient in the city of Washington. There were four floors, steep curving concrete ramps, an elevator, bright red gasoline pumps on wheels, a neat and business-like office.
Any midnight all four floors were crowded with the gracefully massive powerful beasts on four wheels which drank the gasoline and waited to roar and leap at their masters’ bidding. This Monday midnight, like any other, they were there: roadsters, limousines, sedans, and on the first floor the more ponderous and somewhat less graceful vehicles of the city’s retail commerce. There stood the three black carriers of elegancies from Pritchard & Treman’s, with the name of the firm, snobbish nearly to the point of invisibility, minute in a lower corner; the dozen or so Fords of the City Parcel Service; the larger and more vulgar trucks with
KLEINMAN’S
sprawled the length of each side; and five others, dark red, medium-sized and sturdy, with the legend,
Callahan, Fine Groceries and Meats
, displaying a compromise between the aristocratic murmur of Pritchard & Treman and the annoying shout of Kleinman. Of these five last, one had been backed expertly into its narrow space by Val Orcutt at six o’clock that afternoon, upon completion of his rounds.