The events which brought me into the office of Edward Lamb, Deputy Director of the F.B.I., on Friday the thirteenth, had developed so rapidly that I could scarcely believe that less than twenty-four hours had passed since Harcourt had taken me into custody.
We had gone to the Federal Court House in a taxicab (paid for by me) where I was placed alone in a room for fifteen minutes. At the end of that period I was informed that Washington had asked that I be sent down for direct interrogation at the Bureau. I was told that if I preferred I could demand a formal warrant of arrest but that Mr. Vail, who had been released with an apology, advised me to go, and that I could confirm it by telephone—which I did. I was told that there was still no formal charge against me but they asked if I would let myself be fingerprinted. To this I agreed and then sat back while arrangements were completed to fly me down to Washington from the LaGuardia Airport. Harcourt was to accompany me. That had been all. They allowed me to phone Germaine and tell her I was going to Washington and invite her to join me there as soon as I could get hotel accommodations. The F.B.I. put me up for the night in one of their Manhattan hide-outs—an old house on East 80th Street—and in the morning Harcourt and I had taken the plane. The clock had barely touched noon when I was told that Mr. Lamb was ready to see me.
Lamb was a pleasant, youngish man—with that inevitable faint Hoover chubbiness—whose roomy office with its deep leather easy chairs spelled power in the F.B.I. I was amused to note that he followed Rule 1 of whistle-stop detection, by seating me in a deep chair, facing the light, while he sat at his desk on a definitely higher level and with the light behind him.
"Well, Mr. Tompkins," he began, "we've had disturbing reports about you from at least three different sources. Frankly, we still don't know what to make of them and the Director thought it would be better if you came here and talked to us."
"Always glad to help," I assured him. "If you'll tell me what the reports are, I'll try to explain."
Lamb glanced at a file of papers on his desk. "The first one is an allegation that you aren't Winfred S. Tompkins, but an imposter who has kidnapped Tompkins and taken his place. That report was anonymous and we don't attach any particular importance to it, although if necessary we could use it to detain you for questioning under the Lindbergh Law."
I stretched out my hands toward him. "My fingerprints were taken last night," I said. "They ought to settle that question."
Lamb laughed. "Unfortunately," he admitted, "it takes a little time to establish identity by fingerprints. The first tentative identification suggested by yours was a man named Jonas Lee. He is a Negro currently employed in the Charleston Navy Yard. However, I think we can assume that the final identification will bear you out. They're working on it now."
There was a buzz and he picked up the desk-telephone. "Oh, they do," he remarked. "Good!"
He turned back to me. "That was the Finger-Print Division. They're your prints, all right, so we'll cancel the kidnapping charge."
"What's the second strike on me?"
"That's a report phoned in by one of your partners that you seemed to expect President Roosevelt's death two or three days before it happened."
"I did," I explained. "A man named Axel Roscommon came to my office, said that he was the chief Nazi agent in the United States, and told me that Roosevelt had been poisoned at Yalta. I had already reported Roscommon to the Bureau and was told to let him alone. Roscommon said that only a few people, including Roosevelt, knew about the poisoning. I wanted to pass on the warning but was told that it was too late, that I would simply expose myself to suspicion. So what I did was to make normal business preparations to take advantage of its effect on the Stock Market."
Lamb looked up at the ceiling and remained silent for a few minutes. "So that's the way it was," he said. "For your personal information, Mr. Tompkins, Roscommon told the Director the same thing a month ago but when Mr. Hoover tried to warn the Secret Service he had his ears slapped back. If I'd known about the Roscommon angle in your case I would have told the New York office not to worry. I thought perhaps that this was another angle on the same story."
"Do you believe that President Roosevelt was assassinated, Mr. Lamb?" I asked, point-blank.
He shrugged his shoulders. "No, I do not," he replied. "Not officially, that is. It is not inconceivable and the Secret Service is so set in its ideas and methods that—well, frankly I'd rather not believe it. I have no evidence, aside from a verbal warning which might have been coincidence. Some of our toxicologists say that it could be done, others deny that there is a virus which can produce the symptoms of a paralytic stroke. In any case, it's outside of our jurisdiction."
I heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank God I'm clear of that one," I said. "I shouldn't like to be mixed up, even by accident, in anything like that. I remember what happened to Dr. Mudd."
Lamb nodded. "The doctor who bandaged Booth's leg after the murder of Lincoln? Yes, I can see your point."
"How about the third charge?" I asked.
Lamb looked serious. "That's not going to be so easy, Mr. Tompkins," he announced. "Harcourt reports that he doesn't think there's anything to it, but Naval Intelligence has the jitters about this Alaska business. It seems to be pretty well established that on the afternoon of April second you stated that the U.S.S. Alaska had been sunk in an explosion off the western Aleutians. That was over ten days ago and there is still no word from the carrier. The last report came from Adak which had picked the ship up by radar on the first. The report given us was that you represented that it was all a dream. What worries the Navy about this explanation is that no public announcement had ever been made of the Alaska's launching or commission. She's a sneak-carrier built under stringent security regulations and until you came into the picture the Navy was pretty sure that there'd been no leak."
I nodded dismally. "Knowing the Navy," I replied, "I can see how they feel. All that I can suggest, Mr. Lamb, is that this is a case of mental telepathy. There have been plenty of other instances of it on record. Often they call it intuition or second sight. I can only say that if you investigate and can find any other explanation I'll be delighted."
"I don't think that Admiral Ballister—he's the present head of O.N.I., though they change so fast we almost lose count—will be satisfied with the theory that it is a case of E.S.P. That's 'extra-sensory perception' and there have been plenty of scientific experiments in that field but the Navy doesn't know about them. And then, of course, there was the bomb—"
I nodded. "The thorium bomb—" I began, and stopped as I noticed an official change in Lamb's attitude.
"Exactly, Mr. Tompkins," he observed. "The thorium bomb. Nobody—at least outside of the President, the Secretary of the Navy and Professor Chalmis—was supposed to know that there was such a thing as a thorium bomb. The security arrangements on the thorium project were so drastic—"
"Roscommon knew all about it," I said. "He also mentioned Chalmis to me."
The Deputy Director looked slightly ill. "He did, did he?" he growled. "Thatwill teach the Navy not to let the Bureau handle domestic security. Hell, this thing gets bigger and bigger every minute. If Roscommon knew about it, then anybody could have known. Why, it's been an offense against the Espionage Act, even to print the word 'thorium' outside of chemical textbooks, and Chalmis is supposed to be in the T.B. sanitarium at Saranac. Wonder what happened to him?"
I leaned forward. "He's dead, Mr. Lamb," I assured him. "Everybody on the Alaska is dead. The bomb went off and there's nobody left to tell the tale."
"How do you do it, Tompkins?" Lamb demanded. "If you will give us the details and the names of your accomplices I think I can promise you a life sentence instead of the electric chair."
"Mr. Lamb," I replied, "You can promise till the cows come home. I—W. S. Tompkins—had no connection with it at all and you can't prove that I had. I know about it only because of—well, call it mental telepathy. I could sit down and tell you exactly what happened on the Alaska before Chalmis deliberately touched off the bomb, but I couldn't prove it and there isn't a living soul who could support or disprove my story. And if you place me under arrest I'll be in a position to sue for heavy damages. False arrest on a charge of treason is no joke and I'll fight."
Lamb looked slightly uncomfortable. "Well?" he asked. "What would you do if you were me? Let you go, with the Navy howling for action?"
"There are two things I'd do," I told him. "First of all, I'd assign a flock of agents to see if they can find out where I was and what I was doing between the 25th of March and the second of April. Harcourt tells me that was the critical period. I don't remember. It's a case of amnesia, I guess. At any rate, I've drawn a blank. You have my fingerprints and photograph. You ought to be able to locate something."
Lamb shook his head. "That's not necessary now," he replied. "If Roscommon knew about Chalmis and the bomb, the question of where you were the week before last isn't important any more. We'd have to check back for at least two years."
"The other thing I'd do," I continued, "would be to let me go under some sort of open arrest. Fix me up so I can see the intelligence people here and give me a chance to convince them that—" I paused.
"Convince them of what?" he asked tartly.
"See here, Mr. Lamb," I said. "I'm in a hell of a personal jam. For personal reasons I'm trying to clear things up. Believe it or not, this business about the sinking of the Alaska and the thorium bomb is the least of my troubles. I've got the damndest case of loss of memory I've ever heard of. As Winfred S. Tompkins I can only remember as far back as April second, but I can remember years before that as somebody else. That's how I happen to know about the loss of the Alaska."
"How?" he asked. "According to your theory, everybody aboard her is dead."
I nodded. "Just the same, I was on the ship when she blew up—in my dream, I mean. If you give me a chance to talk to the intelligence heads, I think I can prove to their satisfaction not only that I know what I'm talking about but that my knowledge is perfectly legitimate."
Lamb grinned. "The Bureau is in enough fights as it is without being accused of sending a screw-ball around to bother the heads of G-2 and O.N.I."
I leaned forward. "I can see your point," I admitted. "I know that in the Navy everybody is out to cut everybody else's throat. It must be worse when two different Government Bureaus are involved."
The Deputy Director looked at me. "You seem to know a hell of a lot about the Navy for a stock-broker," he observed. "At any rate, that idea's out. I won't give you introductions and—"
"Okay!" I agreed. "Then let me try to do it my own way. I have some friends in the O.S.S. I'll see if they can't get me in to see General Donovan. If I have a talk with him, perhaps he'll agree to pass me on to the others."
Lamb laughed again. "You don't know Washington, Mr. Tompkins. General Donovan's blessing won't help you," he declared. "They hate his guts for trying to make them combine. However, if you think you can get to see him on your own, go right ahead but for God's sake don't say the Bureau sent you over."
"All right," I agreed. "Then I take it I'm under open arrest. I won't try to leave town without telling you. Any suggestions of where I can find a hotel room for the next few days?"
Lamb leaned back in his chair and grinned boyishly. "The Bureau has a lot of authority," he declared, "but it's not God. There won't be a hotel room to be had for love or money for the next two weeks. Roosevelt's death is bringing everybody back to Washington. President Truman is taking over and most officials are too busy to be bothered. Usually, it's not hard to get a hotel room over the week-end but not this time. If you can't get accommodations, phone back here and we'll fix you up with a cot somewhere in the F.B.I. barracks."
"Then I'm in the clear, so far as you are concerned," I suggested.
Lamb smiled cryptically. "I didn't say that," he remarked, "and it isn't so. We have nothing specific to hold you on, but the Alaska is missing and, if you insist, the President is dead, and you're caught in the middle."
"What will it take to get myself cleared?" I asked.
Lamb considered. "If you can get O.N.I, off our necks, with a clean bill of health, we'll relax," he admitted. "But I give you twenty-four hours to do it. Admiral Ballister's pretty worked up on this Alaska business, and he wants action."
I nodded. "Okay, I'll give it to him," I said.
"Okay, Tompkins," he remarked. "It's your funeral. But remember, if you're not cleared in twenty-four hours, we'll be calling you in again and this time we'll give you the works."
Luck was with me. I left the F.B.I. and walked up Pennsylvania Avenue to the Willard. As I followed the queue to the registration clerk at the desk I heard the man just ahead of me start to say: "I want to cancel—"
"Just a moment, sir," the clerk said, as he picked up the telephone. "Yes, madam? No, I'm sorry—"
I plucked at the man's sleeve.
"Don't cancel, if it's for tonight," I said, "Here's a hundred," and I held out two fifty dollar bills.
The man nodded. "Okay, buddy," he agreed, pocketing the money. "The name's R. L. Grant of Detroit."
"Name, please," the clerk asked.
"R. L. Grant of Detroit," I answered. "I have a reservation."
"Right," he said. "Lucky for you you wired a week ago. Here you are, Mr. Grant. Please register."
After lunch—which was poor, slow and expensive—I screwed up my courage and telephoned the Office of Strategic Services.
"May I speak to Mrs. Jacklin?" I asked the switch-board girl. She promptly referred me to Information, who told me that Mrs. Dorothy Jacklin was on Extension 3046, shall-I-connect you?
A moment later a pleasant voice said, "Yes? This is Mrs. Jacklin."
"Mrs. Jacklin," I told my wife, "my name is Tompkins, W. S. Tompkins. I have a message for you from Commander Jacklin."
"Oh," she said. It was not a question. "Are you a friend of Frank's? Is he all right?"
"He asked me to see you when I got to Washington and gave me some special messages for you. I'm staying at the Willard. Are you free for cocktails or dinner this evening?"
Something of the urgency in my voice communicated itself to her and I could feel her reverse her original impulse to refuse the invitation.
"Why yes, Mr. Tompkins," she agreed. "I'd be glad to join you, for cocktails, that is. Shall we say about half past five?"
"Splendid! I'll meet you in the south lobby. I'm sure to recognize you, Frank gave me such a good description of you. If there's any slip-up, have one of the bellboys page me."
"Thank you," she said. "I'll be there."
As I laid down the telephone, my pulse was racing and my throat was dry. How in God's name should I act with her?
Half-past five crawled around. I filled in some of the time by phoning the F.B.I. and telling Lamb's secretary I was registered at the Willard under the name of R. L. Grant. I phoned Bedford Hills and told Jimmie that I was in Washington and wanted her to join me at the Willard. She was a little slow about getting the R. L. Grant angle but allowed that she could register as Mrs. Grant or Mrs. John Doe if necessary and when was all this nonsense going to stop?
In spite of my assurance, I almost failed to recognize Dorothy. She looked younger, smarter and infinitely more self-possessed, and the tanned and muscular young man in uniform who accompanied her was obviously not animated by brotherly sentiments toward her.
"Mrs. Jacklin?" I asked. "I'm Tompkins. And—" I turned eloquently to her escort.
"Oh, this is Major Demarest," she said. "Thanks, Tony, for escorting me. I'll see you later?"
"Half-past sixish?" Demarest asked.
"Say seven," Dorothy told him. "I'll meet you here, by the desk."
So I was neatly bracketed. While Dorothy and I were talking, her escort would be waiting—impatiently. There was no chance of a prolonged operation. I must keep things moving.
I took her to the rather garish cocktail lounge on the east side of the hotel and ordered her a Bourbon old-fashioned and a Scotch-and-soda for myself.
"Frank told me that's what you like," I remarked, before she could raise her eyebrows after I told the waiter to bring a sliver of lemon peel to go with the old-fashioned.
"Where did you know him?" she asked.
I leaned confidently across the table. "Mrs. Jacklin," I told her, "I'm in intelligence. Tompkins is my name but I don't use it much. I've seen quite a bit of your husband during the past few years—here at Washington and out in the Pacific. In fact," I added, "I might say that I'm his closest friend. We were at school together, many years ago. I'm surprised he never mentioned me."
"Howishe?" she asked. "I know too much to askwherehe is."
I looked gravely at her. "We don't know where he is," I replied. "His ship hasn't been reported for nearly two weeks. He was on a special mission. That's why I've looked you up. Frank made me promise that I would if—I mean—he thought—"
Dorothy drained her glass and gave me a long, strange look. "Are you trying to tell me that he's dead?" she asked.
"It's not official," I said. "It may never be confirmed, but I personally am sure, as sure as I'm sitting here that you'll never see him again."
She looked down at the table and nervously tapped an unlighted cigarette against her lacquered thumb-nail. "I'll have another drink, if you don't mind," she said. "It's not that—well, our marriage was over long ago—but, he—I—"
I signaled our waitress and duplicated our order.
"This is one of the times when my father told me to remember the giants," she said.
I raised my eyebrows.
"My father was professor of philosophy at Wesleyan," she explained. "He always said that it was impossible to imagine anything so big that there wasn't something else bigger. He said that it stood to reason that somewhere in the universe there was a race of giants so big that it took them a million years to draw a breath. He said when things seemed difficult just to think about that."
"Sounds like the Navy Department," I observed. "Was he the one who argued that there might be several sexes? Frank told me something—"
She smiled. "Yes. That was when I was adolescent and having crushes about boys. He said that somewhere there must be a place where, Instead of two, there were six or seven sexes. He suggested that falling in love under those conditions was really complicated. He was a nice man," she added. "He's dead."
"Your father sounds like a right guy," I remarked. "Frank said—"
"How do I know you're telling the truth?" she suddenly interrupted. "What proof have you?"
Here I was on home-ground. "Frank thought of that. He told me to remind you that you have a mole on your left hip, that you're nuts about Prokofiev, that you don't think much of Ernest Hemingway as an author and—"
"The louse!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I know I oughtn't to talk about him this way if he's dead but I didn't dream men told each other—"
I pulled out my fountain pen and wrote my Jacklin signature rapidly across the back of the drink-card. I pushed it at her across the table.
"There!" I told her. "Recognize that, Mrs. Jacklin?"
"Why!" Dorothy exclaimed. "It's his writing! Whoareyou, Mr. Tompkins? Only I could say that it's a forgery."
"Listen, Dorothy," I began conspiratorially. "And if I call you Dorothy it is only because your husband always spoke of you as Dorothy. I must see General Donovan. This is much more than a matter of your husband and yourself. It's a matter of top-echelon intelligence."
She looked downcast. "The General's out of town," she said. "He's trying to get back for the Roosevelt funeral but the man who's running the show in his absence is Colonel McIntosh. Ivor McIntosh."
There was a curl to her lips as she pronounced the name that told me all I needed to know about the colonel. Still, beggars can't be choosers and Colonel McIntosh was ever so much better than nothing at all.
"Very well," I told her. "Will you arrange to have me see Colonel McIntosh tomorrow morning? Tell—" here I took a leap—"Tell him that I'm from the White House."
"You aren't, are you?"
"Of course not, but I gather that's the kind of bait your Colonel needs."
"He's a very clever man," Dorothy belatedly defended him. "They say he did brilliant staff-intelligence work under Stillwell in the first Burma campaign."
"That's the one we lost, isn't it?" I asked dryly. "No, Dorothy. Let me see this Colonel. You know how to fix it—there's always one special girl in an office that has the ear of a man like that. Frank swore to me that there was nothing you couldn't do if you decided it was worth while."
She looked at me across the little round, black table. "Mr. Tompkins," she said, "I have no way of telling whether you are telling the truth or not. Frankly, if General Donovan was in town I wouldn't bother him, but Colonel McIntosh is—you know—one oftheChicago McIntoshes. You never heard of him? Nobody else did either but here he is with a British accent and if you can make the grade with him it won't worry me."
I ordered another round of drinks.
"Tell me, Dorothy," I said, "not that it's any of my business, except that I was a friend of your husband's, don't you feel any special regret that he's probably gone west?"
She took a man-sized swallow of her old-fashioned. "Not particularly," she admitted. "In a general, normal sort of way, I'm sorry, of course. He was nice even if we didn't get on very well. But we had almost no interests in common and when we broke up it was for keeps. He was kind, and on the whole, decent, but God! so stuffy and boring to live with. Day after day, Hartford, Connecticut, writing and yessing, living by minutes and dying by inches. He rather liked it. I couldn't understand it. So you can see why I can't pretend to be prostrated. And perhaps he isn't dead at all."
I nodded. "He's dead if that's the way you feel about him," I said. "He told me that his wife was a lovely girl with a mole on her hip and the hell of a temper. He said it was like being married to a circus acrobat or an opera singer—exciting but not happy. He said you had a habit of—" I stopped in the nick of time.
"Oh, he did, did he?" she snapped. "Well, Mr. Tompkins, I don't suppose he ever told you that he snored or that—"
"Skip it, please," I calmed her. "It's your marriage, not mine. I told you these things so you'd know I was really sent to you by Frank. Now you fix it so I can talk to McIntosh."
"I will," she replied.
It was the epitaph on ten years of marriage. I knew when I was licked. Dorothy was what she had been when I had picked her out of Middletown—as inaccessible as the root of a Greek aorist or as a book of curiosa in a Carnegie library. She had not shown a trace of recognizing Frank Jacklin inside the body of Winnie Tompkins, even though my morning calisthenics were reducing my circumference. I was licked. I was no Faustus to woo this Marguerite, especially when she obviously had someone else on the string. The Master of the Rat Race obviously meant me to play the hand he had dealt me, and no Joker. By Godfrey, it would go hard with Dorothy's boss when I came to grips with him. All the Navy men who had been hitched by Washington would applaud me—Marty Donnell who had been sent out against the "Nagato" with the wrong size shells for his guns; Abie Roseman, who had been cashiered because he had refused to okay a travel order for the Admiral's sweetie; Julius Winterbottom, who had died on the "Lexington"—and all the gobs who had died. Well, win or lose, I'd give the F.B.I. a run for its money and what could they do to me? Damn it! I was a civilian—one of the guys that paid their salaries!
Colonel Ivor McIntosh of the Chicago McIntoshes was one of those who had been born with a platinum spoon and a broad "A" in his mouth. His face bore the marks of years of application to the more expensive tables, cellars and bedrooms. His uniform was in the U.S. Army but definitely not of it—having a Savile Row touch that suggested the Guards. He was, he told me, in charge of the O.S.S. "until Bill gets back," and what could he do for me?
"Colonel," I said. "I came to you in the face of strong opposition from the F.B.I. I have first-hand information concerning the sinking of the Alaska."
"Nonsense!" McIntosh replied cheerily. "It was on the map five minutes ago. I'm sure it's still there."
I smiled. "The U.S.S. Alaska, sir," I explained. Colonels love to be called "Sir," especially by a civilian. "I have the inside story of the sinking of the carrier. The F.B.I. told me it was useless to try to see you or Admiral Ballister. In fact, they ordered me under no circumstances to mention the F.B.I. in connection with my mission."
McIntosh toyed with a crystal elephant on his desk. "Exactly whatisyour mission?" he asked.
I drew myself up, not without dignity. "I am with Z-2, Colonel," I told him, "and as you know the Z Bureau reports only to the President." I had heard of G-2, A-2, even X-2. Why not Z-2—to end all 2's.
"Of course," he agreed without bending an eyelash. "But why have you come to see me, Mr. Tompkins?"
"Call me Grant, Colonel," I replied with a knowing smile. "That's the name I'm registered under at the Willard. The reason I've come to you, is that my orders, which were given to me personally last February by President Roosevelt, were to consult the head of the O.S.S. if anything went wrong. As you undoubtedly know, Roosevelt had a very warm feeling for the O.S.S. and my instructions have been to work with your men whenever possible. F.D.R. told me that, if I needed prompt action at any time to come to this office and skip the other intelligence services."
Colonel McIntosh was only human, if from the Chicago McIntoshes. He relaxed. He almost smiled.
"I got back to this country less than two weeks ago, Colonel," I told him. "I was working on the other end of the Alaska case—and it's a tough one—when word came of the President's death. My report was due to him at Warm Springs next Monday. Now I'll have to take it up direct with Admiral Ballister. The F.B.I.'s trying to block me."
"Why?" he asked, but he knew why.
I shrugged my shoulders. "You know Washington, Colonel," I said. "The F.B.I. tried to get control of Z-2 and was stopped by the other services. Since then, they've refused all cooperation. And I must get to see Admiral Ballister before he goes away for the week-end. Since Roosevelt's death the whole town has changed and Truman is too busy and bothered to see Z-2 reports."
Colonel McIntosh put in some earnest home-work on the telephone.
"Ballister," he said at last. "McIntosh speaking, O.S.S. A Mr. R. L. Grant—that's not his name, but he's from Z-2—Yes, of course you do. That's the special—Yes, that's right, Admiral. He has an urgent report for you. He's been trying to reach you since Thursday but our good friend J. Edgar has been blocking him—Sure, you remember—That was a couple of years ago, when Edgar tried to grab Z-2 and we all helped block it. Grant has some hot stuff for you, on the Alaska sinking—Fine! Yes, he'll be over as fast as my car can take him. Oh, not at all. Always glad to help—As you know, orders are to help Z-2 at all times—no questions asked, nothing on paper—Righto!"
McIntosh hung up and turned to me with an air of authority. "That was Admiral Ballister, Mr.—er—Grant," he said. "He'll see you right away. I'll have my chauffeur drive you over to the Navy Department. You can talk freely to the Admiral. He's a sound man."
I smiled wanly. I had won the first round of my match with the F.B.I. Ballister meant nothing to me but I had to convince him that I was on the level or Mr. Lamb would close in on me. In any case, I owed it to my Navy friends to take a fall out of the Department. After all, I couldn't be worse off than I already was, with the G-Men breathing down my neck and me out on open arrest, on a charge of treason. The electric chair doesn't look funny when there's even the faintest chance of your sitting in it yourself.
"Name please!" asked the snippy young thing at the Navy Department Reception Desk.
"R. L. Grant," I told her. "To see Admiral Ballister. By appointment," I added.
"Have you any identification, Mr. Grant?" she inquired.
"Of course not. Tell the Admiral that Z-2 has no identification. He will understand."
She looked at me very dubiously but dialed a telephone and muttered into it. Suddenly she cackled, "You don't say? Sure! I'll send him right up."
She beamed at me. "The Admiral is expecting you, sir," she said. "Here's your badge. Will you please sign this form?"
She thrust a blue-and-white celluloid saucer at me, with a number on it, and passed a mimeographed form, which I duly signed "Robert E. Lee, C.S.A.," and which she duly accepted and filed. A Marine sergeant appeared out of the shadows and led me up a flight of stairs and along several unevenly paved concrete floors to an office where a battery of Waves and Junior Lieutenants promptly took me in charge.
Admiral Ballister was a civilian's dream of a Navy Officer—"every other inch a sailor," as we used to say in the Pacific—with a ruddy face tanned by ocean winds or rye whisky, grizzled hair, incipient jowls, a "gruff old sea-dog" manner and a hearty hand-clasp.
"Glad to see you Grant," he told me. "I've been checking up on Z-2 since McIntosh called. You boys have been doing one hell of a swell job on your security. There's not a word about you in our files."
"Z-2, Admiral," I replied modestly, "is forbidden by the terms of the Executive Order setting us up to put itself on record. We have no identification, we get no glory, but a Z-2 agent was in the Jap squadron that attacked Pearl Harbor and one of our men was military secretary to Rommel in North Africa. At least two of our agents hold the rank of General in the Red Army. As you know, sir, we report directly to the President, and always verbally. Nothing on paper."
"I know, I know," the Admiral agreed wistfully. "McIntosh is usually all wet"—he paused for me to register a flash of strictly subordinate glee at his meteorological witticism—"but he gave me a fill-in on the fine job you did on the Alaska case."
"I'm afraid I worried your O.N.I. group in New York, sir!"—in addressing an Admiral, the "sir!" should not be slurred but should come out with a touch of whip-crack, if you wish promotion in the U.S. Navy—"They almost penetrated my cover as W. S. Tompkins, a Bedford Hills stock-broker with offices in Wall Street, and reported me to the F.B.I."
"Oh!" Ballister seemed relieved. "Soyouare Tompkins. No wonder Church Street was worried. Of course, they didn't know you were Z-2."
"Naturally I couldn't tell them, sir!" I confided. "I was due to report to President Roosevelt at Warm Springs next Monday but since his death, I have to report to you, according to previous White House instructions. The new President hasn't had time to get orientated on Z-2 operations and this Alaska business can't wait, sir!"
Ballister did some dialing, asked a few terse questions—gruff old sea-dog style—over the telephone and then turned to me.
"It's lucky for you, Grant, you didn't try to report to the White House. The Secret Service might have nabbed you," he said. "The Naval Aide tells me that all Roosevelt's papers and records have been impounded for the Roosevelt Estate under the law and that it may be weeks before they are untangled. Now, tell me about the Alaska. We've had no report on her since early on the second, when she cleared Adak."
"Before I report to you, sir!" I replied, "I'd rather you ask me a few questions about Alaska and Operation Octopus. In that way you can satisfy yourself that I know what I'm talking about."
"Good!" the Admiral grunted. "Wish O.N.I. had as much sense as Z-2. Save a lot of time. When was Alaska commissioned?"
"Late in February, sir! At Bremerton. Trial run in March to Pearl Harbor, back to San Diego for fueling and up the coast to Bremerton again. Latest U.S. light carrier in the Pacific. A sneak-job. 38 knots at full speed, 8,000 mile cruising radius. Twenty-four planes—eight light bombers, sixteen fighters. Anti-aircraft and radar out of this world."
Ballister studied the map of the Pacific across the room from his desk. "Who is her commander and what's his nickname?"
"Captain Horatio McAllister, U.S.N., sir! Commonly known as Stinky McAllister. No reason assigned for 'Stinky,' at least so far as reserve officers knew."
"Stinky? That's because he once used perfumed soap before going to the Midshipmen's Ball in Washington," the Director of Naval Intelligence informed me. "It was his second year at Annapolis. Who was Stinky's exec?"
"Commander B. S. Moody, sir!" I answered. "His nickname is suggested by his initials—a roly-poly sort of guy and hipped on boat-drills and all that."
Ballister glanced at a list on his desk. "Her chaplain?" he asked.
"Father Eamon Devalera O'Flaherty, begob and begorra, savin' your riverence," was my reply. "A grand man and a good priest. God rest his soul."
Ballister wriggled in his chair with some discomfort, as though he felt he ought to stand at attention or order a volley fired over the ship's side.
"What about Commander Chalmis?" he inquired, with an air of baiting an elephant-trap for me. "What job did he do?"
"Chalmis was not a commander, sir!" I told him. "He was a civilian. He had some kind of a thorium bomb and the chief job he did was to use it to blow up the ship. The mission was to drop it on Paramushiro before the Army could get going with its uranium bomb. Chalmis got cold feet, sir! when he thought of the carrier instead. He argued that the Navy Department would conclude that thorium was unreliable and drop the atomic project until the end of the war."
Ballister leaned back in his chair and gave careful consideration to the design of his Annapolis Class pin. After a long pause, he swung around in his swivel-chair and faced me squarely.
"Grant," he barked, "I'm going to ask you an unofficial question. You don't have to answer it. I have no authority over Z-2 anyway, but this is mighty important to the Navy."
"Go ahead, sir!" I told the Admiral, "if I can't answer it I'll tell you why."
"Do you believe," the Chief of O.N.I. asked slowly, "that Chalmis could have been inspired by Another Government Agency to make a failure of—" he paused.
"Operation Octopus, sir?"
"Right! Could Chalmis have deliberately destroyed Alaska and sacrificed his life in the interest of General Groves and the Army's bomb?"
Groves was a new name to me but I took it in my stride. I looked the Admiral full in the eye—a thing which Admirals rate along with a snappy "Sir!" as proof of initiative, intelligence and subordination on the part of their inferiors.
"I am not at liberty to answer that question, Admiral," I replied. "My orders forbid me to discredit any of the armed forces of the United States. After all, sir!" I added, "we must not forget that Professor Chalmis paid for his loyalty with his life."
Ballister's face lighted up with nautical glee. "I knew it! I knew it!" he roared. "By God! I knew there was something wrong the last time I consulted G-2, they were so smug and polite. I might have known that they were cooking up something to get even with the Navy for winning this war in the Pacific. My God! Grant, you have to respect the Army for their fanaticism, if for nothing else. Here is a civilian like Chalmis, a great scientist, proved 100% reliable by all of our tests. We checked him for twelve months before we even approached him on the thorium research. Yet the Army, the damned, stinking, two-timing, gold-bricking, double-crossing, medal-splashing, glory-grabbing, credit-claiming Army, gets next to him on the sly and persuades him to blow himself up rather than let the Navy get ahead with its atomic bomb."
I nodded admiringly at his flow of language. "Admiral," I told him, "when I came into this office I had a notion you were just another Washington desk-hero. No man who can express himself with such eloquence can have shirked his sea-duty. Mind you, sir!" I continued, "I donotstate that the Army had a hand in this outrage. All I ask is that you give me clearance to the head of Army Intelligence, whoever he is now. They keep shipping them into quote war-zones unquote, so they can qualify for active service pay and allowances, campaign ribbons and citations, to back up a special act of congress for their permanent promotion to the rank of Major-General."
"West Point—" Ballister began and emerged panting five minutes later after a personally conducted tour of the United States Military Academy.
"Yes, Mr. Grant—" Ballister was all but chanting as he concluded—"I'll send you over to see that prince of double-crossers, Major-General Ray L. Wakely, director of Army Counter-Intelligence, so-called. Mind you, he probably won't admit you to the Pentagon, coming from me, or if he does he'll try to frame you—"
"Z-2, Admiral," I answered him, "is entirely familiar with General Wakely's methods and reputation. I can take care of myself, if you can get me into the Pentagon. I have some reports, entirely apart from the Alaska business, which belong to the Army and I should deliver them to Wakely in person. As you know, Z-2 is not allowed to take part in interdepartmental feuds."
"That's all very well," Ballister barked at me, "but right is right and wrong is wrong. You're not supposed to be blind to that, are you?"
"You ought to know where our sympathies lie, sir!" I snapped back. "But my orders are to see Wakely, if he's in charge of counter-intelligence."
This was sheer bravado. As a matter of fact, I knew I ought to call it a day now that Ballister was in my camp but the best way to keep him on my side was to move against his Army opponents. I felt rather like a slug in a slot-machine as it starts to hit the jack-pot. I would teach the F.B.I. not to monkey with Winnie Tompkins. Z-2 had been a happy thought. So far nobody had gagged on it and with Roosevelt's papers tied up, the war would be over before any of the topside officials guessed I had invented it.
Ballister calmed down enough to buzz his secretary and tell her to get General Wakely on the line, but fast. A moment later the gruff old sea-dog was talking to the double-crossing Army Counter-Intelligence Director.
"Hullo, Ray? This is Ballister. How's your golf? Too bad! Neither can I.... Well, there's a civilian here you ought to see ... Grant, R. L. Not his real name, of course ... from Z-2.... Yes, Z as in zebra, two as in two.... He's just cleaned up one of our worst headaches and says he has some special reports for you.... No idea, Ray, he didn't tell me and I didn't ask him.... Z-2 doesn't talk. No, not in the least like our Edgar or Wild Bill. Can you see him today?"
I shook my head. "Sorry sir!" I interrupted the Admiral. "I can't see him until tomorrow morning at seven-thirty."
The Admiral winced as though a cobra had suddenly appeared on his blotter. Then he grinned maliciously. "Hold on a minute, Ray," he said. "You can have your golf this afternoon, after all. Grant says he can't see you until tomorrow at seven-thirty.... Yes, seven-thirty.... No, ten o'clock will be too late, he says.... At your office at seven-thirty, then."
He hung up and turned back to me. "You know, Grant," he remarked, "I wouldn't mind belonging to Z-2 for a few days myself if I could make that scoundrel Wakely rise at an ungodly hour on Sunday morning."
"His little Wac won't like it?" I insinuated.
"Little Wac!" Ballister exploded. "She weighs a good hundred and sixty pounds and stands five feet eight in her bedroom slippers. Naturally she's working for the Navy. We have to establishsomeliaison with G-2. Poor old Wakely will catch holy hell from her for this. Have you any other appointments I could help you with, Grant?"
"No, sir! I did this to General Wakely because the last time one of our Z-2 agents had to report to G-2, General Strong—you remember that old hellion—kept our man waiting for two hours. That's as bad as though you kept the President of the United States waiting."
Ballister appeared slightly worried. "You know, Grant," he told me, "I see your point. I sympathize with your attitude, but these inter-service feuds can lead to trouble. The thing to do is to be pleasant and friendly as hell and not get him sore over trifles, but wait for a chance to stab him in the back. I think you would have been wiser not to annoy General Wakely. When G-2 is annoyed, there is absolutely nothing of which they are not capable. They are the most unconscionable, unscrupulous, prevaricating, meretricious double-dyed sons of bachelors on the face of the globe. Hitler," the Admiral continued, "fights a clean war compared to G-2. You may be in Z-2 and you may represent the Commander-in-Chief, Grant, but Roosevelt is dead. Roosevelt is dead, sir. This guy Truman was in the Army—in the last war and the Army is going to take him right over and run him and the White House inside of six weeks. Hell, I wouldn't put it past them to try to have the Army swallow up the Navy. So don't annoy Wakely if you can help it, Grant."
I shook my head. "If it's the last thing Z-2 ever does, Admiral," I told him, "I still want to make a Major-General get up early in the morning in order to see me."
Ballister grinned. "Grant," he said. "How come you never thought of joining the Navy. We could use men like you. Get in touch with me if anything happens to Z-2. This here war may be just about won but then there's no armistice in the battle of Washington."
There is no point in describing the various problems of logistics involved in my reaching General Wakely's office in the Pentagon early on Sunday morning. All the Pentagon stories have been invented and told, including my favorite yarn of the German spy who was told to bomb the building but decided to disobey his orders because there was no point in robbing the Third Reich of its greatest asset.
Wakely was a bluff, hearty type of soldier, with more bluff than heart, who greeted me without emotion, waved me to a chair and proceeded to get down to cases.
"I've decided, Grant, and the Chief of Staff agrees," he informed me, "that the time has come to liquidate Z-2. All of these irregular agencies have been nothing but a nuisance since before Pearl Harbor. Z-2 has been in the Army's hair for years. We've heard nothing good of your outfit."
"You are fully entitled to your point of view, General,"—I have observed that Generals do not go for "Sir!" as eagerly as Admirals—"but the decision rests with the White House. All I do is to follow my orders."
General Wakely exhumed a ghastly smile. "The White House ain't what it used to be, Grant," he continued. "While Roosevelt was President we couldn't do much about it, but now, by gad! the time has come to coordinate the White House. This Z-2 business is played out anyhow."
I started to say something soothing but the Chief of Military Intelligence refused to yield the floor.
"I've been checking on you, Grant," he told me, "since Ballister phoned me yesterday. We have a pretty good counter-intelligence corps in this country and I'm told that your name isn't Grant at all, but Tompkins—W. S. Tompkins. You're linked to a fellow in the Navy named Jacklin. No use pretending, Grant. Z-2 may be smart but our information is that Jacklin is probably a double-spy for the Nazis. In fact, we believe that Jacklin is really the notorious Von Bieberstein. We were on his trail long before Pearl Harbor. He's a slick article, Von Bieberstein is. We think that when things began to get hot he joined the Navy, knowing that the Army couldn't touch him there. Then he seems to have planted his common-law wife or mistress—an American born girl, mind you,—in O.S.S. to keep him informed of Army operations. No, Tompkins, we have him now. We have rounded up all his contacts and accomplices."
"General," I assured him, "somebody's eaten a bad clam. I can vouch for Jacklin's loyalty as I would my own. Why, he was editor of a Republican newspaper and went to Yale. He was at school with me. I've known him for over thirty years. He's as patriotic as I am."
This was not going as well as I had hoped. If it hadn't been for the F.B.I. waiting to snap me up, I would have backed out of Wakely's office on some excuse, however lame.
Wakely snorted. "It just shows how far-sighted the Germans are. They plant their agents here twenty—thirty—fifty years—yes, generations before they are needed. Gad! this country's been asleep. Here M.I.D.'s been hunting Von Bieberstein for the last ten years and what do we find? We find that he's lived in this country all his life and holds a reserve commission in the United States Navy! No wonder we had Pearl Harbor! This time, Grant, we're sure of our facts and we're going to take them to the White House."
"You may be sure of your facts, General," I agreed, "but do you happen to know a man named Axel Roscommon?"
Wakely nodded. "Of course, a thorough gentleman. See him every week or so at the Army-Navy Club. Well-informed, too."
"Did he ever tell you that he's head of Nazi intelligence in this country?"
"Rubbish!" The head of G-2 detonated impressively. "He's nothing of the kind. That's nothing but a smear put out against him by the F.B.I."
"Well, General," I admitted, "I'm wasting your time. I have some reports—"
"Just a minute, Grant. I'm not done with you. We're going to finish this Z-2 business right now." He pushed a button and uttered into his desk-phone: "Sergeant! Bring those women in here."
A moment later the door opened and Dorothy, Germaine and Virginia appeared, each looking as bedraggled as any woman who has been awakened too early.
"Winnie!" Germaine's face lighted up like a traffic go-sign. She crossed the room and kissed me. "I thought—"
General Wakely coughed, severely.
"Mrs. Tompkins," he announced, "I'm Major-General Wakely. This is G-2. The C.I.C. has rounded up your husband's chief associates for this interview. We're about to close in on the most dangerous Nazi spy-ring in existence. You know Mrs. Rutherford, of course, and this other woman goes under the name of Mrs. Jacklin."
"My nameisMrs. Jacklin," Dorothy replied with feeling, "and the O.S.S. will want to know by what authority—"
Wakely waved her and the O.S.S. aside. "Very clever, Mrs. Jacklin, or should I say Mrs. Von Bieberstein?" He turned back to Germaine. "Thanks in part to your husband, Mrs. Tompkins," he continued, "we have at last got on the track of Hitler's ace operative in the Western Hemisphere, Kurt Von Bieberstein, or should I say Frank Jacklin? We almost had him cornered five years ago but he took advantage of the confusion after Pearl—after the Navy let us—after the declaration of war, and went into hiding as a naval officer. It was only by accident, when Mr. Tompkins accidentally supplied the missing link, that we found the trail again."
"That's handsome of you, General," I said, "but I think that Counter-Intelligence deserves full credit."
He beamed at me.
"And what am I doing here, General Wakely?" Virginia cooed at the specimen of military manhood.
Wakely smiled before he remembered that he was a pattern of military efficiency. "You are known to Counter-Intelligence, Mrs. Rutherford, as one of the best agents in Z-2."
"But what is Z-2?" Virginia was frankly bemused. "Of course, I've heard of Intelligence. Isn't that something that belongs to the Army?"
The General oozed approval. "Gad! Tompkins, you train your agents well. She'd never admit a syllable without your permission. No, Mrs. Rutherford, Z-2 is to be liquidated and we're here to find this fellow Von Bieberstein."
Dorothy stood up. "I've heard all the drivel I propose to stand for," she announced. "Frank is a decent, loyal American and it's not his fault that we couldn't get along together. I've never heard of Von Bieberstein in my life. Mr. Tompkins," she added, turning to me, "if you had anything to do with this high-handed foolishness—you say you knew Frank—"
"Mrs. Jacklin," I told her. "I don't think that your husband, and I knew him well, was disloyal for one moment of his life. In any case, military intelligence can't lay a finger on your husband."
"And why not?" Wakely demanded.
"Because he's dead, General," I said.
"Suicide, eh?"
"No, sir. He went down with—"
"Winnie!" Jimmie interrupted me as though descending from a fiery cloud. "NowI see why you've been acting so strangely. You're inintelligence. Of course you couldn't tellanybody. Darling!"
Even the General looked embarrassed.
Dorothy did not relax. "I am going to leave this room and this building," she announced. "And if anybody interferes with me, you are all witnesses that I am being detained illegally. Just call the O.S.S. and tell them that Army agents under General Wakely's orders broke into my bedroom at six this morning and kidnapped me."
She turned and left the room. Nobody stopped her. Wakely pressed the buzzer again. "Sergeant!" he commanded, "see that Mrs. Jacklin is escorted out of the building and that our people keep an eye on her."
"Now, Tompkins," the General resumed, "what's this word about Von Bieberstein being dead?"
"If you'll have the ladies leave the room, General," I told him, "I'll give you my report."
Jimmie and Virginia withdrew, with visible reluctance.
"Jacklin is dead," I told him. "I think that your agents are mistaken in linking him to Von Bieberstein. In fact, I know it, because I think I know who Von Bieberstein really is. But I can't tell you without direct verbal authority from the President. I can tell you how Jacklin died."
Major-General Wakely became once more the man of action. "Good, let's have it!"
"The Navy Department," I began, "has been trying to beat the Army with the development of an atomic bomb—"
"The dastards!" Wakely all but screamed. "The dirty, treacherous, sneaking dastards! You can't trust the Navy as far as you could throw a battleship. By Gad! Tompkins,thisis going straight to the White House."
"They had a man named Chalmis who did something with thorium, General," I continued. "I'm not a scientist so I can't tell you about the process. It was simpler and less expensive than what General Groves is trying to do with uranium."
"Groves!" Wakely spoke with soldierly pride. "Now there's a West Pointer for you! Four years and two billion dollars and he hasn't got it yet, but by Gad! the old West Point spirit never accepts defeat. He'll get a bomb if it takes fifty years and a hundred billion dollars. The Navy can't match that kind of guts, Tompkins. They're all yellow, the Annapolis crowd!"
"Of course this thing wasn't anything like so good as the Army's bomb, General," I assured him. "It was something whipped up in eighteen months and cost less than fifty millions."
"Pikers!"
"Well, the Navy rushed through this sneak-bomb of theirs and sent Chalmis with it on a surprise raid against the Kuriles, on the latest light carrier, the Alaska."
Wakely took a few portentous notes on a memo pad.
"Jacklin was assigned to the Alaska and our information is that he was with Chalmis in the ship's magazine when the bomb—er—accidentally—er—went off. The ship was a total loss and everyone aboard died in the explosion."
Wakely got to his feet and stood rigid for a moment.
"He was a brave man, Tompkins," he observed with soldierly emotion, "a damned brave man. By Gad, I'm almost sorry we're going to liquidate Z-2. We'd like to take you all over into M.I.D. but red tape won't let us, eh? Have to be in uniform, under West Pointers or it isn't regular. So Jacklin was one of your men and he died for the Army. He sank the Alaska and killed himself and the inventor of the thorium bomb, rather than let the Navy get away with this outrage. By Gad, Tompkins, General Groves will have a laugh over that one. I'll go and apologize to Mrs. Jacklin in person for our mistake. Von Bieberstein would never have done that job. As you know, it's the Nazis who are backing the Navy against the Army. If it wasn't for the Japs backing us against the Navy we'd have a rough time of it in this man's war. Now Tompkins, this thing is too big for us to handle. It's got to go up to the highest echelons."
I raised my eyebrows.
He nodded. "Yes, this has got to be laid before President Truman himself. By Gad, Tompkins, I'll see that you get to report to the President tomorrow morning if I have to take you there myself."
"As to Von Bieberstein, General," I said, "he can wait until tomorrow. When you know who he is and where he is placed—with the President's permission—you will probably decide to go away. After all, even you would hesitate to arrest on a treason charge the—" I stopped.
Wakely leaned across his desk. "Tompkins," he assured me, "I'll get Von Bieberstein if it's the last thing I ever do. By Gad! If you help me, I'll see that you get the Order of Merit, a Presidential citation and the Orange Heart."
"Don't you mean the Purple Heart?" I asked.
Wakely snorted. "That's merely for combat duty. The Orange Heart is a confidential decoration given to those who serve intelligence well on the home front, even including civilians. It's like the Army E-Award but is personal and worn on theinsideof the coat-lapel. It is conferred on the recommendation of the Deputy Chief of Staff, G-2."
He buzzed again. "Sergeant!" he barked. "Get me the office of the Military Aide, the White House, and if they don't answer, wake up Harry Vaughan at Blair House, even if he's still in bed, which he probably is—the lucky stiff! Tell him this is top-priority."
I sighed. The water was already far over my head, but it was too late to draw back. I had to swim for the farther shore.
"The President will see you now, Mr. Tompkins," said the White House usher, as he beckoned me to follow him.
A pleasant, rangy, mild-mannered man rose from behind the great desk and shook my hand.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Tompkins," he said. "General Vaughan has been telling me great things about your work. What can I do for you?"
As I looked at the guileless, friendly face, my heart sank. Here was one man who should not be deceived. It would be as easy as stuffing a ballot box.
"Mr. President," I told him, "when I left the Pentagon Building yesterday, I had an elaborate report to submit to you. But I decided that the President of the United States was entitled to the simple truth."
"That's right!" snapped the Chief Executive.
"So if you'll listen to me for five minutes," I continued, "I'll tell you the strangest story you ever heard."
President Truman coughed. "General Vaughan has told me of the fine work you've been doing for Z-2," he observed. "As you can imagine, I'm terribly busy taking on this job."
"Mr. President," I began, "to begin with, there's no such organization as Z-2. If you'll listen for a few minutes I'll tell you the whole story."
I did.
At the end of it, he smiled at me.
"Mr. Tompkins," he said, "you're a married man, aren't you?"
"Yes, Mr. President."
"Then you tell Mrs. Tompkins for me that I want her to take you home and take good care of you for the next few weeks. You've been overdoing it. This Z-2 work has taken it out of you. You need a rest. Now don't you worry about Z-2," he continued. "What you need to do is to take things easy. The work will go right ahead. I'm putting Z-2 under General Wakely. This country needs better intelligence services and they ought to be concentrated under one responsible head, if you ask me."
"But I tell you, Mr. President," I insisted, "there never was such an organization as Z-2. I invented it in order to clear myself with the F.B.I."
He flashed a boyish grin at me. "But there's no doubt that the Alaska went down like a stone?"
"She went up like a sky-rocket, sir."
"Then this thorium bomb doesn't sound as though it was practical, sinking one of our ships like that."
"Mr. President," I argued, "any bomb will explode if it is deliberately detonated. This bomb was deliberately touched off by Professor Chalmis. He wanted to prevent its use in warfare."
The President nodded. "Yes, yes, Mr. Tompkins. You explained that to me before. Now you be sure to tell your wife to take good care of you. When you're rested up, you come on down and see me again and we'll talk some more about this Z-2 work of yours. We can use men like you in the State Department. I'm sorry I don't know more about it, but all of President Roosevelt's papers have been removed from the White House and I don't even know what he told Stalin at Yalta. Perhaps you'd better talk to the State Department before you take that rest. That's what they're for. Thank you for seeing me."
Two beefy Secret Service men appeared in the doorway.
"Is there any particular man I should see at the Department, sir?" I asked. "I want to get this whole business cleared up."
The President stood up and shook my hand in dismissal. "Just go across the street and tell them I sent you," he said. "Good day to you, sir."
The two body-guards closed in on me, so I bowed slightly and withdrew from the President's office.
In the anteroom, I found General Wakely pacing up and down like the father of triplets.
"How did it go, Tompkins?" he asked. "You had five extra minutes. Did you get a chance to give him a fill-in about the Navy and you-know-what?"
I shook my head. "My orders are not to discuss that matter any further, General," I told him.
"But what about Von Bieberstein?" the chief of M.I.D. demanded. "Can you give me a lead?"
"My instructions, General," I said, "are to discuss matters with the State Department."
"The State Department!" Wakely was outraged. "Why, they're nothing but a bunch of Reds! They tell me there are men over there who have spentyearsin Russia."
"If I am ever allowed to tell you who Von Bieberstein really is," I told the General, "you will understand why I am not allowed to discuss it with you now. This is a matter for the Big Three. It is out of my hands entirely."
At the gate of the White House drive I was suddenly halted by a piercing "Hi!" It was Virginia Rutherford. She dodged her way between two stalwart sentries and took my arm.
"Winnie!" she cooed, as soon as we were across Pennsylvania Avenue, "you utter devil!"
It seemed safest to say nothing.
"Winnie," she continued. "Do you realize that the Army of the United States dragged me out of bed yesterday morning and flew me down here just to discover that you are a bigger liar than I thought you were?"
"Please don't blame me for General Wakely," I told her. "He's an Eagle Scout in high places. I was getting on fine until you showed up, and please don't raise your voice at me. If I know the Army, you and I are being tailed right now by the counter-intelligence."
Virginia snuggled closer to me, as we dodged through the crowd in LaFayette Park watching the White House.
"To think," she said dreamily, "that all this time you have been an American secret service agent. Ain't that something?"
Again it seemed safest to say nothing.
"Yes, Winnie Tompkins, super-sleuth!" she continued with an edge on her voice you could have shaved with. "All last winter, when I was under the impression that we were canoodling from bar to bar, you were working for Uncle Sam! It's one of the best stories of the war, Winnie. Sleep with Tompkins and lick the Axis!"
This was getting under my hide. "Virginia," I told her, "I have just spent the last twenty minutes trying to convince President Truman that I'm not a secret agent. He will have none of it. He says I've been working too hard and need a rest."
"You devil!" Virginia chuckled dangerously. "You absolute, utter demon! Here is civilization at the crossroads and what does Winfred S. Tompkins do to amuse himself. He strolls down to Washington and persuades the Generals and the Admirals and the President that he has been winning the war for them instead of winning the wife of his family physician. That's what I call funny."
"Have it your own way," I agreed. "If you can persuade General Wakely that I'm a fake, more power to you. He believes that you are one of my best operatives and nothing can shake him."
"So that's what you call them? Your operatives? That's wonderful. If I'm ever asked, 'Grandma, what didyoudo in the second Great War?' I'll say, Johnnie I was an operative under W. S. Tompkins, the ace American Agent."
"Would you mind not talking quite so loud," I again begged her. "Those two men following us might misunderstand."
She glanced over her shoulder. "You mean those five men following us, don't you, Winnie?"
I looked behind us. She was right. A group of five, if not six, people were trailing along behind us. Lamb and the F.B.I., Ballister and the Navy, as well as the Army's counter-intelligence and the O.S.S., were probably represented.
"Five is right," I agreed. "You see, Virginia, I'm a pretty important person. You noticed, I hope, that President Truman took time out to chat with me."
"What's he like?" she asked irrelevantly. "Of course, Roosevelt was all wrong but he had something on the ball. Who's this little guy from Montana, anyhow?"
"Missouri," I corrected her. "He's from Missouri and don't you ever forget it. That's what he is, Virginia, a little guy from Missouri."
We were at the Willard.
"Here, Virginia, I must leave you," I told her. "You can't follow me up to my bedroom and anyhow I have a message for Jimmie from the President of the United States."
"Nuts!" she answered brightly. "You're not fooling me for one little minute. You've just lied yourself into a bigger jam than you've lied yourself out of. Well, I'm on to your game."
When I reached the room, there was no sign of Jimmie. This statement should be qualified. She herself was not to be seen but various articles of clothing were scattered around the room and there was a rush and gurgle of water from the bathroom which suggested that my wife was taking a bath. She was.
"Winnie?" she called through the half-open door.
"Theesa tha floor-waiter," I grunted. "You wanta me? I busy."
"Waiter," she commanded, "please leave the room at once."
"What'sa alla so secret, hey?" I asked, still speaking in subject-race style. "Letta me see!"
I took the handle of the door, wrenched it open and pushed. There was an angry screech from inside, followed by an indignant, "Winnie, you beast! Get out of here!"
I didn't, so Jimmie dropped the bath towel she had draped defensively across her shoulders and subsided laughing into a warm, soapy bath.
"You are the absolute limit!" she declared. "I'll never forgive you for this. Tell me, what the President was like?"
"Very nice," I said. "He reminds me of one time I saw a little fresh-water college football team play Notre Dame. You sort of wanted the little guys to make at least one first down, but you knew that if they did, it would just be an accident. No, Truman's one hell of a nice guy but that doesn't mean he could lick Joe Louis. Anyhow, he was complimentary about my work and he sent a message to you. Pity he couldn't deliver it in person, like the floor-waiter."
"For me?"
I nodded. "He said that I needed a good long rest and that you must take very good care of me."
She looked up at me, large-eyed, through a haze of steam.
"Oh, Winnie," she declared. "Iamso proud of you. To think that all the time you've been doing secret intelligence! And I believed you were just chasing around after those silly girls. Don't you think you could have trusted your wife?" she asked.
I shook my head emphatically. "That was part of my cover," I replied. "If you hadn't been worried about me it wouldn't have looked natural. If I'd told you, you wouldn't have worried and the Axis agents—" I left the thought trailing.
Germaine sucked reflectively on the corner of her wash-cloth. "Yes," she agreed at last, "I can see that, but I don't see how I can ever trust you again."
I laughed. "Then don't trust me," I told her. "We'll still have a good time. Suppose you get dressed now and come downstairs and we'll have champagne cocktails to celebrate."
"Celebrate what?" she asked, loosing the stopper with her toes.
"Celebrate the liquidation of Z-2," I said. "It's being taken over by the Army. My work is done anyhow. And tomorrow I have to see the State Department. Mr. Truman tells me they need men like me—God help them!"
"The State Department!" She jumped out of the tub, scattering water lavishly on the floor and on me. "Are they going to make you an Ambassador or something?"
"Come down to earth, Jimmie," I urged her. "I'm a Republican from New York; not a Democrat. I may have done an even better job than they think I've done, but I know one thing I didn't do to qualify for a diplomatic job."
"What's that?" she asked, towelling herself vigorously.
"I never contributed a dime to the Democratic National Committee," I confessed.