Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









                             THE RAT RACE

                            by JAY FRANKLIN

          The Astonishing Narrative of a Man Who Was Somebody
       Else ... Mixed Up With Politics and Three Luscious Women!

                          _A COMPLETE NOVEL_

                        GALAXY PUBLISHING CORP.
                           421 HUDSON STREET
                          NEW YORK 14, N. Y.


      GALAXY _Science Fiction_ Novels, selected by the editors of
     GALAXY _Science Fiction_ Magazine, are the choice of science
        fiction novels both published and original. This novel
       has been slightly abridged for the sake of better pacing.

                 GALAXY _Science Fiction_ Novel No. 10

        _Copyright 1947 by Crowell-Collier Publishing Company_

               _Copyright 1950 by John Franklin Carter_

            _Reprinted by arrangement with the publishers_

                PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
                                 _by_
                        THE GUINN COMPANY, INC.
                          NEW YORK 14, N. Y.

      [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any
   evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]




"THE RAT RACE"

By Jay Franklin


When an atomic explosion destroys the battleship Alaska, Lt. Commander
Frank Jacklin returns to consciousness in New York and is shocked to
find himself in the body of Winnie Tompkins, a dissolute stock-broker.
Unable to explain his real identity, Jacklin attempts to fit into
Tompkins' way of life. Complications develop when Jacklin gets
involved with Tompkins' wife, his red-haired mistress and his luscious
secretary. Three too many women for Jacklin to handle.
His foreknowledge of the Alaska sinking and other top secret
matters plunges him into a mad world of intrigue and excitement in
Washington--that place where anything can happen and does! Where is the
real Tompkins is a mystery explained in the smashing climax.

Completely delightful, wholly provocative, the Rat Race is a striking
novel of the American Scene.




CHAPTER 1


When the bomb exploded, U.S.S. Alaska, was steaming westward, under
complete radio silence, somewhere near the international date-line on
the Great Circle course south of the Aleutian Islands.

It was either the second or the third of April, 1945, depending on
whether the Alaska, the latest light carrier to be added to American
naval forces in the Pacific, had passed the 180th meridian.

I was in the carrier, in fact in the magazine, when the blast
occurred and I am the only person who can tell how and why the Alaska
disappeared without a trace in the Arctic waters west of Adak. I
had been assigned by Navy Public Relations to observe and report
on Operation Octopus--the plan to blow up the Jap naval base at
Paramushiro in Kuriles with the Navy's recently developed thorium bomb.

My name, by the way, is Frank Jacklin, Lieutenant-Commander, U.S.N.R.
I had been commissioned shortly after Pearl Harbor, as a result of
my vigorous editorial crusade on the Hartford (Conn.) Courant to
Aid America by Defending the Allies. I was a life-long Republican
and a personal friend of Frank Knox, so I had no trouble with Navy
Intelligence in getting a reserve commission in the summer of 1940.
(I never told them that I had voted for Roosevelt twice, so I was
never subjected to the usual double-check by which the Navy kept its
officer-corps purged of subversive taints and doubtful loyalties.) So
I had a first-rate assignment, by the usual combination of boot-licking
and "yessing" which marks a good P.R.O.

It was on the first night in Jap waters, after we had cleared the
radius of the Naval Air Station at Adak, that Professor Chalmis asked
me to accompany him to the magazine. He said that his orders were to
make effective disclosure of the mechanics of the thorium bomb as soon
as we were clear of the Aleutians. Incidentally, he, I and Alaska's
commander, Captain Horatio McAllister, U.S.N., were the only people
aboard who knew the real nature of Operation Octopus. The others had
been alerted, via latrine rumor, that we were engaged in a sneak-raid
on Hokkaido.

The thorium bomb, Chalmis told me, had been developed by the Navy,
parallel to other hitherto unsuccessful experiments conducted by the
Army with uranium. The thorium bomb utilized atomic energy, on a
rather low and inefficient basis by scientific standards, but was yet
sufficiently explosive to destroy a whole city. He proposed to show me
the bomb itself, so that I could describe its physical appearance, and
to brief me on the mechanics of its detonation, leaving to the Navy
scientists at Washington a fuller report on the whole subject of atomic
weapons. He had passes, signed by Captain McAllister, to admit us to
the magazine and proposed, after supper, that we go to examine his
gadget.

It was cold as professional charity on the flight-deck, with sleet
driving in from the northwest as the icy wind from Siberia hit the
moist air of the Japanese Current. There was a nasty cross-sea and the
Alaska was wallowing and pounding as she drove towards Paramushiro at a
steady 30 knots.

"You know, Jacklin," said Chalmis, as the Marine sentry took our passes
and admitted us to the magazine, "I don't like this kind of thing."

"You mean this war?" I asked, noticing irrelevantly the way the
electric light gleamed on his bald head.

"I mean this thorium bomb," he replied. "I had most to do with
developing it and now in a couple of days one of these nice tanned
naval aviators at the mess will take off with it and drop it on
Paramushiro from an altitude of 30,000 feet. The timer is set to work
at an altitude of 500 feet and then two or three thousand human beings
will cease to exist."

"The Japs aren't human," I observed, quoting the Navy.

Chalmis looked at me in a strange, staring way.

"Thank you, Commander," he said. "You have settled my problem. I was
in doubt as to whether to complete this operation in the name of
scientific inquiry, but now I see I have no choice. See this!" he
continued.

"This" was a spherical, finned object of aluminum about the size of a
watermelon, resting on a gleaming chromium-steel cradle.

"If I take this ring, Jacklin," Chalmis remarked, "and pull it out,
the bomb will explode within five seconds or at 500 feet altitude
whichever takes longer. The five seconds is to give the pilot a margin
of safety in case of accidental release at low altitude. However,
dropping it from 30,000 feet means that the five seconds elapse before
the bomb reaches the level at which it automatically explodes."

"You make me nervous, Professor," I objected. "Can't you explain
without touching it?"

"If it exploded now, approximately twenty-four feet below the
water-line," Chalmis continued, "it would create an earthquake wave
which could cause damage at Honolulu and would register on the
seismograph at Fordham University."

"I'll take your word for it," I said.

"So," concluded Chalmis, "if the bomb were to go off now, no one could
know what had happened to the Alaska and the Navy--as I know the
Navy--would decide that thorium bombs were impractical, too dangerous
to use. And so the human race might be spared a few more years of life."

"Stop it!" I ordered, lunging forward and grabbing for his arm.

But it was too late. Chalmis gave a strong pull on the ring. It came
free and a slight buzzing sound was heard above the whine of the
turbines and the thud of the seas against Alaska's bow.

"You--" I began. Then I started counting: "Three--four--fi--"....

       *       *       *       *       *

There was a hand on my shoulder and a voice that kept saying, "Snap
out of it!" I opened bleary eyes to see a familiar figure in uniform
bending over me. My head ached, my mouth tasted dry and metallic, and I
felt strangely heavy around the middle.

"Hully, Ranty," I said. "Haven't seen you since Kwajalein. What's the
word? What happened to the Alaska?"

Commander Tolan, U.S.N.R., who had been in my group in Quonset,
straightened up with a laugh. "When were you ever at Kwajalein,
Winnie?" he asked. "And what's the drip about the Alaska?"

"You remember," I said. "That time we went into the Marshalls with the
Sara in forty-three. But what happened to my ship? There was a bomb....
Say, where am I and what day is it anyway?"

There was a burst of laughter from across the room and I turned my
head. I seemed to be sitting in a deep, leather arm-chair in a small,
nicely furnished bar, with sporting-prints on the wall and a group of
three clean-shaven, only slightly paunchy middle-aged men, who looked
like brokers, standing by the rail staring at me. Tolan was the only
man in uniform. These couldn't be doctors and what were civilians doing
in mess....

"We blew up!" I insisted. "Chalmis said...."

"You've been dreaming, Winnie," drawled one of the brokerish trio. "You
were making horrible noises in your sleep so Ranty went over and woke
you up."

"If you want to know where you are," remarked another, "you're in the
bar of the Pond Club on West 54th Street, as sure as your name is
Winfred S. Tompkins and this is April 2nd, 1945."

"Winnie Tompkins!" I exclaimed. "Why I once knew him quite well. He and
I were at St. Mark's together, then he went to Harvard and Wall Street
while I went to Yale and broke, so we didn't see much of each other
after the depression."

"It's a good gag, Winnie," Tolan laughed, "but now you've had your fun,
how about another drink?"

I shook my head. "Listen, Ranty," I begged. "Tell me what happened.
I can take it. Are you dead? Are we all dead? Is this supposed to be
heaven? What's the word?"

"That joke's played out," said Tolan. "Here, Tammy, another Scotch and
soda for Mr. Tompkins. A double one."

Tompkins! My head ached. I stood up and walked across the room to study
my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Instead of my painfully
familiar freckled face and skinny frame, I saw a red, full jowled face
with bags beneath the watery blue eyes, set on a distinctly portly body
which was cleverly camouflaged as burliness by impeccable tweeds of the
kind specially made up in London for the American broker's trade.

"I look like hell!" I muttered. "Well, tell me this, Ranty. What
happened to Frank Jacklin? Or is that part of the gag?"

Tolan turned and stared at me with an official glitter in his Navy
(Reserve) eye. "Jacklin? He _was_ at Kwajalein with me, now that I
think of it. A skinny sort of s.o.b., wasn't he?"

"I wouldn't say that," I hotly rejoined. "I thought he was a pretty
decent sort of guy. Where is he?"

"Jacklin? Oh, he got another half-stripe last January and was given
some screw-ball assignment which took him out of touch. He'll turn up
sooner or later, without a scratch; those New Dealers always do."

"Say," Tolan added. "You always did have a Jacklin fixation but you
never had a good word to say for the louse. What did he ever do to you,
anyhow? Ever since I've known you, you've always been griping about
him, specially since he got into uniform. Lay off, will you, and give
us honest hard-drinking guys a chance to get a breath. Period."

I took my drink and sipped it attentively. Whatever had happened to me
since the thorium bomb burst off Adak, this was Scotch and it was cold,
so I doubted that this place was Hell. Probably it was all a dream in
the last split-second of disintegration.

"Thanks, Ranty, that feels better. Now I've got to be going."

"Winnie," drawled one of the brokers, "tell us who she is this time.
You ought to stop chasing at your age and blood-pressure or let your
friends in on the secret."

"This time," I said, "I'm going home."

The steward came around from the bar and helped me into a fine
fur-lined overcoat which I assumed was the lawful property of Winnie
Tompkins.

"There were two telephone messages for you, sir, while you were
dozing," he said.

"Who were they from, Tammy?"

"The first one, sir, was from the vet's to say that Ponto--that would
be your dog, sir--would recover after all. He was the one that had
distemper so bad, wasn't it, sir? I remember you told me that he was
expected to die any minute. Well, now, the vet says he will recover.
The second call, sir, was from Mrs. Tompkins. She asked if you had left
for your home."

"What did you tell her, Tammy?" I asked.

"Why, what you told me, sir, of course, when you came in, sir. I said
that you hadn't been in all day, but that I would deliver any messages."

Wait a minute, Jacklin, I said to myself. Let's figure this one out. We
were blown up on the Alaska, off the westernmost Aleutians, and now we
find ourselves at the Pond Club, in New York City, masquerading in the
flabby body of Winnie Tompkins. This must be Purgatory, since nobody
who has ever been there would call the Pond--or, as the initiates
prefer, the Puddle--either Heaven or Hell. This is one of those damned
puzzles designed to test our intelligence. My cue is to turn in the
best and most convincing performance as Winnie Tompkins, who has
undoubtedly been sent to Hell. If we pass, we'll be like the rats the
scientists send racing through mazes: we'll get the cheese and move
on up. If we flunk, we'll be sent down, as the English say. Ingenious
deity, the Manager!

"Tammy," I said, "will you get me the latest Social Register?"

"Certainly, sir."

I sat down by the door and thumbed through the testament of social
acceptability as measured in Manhattan. There I was: Winfred S.
(Sturgis) Tompkins. Born, New York City, April 27, 1898. St. Mark's
School, Southboro, Mass., 1916. Harvard, A. B. 1920. Married: Miss
Germaine Lewis Schuyler, of New York City, 1936. Clubs: Porcellian,
Pond, Racquet, Harvard, Westchester Country. Residence: "Pook's Hill,"
Bedford Hills, N.Y. Office: No. 1 Wall Street, N.Y.C.

"Thanks, Tammy," I said and returned the register to him.

Then I reached inside my coat and pulled out the well-stuffed
pocket-book I found inside the suave tweeds. It was of ostrich-hide
with W.S.T. in gold letters on it, and contained--in addition to some
junk which I didn't bother to examine--sixty-one dollars in small bills
and a new commutation-ticket between New York City and Bedford Hills,
N.Y.

So far, so good. My sense of identity was building up rapidly. I felt
in my trousers' pocket and found a bunch of keys and about a dollar
and a half in silver. I peeled a five-dollar bill from the roll in the
pocket-book and handed it to the club steward.

"This is for you, Tammy, and a happy Easter Monday to you. If anyone
calls, you haven't seen me all day."

"Thank you very much, sir, I'm sure," he said, pocketing the five spot
with the effortless ease of a prestidigitator or head-waiter.

I strolled out to the street--dusk was beginning to darken the city
and already there were lights burning in the office windows--and
walked across to the corner of Park Avenue. To my surprise, remembering
New York, there were few taxis and those were already occupied. After
about five minutes of vain waiting, I remembered reading somewhere
of the cab shortage in the United States, and walked south to Grand
Central. As I turned down Vanderbilt Avenue, I noticed something
fairly bulky in the pocket of my overcoat. I stopped and dragged out
two expensively tidy packages, with the Tiffany label on them. One was
inscribed "For Jimmie" and the other "For Virginia."

This represented a new puzzle--perhaps a trap--so I paid a dime for
the use of one of the pay-toilets in the Terminal and unwrapped my
find. The one marked for "Jimmie"--who might be, I guessed, my wife
Germaine--was a neat little solid gold bracelet, the sort of thing you
give your eldest niece on graduation day. The one marked "Virginia"
contained a diamond-brooch of the kind all too rarely given to a girl
for any good reason.

"Uh-uh!" I shook my head. Whoever "Virginia" might be, she was
obviously not my wife and the Social Register had not mentioned any
children, ex-wives or such appertaining to Winnie Tompkins. And you
don't give diamonds to your aged aunt or your mother-in-law. We can't
have Winnie start off his new life by palming off mere gold on his
wedded wife and diamonds on the Other Woman, I decided. So I switched
the labels on the packages and returned to circulation in time to
catch the 4:45 Westchester Express.

       *       *       *       *       *

Here, I resorted to a low subterfuge. Instead of the broker's bible,
"The New York Sun," with its dim view of all that had happened to the
commuting public since 1932, I was coward enough to disguise myself by
buying a copy of "P.M." in order to lessen the risk of being recognized
by fellow-passengers whom I certainly would not know by sight. I buried
my face in that spirited journal, with its dim view of all that had
ever happened outside the Soviet Union, as I slunk past the Club Car,
and did not fully emerge from its gallant defense of the Negro and the
Jew until I was in the smoker, directly behind the baggage compartment.
The train was fairly crowded but I was able to find a seat far forward
where few passengers could see my face. I decided that my strategy had
been sound when the conductor, on punching my ticket, remarked: "See
you're not using the Club Car today, Mr. Tompkins. Shall I tell Mr.
Snyder not to wait for you for gin rummy?"

"Don't tell him a thing, please," I begged. "I'm feeling done in--a
friend of mine was just killed in the Pacific--and I don't want to be
bothered."

He clucked consolingly and passed on. I was lucky enough to reach
Bedford Hills without other encounters and walked along the darkened
platform until I spied a taxicab.

"Can you drive me out to my place?" I asked the driver.

"Sure, Mr. Tompkins. Glad to," he replied. "Goin' to leave your coop
down here?"

I nodded. "Yep. I'm too damned tired to drive home. Got any other
passengers?"

"Only a couple of maids from the Milgrim place," he said, "but we can
drop you first and let them off afterwards if you're feelin' low."

"Hell, no!" I insisted. "This is a free country--first come first
served. You can drive me on to Pook's Hill after you've left them at
the Milgrim's. Perhaps they'd get in trouble if they were delayed."

The driver looked surprised and rather relieved.

"Haven't heard of any employers firin' maids in these parts since
Wilkie was a candidate," he said.

I climbed into the cab, across the rather shapely legs and domestic
laps of two attractive-looking girls who murmured vaguely at me and
then resumed a discussion of the awful cost of hair-do's. I felt
rather pleased with myself. I seemed to have won at least one man's
approval in the opening stages of my celestial rat-race. Now for my
first meeting with the woman whom I had married nearly ten years ago,
according to the Social Register. Surely she would recognize that there
was something radically wrong with her husband before I had been five
minutes at Pook's Hill. Why! I wouldn't know where the lavatory was,
let alone her bedroom, and what should I call the maid who answered the
door, assuming we had a maid?




CHAPTER 2


A pretty, dark-haired maid opened the door of "Pook's Hill" with a
twitch of the hip that was wasted on Bedford Hills.

"Oh, it's you!" She remarked conversationally. "Shall I tell Mrs.
Tompkins you are here?"

"And why not?" I asked.

She looked at me slant-eyed. "Why not, sir? She must have forgotten to
eat an apple this morning. That's why."

"Where shall I dump my hat and coat, Mary?" I asked guessing wildly at
her name. Suburban maids were named Mary as often as not.

"The name is Myrtle, Mr. Tompkins," she replied, and did not bother to
add the "as well you know" she implied.

"From now on, Myrtle, you shall be Mary so far as I am concerned. And
where, Mary, shall I leave my hat and coat?"

"In the den, sir, of course. Come, I'll lend a hand. You've been
drinking again."

The girl moved quite close to me, in helping me off with my things and
it was only by a distinct effort of will that I refrained from giving
that provocative hip the tweak it so openly invited.

"This way, Mr. Tompkins," she said sarcastically, so I rewarded her
with a half-hearted smack which brought the requisite "Oh!"--you never
can tell when you will need a friend below stairs and it was obvious
that Winnie, the dog! had been trifling with her young buttocks if not
her affections. That sort of thing must stop, if I was going to get
anywhere in my run through the maze. Too abrupt a change in the manners
and morals of Winfred Tompkins, however, might arouse suspicion.

"Any news today, Mary?" I asked.

"Nothing, sir. The kennels telephoned to say that Ponto had made a
miraculous recovery and could come home tomorrow. I had them send word
to the Club to tell you. And Mrs. Tompkins, as I said, forgot to eat
her apple."

I looked at her. This was a cue. I mustn't miss it.

"And the doctor didn't keep away?" I asked.

"Him? I should say not! Mrs. Tompkins felt quite unsettled right after
lunch and phoned Dr. Rutherford to come over. He's with her now,
upstairs, giving her an examination." She rolled her eyes significantly
in the direction of the second story.

"Wait a few minutes till I catch my breath and get my bearings, Mary,"
I said, "and then tell Mrs. Tompkins most discreetly, if you know what
I mean, that I have returned and am waiting in my--" I waved vaguely at
the room.

"In your den, sir," she agreed. "The name is Myrtle."

The den was one of those things I have never attained, perhaps because
I never wanted to. There was a field-stone fireplace, over which the
antlered head of a small stag presided with four upturned feet--like a
calf in a butcher shop--that held two well dusted shotguns. The walls
were lined with books up to a dado--books in sets, with red morocco and
gilt bindings: Dickens, Thackeray, Surtees, Robert Louis Stevenson,
Dumas, Balzac and similar standard authors--all highly respectable and
mostly unread. On the table, beside a humidor and cigarette cases, was
a formidable array of unused pipes. Above the shelves, the walls were
adorned with etchings of ducks: ducks sitting, ducks swimming, ducks
nesting, ducks flying and ducks hanging dead. It was as though Winnie's
conscience or attorney had advised him: "You can't go wrong on ducks,
old boy!" Instead, he had gone wild.

In one corner of the den my unregenerate Navy eye discerned a
small portable bar, with gleaming glasses, decanters and syphons.
Further investigation was rewarded by the makings of a very fair
Scotch-and-soda. To my annoyance, the cigarette box contained only de
luxe Benson & Hedges--it would!--while I am a sucker for Tareytons.
Still, any cigarette is better than no cigarette. A little mooching
around the fireplace revealed the switch which turned on an electric
fire, ingeniously contrived to represent an expensive Manhattan
architect's idea of smouldering peat. The whole effect was very cosy in
the "Town and Country" sense--a gentleman's gun-room--and I had settled
down most comfortably on the broad leather divan in front of this
synthetic blaze when I was interrupted by an angry, tenor voice.

"I say, Tompkins," soared the voice. "I thought we had agreed to be
civilized about this thing."

I raised my head to see a lean, dark-haired, dapper little man, with
a dinky little British Raj mustache and a faint odor of antiseptics,
glaring at me from the doorway.

"Dr. Rutherford, I presume!" I remarked.

"Yes, Winnie," came a pleasant but irritated womanly voice from
somewhere behind the doctor, "and I too would like to know what this
means."

"Is that you, Jimmie?" I guessed.

"Of course it's me! Who else did you expect? One of those flashy
blondes from your office?"

"Sh!" shushed the doctor reprovingly. "What about Virginia? What have
you done with her?"

This required serious thought. The glass of Scotch was a good alibi for
amnesia. "To whom do you refer?" I asked, putting a slight thickness
into my voice.

"To Virginia, my wife!" he snapped. "We agreed--it was understood
between the four of us--"

I shook my head virtuously. "I haven't set eyes on her all day," I
said. "I don't know where she is and I refuse to be held responsible
for her in any particular. She's your look-out, not mine."

"Why, you!--" The doctor started forward, menacing me with his surgical
little fists.

"Wait a minute, Jerry," the contralto voice ordered. "Let me handle
this!"

Germaine Tompkins stepped forward into the room and stood in the
flickering light of the electric peat. "Tell me, Winnie," she asked,
"has anything gone wrong?"

My wife was a tall, slim girl, with dark eyes, dark hair parted sleekly
in the 1860 style, and a cool, slender neck. She was wearing something
low-cut in black velvet, with a white cameo brooch at the "V" of a
bodice which suggested a potentially undemure Quakeress. I noticed that
she had angry eyes, a sulky mouth and a puzzled expression.

"I'm sorry, Jimmie," I replied, after a good look at her, "but I have
decided that I simply couldn't go through with it."

"Do you mean to say--" Dr. Rutherford began, only to be hushed by
Germaine. "Let me handle him, Jerry," she whispered. "You'd better go.
He's tight. I'll phone you in the morning."

"All right, if you say so, dear," the doctor obeyed.

"And be sure to send me a bill for this call," I added. "Professional
services and what-not. And don't come back to my house without my
personal invitation."

Dr. Rutherford emitted a muttered comment and disappeared into the
gloom of the hall. My wife followed him and I could hear a series of
confused and comforting whispers sending him on his way. I had finished
my Scotch and poured myself another before my wife rejoined me.

"Have a drink?" I asked.

"No thank you!" she snapped.

"Mad at me?"

"What do you think?" Her tone was cool enough to freeze lava.

"You have every right to be!" That answer, I had found by experience,
was unanswerable.

"What do you mean?" she asked in some bewilderment. "Yes, thanks, I
will have a drink after all. You see, Winnie, after we had talked it
all over the other night after the Bond Rally Dance and realized how we
felt about it all, the four of us decided to be--well--civilized about
things. And now--"

"I don't feel civilized about my wife," I said, pouring her a stiff one.

Her eyes glittered and her cheek was tinged with color. In spite of
her anger, she responded to the idea of male brutes contesting for her
favor.

"I didn't think you cared a damn," she said at last, "and it's pretty
late in the day to make a change now. After all, there is Virginia."

That was the cue to clinch the situation. "To hell with Virginia!" I
announced. "I'd rather live with you as your friend than sleep with la
Rutherford in ten thousand beds. I can't help it," I added boyishly.

She leaned forward and sniffed. "You _have_ been drinking, haven't
you?" she remarked.

"Of course I have! Today, in town, I suddenly realized what a damn
fool I'd been to throw away something really fine for something very
second-rate. So I drank. Too much. And the more I drank the more I knew
that I was right and that it was here where I belong, with you. If you
don't want me to stay, I'll go over to the Country Club for the night.
I'll even phone Jerry Rutherford for you--him and his moustache--but
I'm damned if I'll go running back to Virginia. She's not pukka!"
("How'm I doing?" I added silently for the benefit of the Master of
Ceremonies.)

"Well--" she said, after a long pause. "Perhaps--It's so mixed
up--Perhaps you'd better go to bed here and we can talk it over in the
morning. All of us."

I shook my head. "I don't want to hold any more mass-meetings on the
state of our mutual affections. If you want that tenor tonsil-snatcher,
you're welcome to him but I'm damned if I'll be a good sport about
it. If you insist, I'll buy you a divorce, but I won't marry
Virginia--that's final!"

Germaine's face relaxed. She smiled. "We'll see how things look to you
in the morning," she said.

Now was the time to play the trump card.

"Oh yes," I said. "I brought home a present for you."

I walked over to the hanger in the corner and pulled the Tiffany
packages from my overcoat pocket.

"Here you are, Jimmie Tompkins," I said, "with all my alleged love."

"Alleged is right!" But she picked eagerly at the wrappings and swiftly
ferreted out the diamond brooch. "Why, Winnie, it's lovely--" she
began, then whirled on me, her eyes blazing. "Is this a joke?" she
demanded.

"Of course not! What's the matter?"

Her laugh was wild. "Oh, nothing, Winnie. Nothing at all. It's just
that you should have decided to give _me_--on _her_ birthday--a brooch
with her initials in diamonds. See them! V.M.R."

So that's the catch, I thought. I should have guessed there would be
something wrong with the set-up and I kicked myself for not having
bothered to trace out the monogram.

"Don't you see what I mean," I grated, "or must I spell it out for you?
Some time back, when we were considering all this civilized swapping
of husbands and wives, I put in the order at Tiffany's for Virginia's
birthday present. Today, when I picked it up, the clerk smirked at
me--he knows your initials don't begin with V--and I suddenly knew I
couldn't go ahead with the whole business. So I brought the brooch back
to you as a trophy, if you want it. You can do what you like about it.
It's yours. You see, Jimmie," I added, "that's the way things are. I'm
burning all my bridges."

"Oh!" she said. Then after a long pause, she added, "Ah!"

"I don't think," she remarked, after another pause, "that I'll want to
keep this and I'm far too fond of Virginia Rutherford to humiliate her.
I think I'll just take this back to Tiffany's and get something else."

So I had led trumps.

"Here's something else to be going on with," I told her. "I got this
for you, anyhow, win, lose or draw"--and I produced the gold bracelet.
"I thought it would go with that dress and your cameo and--if you still
want to wear it--your wedding ring."

She cast quick glances from side to side, like a bird that suspects a
snare.

"It's good," she sighed. "Winnie, it's so good. I guess...."

There was a knock at the door. It was Myrtle-Mary.

"Will the master be staying for dinner, Mrs. Tompkins?" she asked.

"Of course I will, Mary," I said. "Is there enough to eat?"

"I'll see, sir," she replied in a manner which was practically an
insult to us both.

"And keep a civil tongue in your head," I added.

She handed it back to me. "And keep your hands to yourself, sir," she
said as she closed the door.

"Winnie." It was Jimmie's hand restraining me, as I started up.

"Let her go!" I said at last. "It's my fault, I guess. I haven't been
happy and I did make a few passes. From now on, I'll try to be a bit
more decent and livable. God knows I have plenty to be ashamed of, but
nothing disgraceful ... I hope."

"So do I," my wife began. "If you...."

The telephone rang.

She picked up the receiver and listened for a moment, frowning.

"Yes, he's here," she said, passing me the instrument.

"It's for you," she observed. "It's Virginia calling from New York and
she sounds _most_ annoyed."




CHAPTER 3


"Winnie!" The voice that crackled at me over the wire had all the
implacable tenderness of a woman who has you in the wrong.

"Yes, dear!" I answered automatically, with a passing thought for my
own lost Dorothy, marooned in Washington with a job in the O.S.S.

"What _is_ the matter?" the voice continued, in its litany of angry
possessiveness. "What on _earth_ happened to you? I've been waiting for
you since three o'clock."

"Where have you been waiting?"

"_Here_--of course. In our place. In New York. _Winnie, what's wrong?_"

Not a pleasant spot to be in, even if it was only part of a trial-run
in purgatory.

"It's a bit too hard to explain, Virginia," I said, "but something came
up and I don't think I can go through with it. In fact, I know I can't
go through with it."

There was one of those pauses which make a whole life-time seem like a
split-second.

"Something came up!" The voice, now a pantherish contralto, purred
dangerously. "Something went down, you mean. You see, Winnie, I've been
talking to your friends. Johnny Walker, Black Label, that's what went
down. At the Pond Club. Tommy Morgan told me all about it. You went to
the Pond, had too much to drink, woke up about four o'clock--one whole
hour after you had promised to meet me--and woke up talking wildly
and then staggered out. Now I find you're back in Bedford Hills, and
it--it's my birthday--" The voice ended in a choke which might have been
a sob or a paroxysm of feminine fury.

I summoned the old voice of authority, as inculcated at Quonset,
into the well-tanned vocal chords of Winfred Tompkins. "Virginia," I
commanded, "just stop making a fool of yourself. I'm sorry I stood you
up but things have been happening. I just can't go through with it.
I'll explain when I see you."

"You'd better!" And the slam of the receiver left my ears ringing.

When I turned around, my wife was smiling, with a glint in her eye
which was far from sympathetic.

"Poor Winnie!" she observed. "You'd better stick to your office
stenographers and not go picking up red-headed married women in
Westchester. You haven't got a chance."

I refilled my glass and hers, in that order--a husbandly gesture which
put me, I felt, on a solid married basis for the moment.

"Jimmie," I announced. "I don't need to tell you that I'm an awful
heel. Now that we've got the wraps off I wish you'd tell me what you
really think of me and Virginia."

Mrs. Tompkins' nostrils flickered slightly. "I never cared for bulging
red-heads myself," she said. "When she was at Miss Spence's we called
her Virgin for short, but not for long. There never was a thing in
pants, up to and including scarecrows, that she wouldn't carry the
torch for. When she married Jerry Rutherford it was a great relief to
her relatives. She had no friends."

"A very succinct summary, for all that it should be written in letters
of fire," I remarked. "And now what do you think of me?"

She took a long sip of her drink and leaned forward. "You're fat, soft
and spoiled, Winnie, physically, mentally and morally," she began, "and
you know it. If you weren't so stinking rich you'd--well, I don't know.
There's something about you that's--Well, after you bought me from my
parents, I wanted to kill myself and then I sized you up. There's no
real harm in you, Winnie, it's not hard to like you, but you never were
love's young dream."

"What you say is absolutely on the beam," I admitted. "But while
we're on the subject I wouldn't call Jerry Rutherford the answer to a
maiden's prayer. That Hollywood doctor type with the swank suburban
practice and the soft bedroom manner gets me down. He has only three
ideas in the world and all of them begin with 'I'. After the first
antiseptic raptures you'd have nothing in common but your appendix and
he'd want to get away with that--for a consideration."

Jimmie giggled. "You forget that he already has it," she said. "That's
how I was first attracted to him, under the ether cone. I was sick as a
dog and he held my hand and told me I was being very brave."

"And sent the hell of a bill to me," I added.

"Well," she asked, after a pause. "What do you really think of me?"

"I think, Jimmie, that you're lonely, bored and unhappy. All three are
my fault but they are driving you to make a fool of yourself. Nobody
has tried to understand you"--which is catnip for any person of either
sex, once you get them talking about themselves--"least of all your
husband. You need what other women need--children, a home...."

"If this is a build-up for obstetrics, the answer is 'No!'" she snapped
angrily.

"Skip it!" I urged. "I'm telling you the truth, not making a pass at
you. We can talk some more about you in the morning. In the meantime, I
think I'll turn in. I'm very tired, a little tight and I've had a lousy
day."

She flashed me a curious look. "Go on up, Winnie," she said. "I'll put
these things away. You'll need your strength for the morning, if I know
Virginia Rutherford."

Guided by luck and the smell of pipe tobacco, I found what was
obviously the Master's Room--with a weird amalgam of etchings of ducks
and nude girls, including one Zorn, and all the gadgets for making
sleep as complicated as driving an automobile.

I was awakened in the morning by a hand on my shoulder. It was
Mary-Myrtle.

"You'd better get up and put on your pyjamas and dressing gown," she
remarked conversationally. "Dr. Rutherford is downstairs and Mrs.
Rutherford is talking with Mrs. Tompkins in her bedroom."

"Stormy weather?"

"I'll say so--and see here--" she began.

"Sit down, Mary!" I ordered.

She subsided on the edge of the bed and looked at me rebelliously.

"From now on, Mary," I announced, "things are going to be different
around here. I won't refer to what is past, because you're old enough
to know what you're doing and so am I. If you want to stay on and
really help me through a hard time, I'll double your wages. If you'd
rather go--and I wouldn't blame you--I'll pay you six months wages in
advance and you can clear out. But I can't be worried about you and
your feelings when I have a big problem to clean up here. Will you go
or stay?"

The girl thought for a moment, then rose, straightened her apron and
gave me the first friendly smile I had received, since my arrival from
the Aleutians.

"I'll stay, Mr. Tompkins," she said. "And here's a pick-me-up I mixed
for you. Better drink it before you see the Rutherfords."

"Okay!" And I drank it and it worked its beneficent will upon me. "Now
I'll go and kill Dr. Rutherford, if you'll toss me my flit-gun and,
thanks!"

Dr. Rutherford was pacing, with surgical precision, up and down my den.
He looked slightly more self-possessed than the day before and seemed
to be in excellent physical condition. I guessed at the contour beneath
my wadded black silk dressing gown and re-considered my original
plan to throw him bodily out of the house for having come without my
invitation.

"See here, Tompkins," he said briskly. "We're both men of the world, I
hope. Things can't go on like this. I was up all night with Virginia.
You're not behaving at all well, you know, old man."

I sat down in the corner of the leather lounge and looked up at him--a
move which gave me a slight advantage of position in dealing with the
higher emotions.

"Let's not mince words, Jerry," I said. "Suppose you just state frankly
what you think we should do."

"Germaine loves me and does not love you," Rutherford stated crisply.
"You love Virginia and she loves you. None of us wish a divorce. Hang
it all, Winnie, we're civilized. These things happen, you know, and we
might just as well face them. We agreed that the four of us should do
as we liked, and no hard feelings."

I sighed. "Jerry," I said. "What you say was true as of yesterday noon
but if these things can happen, they can also un-happen. Whatever you
and my wife decide to do is your own affair but I'm damned if I intend
to allow her to use my home as a place of assignation and I'm damned
if I'll let her become the subject of gossip. So far as Virginia is
concerned, whether or not she is in love with me, I'm no longer in love
with her and I'm damned if I'll play gigolo to spare the feelings of a
bulging red-head who carries the torch for anything in trousers, up to
and including scarecrows--myself included."

"I can't allow you to talk that way about my wife, Tompkins. It's
rotten bad form and anyhow we both know that people are the way their
glands make them and nothing can be done about it."

"Here, have a drink!" I suggested. "This is all under the seal of a
confessional. I'm not quarreling with you. I'm consulting you. I don't
love Virginia and I don't believe I ever did. If you wish to wriggle
out of your marriage, that's your affair."

"And it's yours, too, ever since that night at the War Bond Ball," he
said. "Don't forget that I caught you--"

"Rutherford," I replied. "As a medical man you have surely seen far
worse than that. You can't sue me for alienation of affections, because
all Bedford Hills is aware of Virginia's glands and because it wouldn't
help your practice. For the rest, I'm willing to listen to anything as
a way out of this mess."

He paused in his precise pacing. "The four of us will have to talk it
over," he said, "as soon as I have that drink you offered me."

"Okay," I agreed. "The girls are in Jimmie's bedroom. Perhaps you know
the way better than I do. I'll follow your lead."

Germaine was propped up in a frilly four-poster bed amid a wallow of
small satin cushions. I barely had time to notice that she was wearing
a rather filmy night gown, when I turned to reap the whirl-wind in the
form of five foot six of red-haired determination and curves.

"Now, Winnie," she commanded. "What's all this _nonsense_?"

I caught a tell-tale glimpse of uncharitable diamonds at my wife's
breast and hastily averted my eyes from the monogram.

"Virginia," I replied, "There's nothing wrong. Nothing at all. It was
just that yesterday I realized that I couldn't go through with it. I
don't pretend to be moral but I won't go in for mixed-doubles at my
age. It's undignified."

"What!" Mrs. Rutherford's mouth hung open in amazement.

"Only this, Virginia. Whatever I have been in the past, I'm going to
try to be different in the future. I know it's hard on you but--"

The red-head laughed like tumbrils rolling to the guillotine. "Nothing
to what a breach of promise suit would be to you, Winnie dear. Don't
forget I have your letters."

"Now we're getting somewhere," I remarked. "How much?"

"Winnie!" my wife gasped. "It's blackmail!"

"Of course it's blackmail," I agreed, "and there are times when it's
wiser to pay than to fight. This is not one of them. Virginia, I'm not
interested in buying back those letters. Save them for a rainy day. I'm
going to settle with your husband. How about it, Jerry?"

"You swine!" Mrs. Rutherford was going definitely Grade-B in the
pinches. "Do you think that you can drive a wedge between me and my
husband?"

"No, my wife has already done that for me. He loves her and he tells me
that she loves him. I've told him that they're welcome to a divorce but
I won't have my house used for any hanky-panky and won't have people
gossip about Germaine. They can make up their minds what they want to
do about it."

"You were saying downstairs, Tompkins," the doctor hastily
interrupted, "that you would listen to any reasonable offer."

"Check! What's your price?"

"I want out," said Dr. Rutherford. "Lend me the value of a year's
practice--fifteen thousand would cover it--and I'll get in a substitute
and take a crack at the Army Medical Corps. They've been after me for a
couple of years."

"Done!" I said, "and if you like I'll have the bank dole it out to
Virginia while you're gone, so she won't use it up too fast."

"What about me?" asked my wife. "I thought Jerry said he loved me."

"What's _your_ price?" I asked.

Germaine yawned and the shoulder strap of her gown slipped
indiscreetly. "Since nobody seems to want me," she declared, "I'm going
to stick around and see the fun. I wouldn't miss the sight of Winnie
Tompkins trying to lead a changed life for all the doctors in the
Medical Corps."

"Me too!" spat out Mrs. Rutherford. "There's something pretty
mysterious going on here and I'm going to stay until I learn all the
answers."

There was a tap at the bedroom door and Myrtle appeared, pulling two
neatly set breakfast trays on a rubber-tired mahogany tea-wagon.

"I thought you would rather have your breakfast upstairs with the
Master, mam," she remarked primly, in a far too English country-house
manner. "Breakfast is waiting for Dr. and Mrs. Rutherford in the
dining-room," she added.

And as she bent over the table and began to straighten out the
breakfast things, the girl had the impudence to slip me a wink.




CHAPTER 4


After a pleasant breakfast, in the course of which my wife read the
social news in the New York Herald-Tribune and I the business news
in the New York Times, I excused myself and returned to my bedroom.
Winnie's bathroom was fitted with all the gadgets, too, and there was
an abundant choice of razors, from the old-fashioned straight-edge
suicide's favorite to the 1941 stream-lined electric Yankee clipper.
I tried out the scales and found that my involuntary host weighed
over 195 pounds--a good deal of it around the middle. Oh, well, a few
weeks of setting up exercises would take care of that. A cold shower
and a brisk rub made me feel a little more presentable and I climbed
shamelessly into Winnie's most manly tweeds.

"Are you catching the ten o'clock, dear?" Germaine called from her
bedroom.

"No such luck!" I warned her. "Phone the office, will you, and tell
them I'm feeling under the weather and won't be in till sometime
tomorrow."

This seemed like a good chance to do some exploring--since the
Rutherfords had temporarily abandoned the field--though I needn't have
bothered since I had seen photographs of suburban houses like Pook's
Hill in a score of different slick-paper pre-war magazines. There was
the inevitable colonial-type dining-room, with dark wainscoting below
smooth oyster-white plaster, electric candle-sconces, and the necessary
array of family silver on the antiqued mahogany sideboard. The windows
gave a vista of brown lawn, with the grass still blasted by winter.
There was the inevitable chintzy living-room, with a permanently
unemployed grand-piano, two or three safely second-rate paintings by
safely first-rate defunct foreigners. There was the usual array of
sofas, easy chairs, small, middle-sized and biggish tables, with lots
of china ash-trays, and a sizable wood-burning fireplace. Of course,
you entered the living-room by two steps down from the front hall and
there was a separate up-two-steps-entrance to my den. And sure as death
and taxes, there was a veritable downstairs lavatory.

I slipped on my coat and hat and stepped out through a French window
which led from the living-room to the inevitable paved stone terrace.
There were galvanized iron fittings for a summer awning and in the
center was a cute little bronze sun-dial. This had an exclamation point
and the inscription, "Over the Yard-Arm" at the place where noon should
be, and a bronze cocktail glass instead of the sign for four p.m. All
the way around the rest of the circle was written in heavy embossed
capitals, "The Hell With It!"

My meditations on this facet of the Tompkins character--and I wondered
whether I oughtn't to spell 'facet' with a u'--were interrupted by
Myrtle.

"Oh, Mr. Tompkins," she called from the kitchen window, in complete
repudiation of her earlier appearance as Watson, third lady's maid at
Barony Castle, "the man from the kennels is here with Ponto. Where
shall I tell him to take the dog?"

I hurried back indoors--there was still a chill in the air and I really
prefer my trees with their clothes on--and found a gnarled little man
who reeked of saddle-soap and servility.

"Well, sir, Mr. Tompkins," he beamed the Old Retainer at me. "That
dog of yours had a close call, a mighty close call. Thought he was a
sure-enough goner. Tried everything: injections, oxygen, iron lung,
enema. No dice. Then yesterday afternoon he just lay down and went to
sleep and I thought, 'My! Won't Mr. Tompkins feel bad!' But he woke
up, large as life and twice as natural, and began carrying on so that
I guess he wanted to come home to his folks. He's a mite weak, Mr.
Tompkins, very weak I might say, but he'll get well quicker here than
at my place and I'll pop in every other day to keep track of him. Never
did see anything like the recovery that dog made in all my born days.
Now about his bowels--"

I waited until he had to draw a breath and made swift to congratulate
him on his professional skill. "I wouldn't have lost Ponto for a
thousand dollars," I said. "Let's get him out of your car and up in my
bedroom," I added. "He's been like a member of the family and--"

A series of deep bass backs interrupted me, followed by ominous
sounds of a heavy body hurling itself recklessly around inside a small
enclosed space.

"There!" said the vet. "He recognized your voice. Come on, Ponto. I'll
fetch you. He's pretty weak, Mr. Tompkins, but he'll get strong fast if
you feed him right."

The vet twinkled out the front door and returned shortly, leading a
perfectly enormous coal-black Great Dane on a plaited leather leash.
Ponto did not look very weak to me, but I've always been fond of dogs
and I figured that kindness to animals might count in my favor. "Good
dog," I condescended. "Poor old fellow!"

The poor old fellow gave a low but hungry growl and lunged for me with
bared teeth, dragging the vet behind him like a dory behind a fishing
schooner. I jumped into the den and slammed the door, while Ponto
sniffed, snapped and grumbled on the far side of my defenses.

"Tell you what, doctor," I called through the panels. "Take him
upstairs and put him in my room. It's the one to the right at the head
of the stairs. He's just excited. Shut him in and as soon as he's
calmed down I'll make him comfortable."

While this rather cowardly solution was being put into effect, I sat
down and thought it over. Apparently Winnie had been the kind of man
whose pet dog tried to rip his throat out. That was puzzling, since
from what I remembered of him at school, he had if anything been
only too amiable. I waited out the vet's last-minute report and
instructions, and then rang the bell for the maid.

"Mary," I said, "will you help the doctor with his hat and coat and
then take Ponto a bowl of water. The poor old fellow's had a rough
time."

The vet departed and I listened while the maid went upstairs. Then
there was a scream, the crash of breaking china and the sound of a door
being slammed. I bounded up the steps to find Mary, white-faced and
trembling, looking stupidly at the broken remains of a white china bowl
and a sizeable puddle of water on the hardwood floor outside my bedroom.

The door of my wife's room burst open and Jimmie appeared with a wild
"What on earth!"

"It's that dog, sir," gasped Myrtle. "When I come--came--in with the
bowl of water like you said, there he was lying on--on--your bed, like
a Human, and--and--"

"And what?" I demanded.

"And he was wearing your pyjamas, sir," she sobbed. "It's--it's--"

"Uncanny," Germaine supplied the word.

I gave a hollow laugh. "He probably remembers that he isn't allowed to
lie on the beds, Mary, and may have dragged my pyjamas up there to lie
on. Whenever I let him up on the furniture I always make him lie on
some of my clothes."

"Oh," Myrtle said, suddenly calm. "Is that it? It was just that it
looked sort of queer to see his legs in the pyjama trousers."

"Well, don't worry about it now, Myrtle," my wife remarked firmly.
"I'm not surprised it gave you a shock. He's such a big dog. I'll go in
and see that he's comfortable. Come on, Winnie! Let's take a look at
him. What's the matter?" she added, noticing a certain reluctance in my
attitude.

"Nothing much," I martyrized. "It's only that he flew for my throat
when he got inside the door."

"Nonsense!" she replied in the firm tone of a woman who knows better
and who, in any case, expects her husband not to be afraid of a mere
infuriated Great Dane. "You know Ponto always puts his paws on your
shoulders and licks your face every morning, as you taught him."

My rollicking laughter was a work of art. "Of course, that was it," I
agreed, "and he'd been away from us so long that he was over-eager.
Come on, let's see if we can't make the poor beast comfortable."

But I let her lead the way.

The poor beast was lying panting on my still unmade bed. The flowered
Chinese silk pyjamas which I had worn at breakfast were indeed
strangely twisted around its gaunt body. The coat was across the
animal's shoulders and both of its hind-legs were sticking through one
of the trouser-legs.

"There! Ponto! Poor old fellow!" cooed Jimmie in a voice which would
have charmed snails from their shells.

Ponto gave a self-pitying whine and his tail thumped the pillow like
an overseer's whip across the back of Uncle Tom. My wife patted
the animal's head and Ponto positively drooled at her. She gently
disentangled him from among the pyjamas and hung them up in the closet.
As she turned toward the bed, he jumped to the floor, reared up, put
both paws on her shoulders and licked her face convulsively, giving
little whines and shiverings.

"Poor old fellow, poor old Ponto!" she crooned. "Was he glad to get
home from the nasty old kennel? There!" And she massaged his ears.
"Come on now, Ponto," she remarked more authoritatively, "say good
morning to your master."

The answer was a grand diapason of a growl and the baring of a thicket
of gleaming white fangs in my direction.

"Ponto!" she ordered, as the beast positively cringed. "Say good
morning to the master!"

He slumped to the floor with the grace of a pole-axed calf and
approached me slowly, ears back, hair bristling and teeth in evidence.

"Ponto!" Germaine's cry was positively totalitarian but the dog lunged
at me and I barely had time to close the door in its face.

A few minutes later, Germaine emerged looking bewildered. "I've never
known him to behave like this," she said. "I don't like it. It's always
been you he was so fond of and he barely tolerated me. Now he seems all
mixed-up. After you left, he calmed right down and came back and licked
my face all over again. What do you suppose is wrong with him. Can it
be fits?"

I shook my head. "He doesn't act like fits," I said. "He's had a bad
go of distemper and is probably suffering from shock. Dogs do get
shock, you know. I remember in Psychology at Harvard they told us about
a very intelligent St. Bernard dog which was shocked into complete
hysteria by the supernatural. That is, they pulled a lamb chop across
the floor by a thread concealed in a crack between the boards. The dog
nearly had heart failure when he saw a chop moving by itself."

"But what can we do?" she asked. "Let's send him back to the kennels
until he's cured."

"Nope! From what Dr. Whatsisname--"

"Dalrymple."

"From what Dalrymple said, he'd started acting up at the kennels and
he--the vet, that is--thought Ponto would be better off at home."

"But we can't have him going for you every time you use your room."

"Then I won't use it. I'll sleep in the guest-room," I added swiftly,
lest she leap to feminine conclusions. "You might take him another bowl
of water--he's all right with you--and spread the New York Times on
the floor--and a damned good use for it--and bring out my clothes and
things. He seems to have quite a leech for you and we'll just leave him
there to think things over by himself."

"How about his food?" she asked. "Shouldn't he have a special diet?"

"No. I'll let him go hungry for a day or so. So long as he has plenty
of water it won't hurt him. Then when he's weak enough so as not to
be dangerous I'll bring him some nice dog-biscuits and warm milk and
he'll learn to love me the best way, by the alimentary canal."

She looked at me closely, "You _do_ look rocky," she said. "You've had
a shock, too. Hadn't I better call the doctor?"

I shook my head. "No more doctors, please. I'm out of condition, I
guess, and all this dodging Great Danes is hard on the nerves. I'll go
down and mix myself a brandy-and-soda. You might join me when you've
moved my things upstairs. We've got to talk over a lot of things."

When I finally managed to settle down in my den with a stiff drink I
felt besieged, bewildered and backed up against the wall. There could
be no reasonable doubt about it--_the dog knew_! Ponto knew that I was
an interloper, that the real Winnie Tompkins no longer existed, that a
stranger was masquerading in his body and clothes. The uncanny instinct
of a dog had led him to the truth when even Winnie's wife had been
deceived.

This was a new twist in the maze. I couldn't imagine the Master of
the Rat-Race watching with scientific detachment to see whether Frank
Jacklin would make it or would be disqualified in the first round. Of
one thing I was certain, unless I could establish some kind of personal
understanding with Ponto, suspicion would gather around me. For the
moment, Germaine did not doubt that I was her husband: my conduct had
puzzled her but she had lived with Winnie so long that it was probable
that she no longer specifically noticed him. Virginia Rutherford would
be more dangerous--she was a woman scorned and she had been tricked
out of an intrigue. She had every motive for digging out or even for
inventing the truth, but I had given myself a good excuse to keep her
at arm's length. She couldn't force her way into my clubs. I would
tell my office staff to keep her away from me, and she couldn't be so
ill-bred as to thrust herself into my home. If I could appease Ponto
and avoid Virginia, I had a fair chance of getting away with it.

"Beg pardon, sir!" It was Myrtle.

"Yes, Mary?"

"Mrs. Rutherford is back, sir. She wants to see you."

"Tell her I am not at home," I replied in a clear carrying tone. "And
that I never will be at home to her."

"Oh, yes, you will." It was the red-head. She was wearing a long mink
coat and carrying a short automatic pistol. "Like it or not, Winnie,
_we_ are going to have a talk--now." She turned to the startled maid.
"And don't you try phoning the police, Myrtle," she added, "or the
first thing you will hear is this pistol going pop at Mr. Winfred
Tompkins of New York City and Bedford Hills."

"That's all right, Mary," I added. "Don't call the police. Tell
Mrs. Tompkins that I'm busy. Mrs. Rutherford and I wish to have a
conversation."




CHAPTER 5


As the door to the room slammed convulsively behind Myrtle, Mrs.
Rutherford relaxed, laid the automatic on the sofa between us, and
flung back her mink coat. She was an appetizing little number, if you
like 'em red-haired, well-developed and mad through and through.

Instinctively I started to reach for the gun but was checked by her
laugh.

"Take it, by all means," she said. "It's not loaded. I only needed it
for the maid. Tell me, Winnie, have you got her on your string, too?
The maid made or undone, as they used to say."

"Virginia," I said firmly, "I told you earlier this morning that we
were through. There's nothing more to be said about it. It's finished,
done, kaput! All's well that ends."

She laughed again, and looked at me closely. In spite of myself, I
began pulling nervously at the lobe of my left ear, a habit of mine
when confused which has always irritated my Dorothy.

"There!" Virginia said finally, "that's it!"

Her voice had a note of finality with a touch of total triumph that I
found disturbing.

"Well, have you anything to say?" I asked.

"Have _you_ anything to say?"

"I've already said it, Virginia. Nice as you are and beautiful as you
are, we're washed up. It won't work and we both know it. So why not
shake hands and quit friends?"

She took my proffered hand in hers but, instead of shaking it, examined
it carefully.

"Very clever," she murmured. "You've even got that little mole at the
base of your thumb."

"Of course I have. It's been there since birth."

"Very, _very_, clever, Winnie," she continued, "but it won't do, my
Winnie, because you see you aren't my Winnie at all. You're a total
stranger."

"I've changed," I admitted. "I'm trying to be half-way decent."

"Whoever wanted Winnie to be half-way decent?" she mused. "Nobody.
He was much pleasanter as he was--a rich, friendly boob. As for you,
whoever you are, I'm on to your game. You aren't Winfred Tompkins and
you know it."

I put some heavy sarcasm into my reply. "How did you ever guess, Mrs.
Rutherford?"

She laughed airily, helped herself to a cigarette and leaned forward
while I lighted it so that I could not help seeing deep into the
straining V of her blouse.

"Lots of things. In the first place, you call me 'Virginia' when we're
alone instead of 'Bozo' as you always used to do."

"I stopped calling you 'Bozo' when I made up my mind--" I began.

"Nuts to you, Buddy," she rejoined. "Then you kept pulling at your ear
as though you were milking a cow, while I was needling you. Winnie
never did that. When he was in a spot, he always reached in his pocket
and jingled his change or, as a desperate measure, twiddled his keys."

"Don't judge my habits by my hang-overs," I insisted. "I'm not feeling
well and I've had a sort of psychic shock."

"Winnie never said 'psychic' in his life, poor lamb," she observed. "He
didn't know what it meant. No, I don't know what your game is but I'm
on to you and we're going to be real buddies from now on or--"

"Or what?"

"The police," she observed quietly, "take a dim view of murder in this
state. Now I'm willing to be broad-minded. Winnie was a louse who had
it coming to him, I guess. I was playing him for a quick divorce and
marriage. Three million dollars is a lot of money, even in these days,
and it would have been nice to have been married to it. But it's even
nicer this way, I guess."

The decanter was within reach. I poured myself another drink. "Have
some?" I asked.

"And why not? What's yours is mine, and we both need it."

"Why did you say it was nicer this way, Mrs. Rutherford?" I inquired.

"Virginia to you, Winnie. It's because now I don't have to marry you
and I still have a pipe-line to the Tompkins millions."

"So you _are_ going in for blackmail," I observed. "Suppose I
threatened to divorce Jimmie and marry you. After all, I still could."

"A girl has her pride," she murmured. "Not that I'd mind having fun
with you, Winnie--as I think I'd better call you. But a wife can't give
testimony against her husband and I think I'd rather like to be able to
give testimony if needed. Besides, a husband has too many opportunities
to help the undertaker. There are accidents in bath-tubs and garages,
medicines get mixed up in the bathroom cabinet and there is always the
old-fashioned hatchet. No, since you've managed to get rid of the other
Winnie, somehow, I think I'll keep a safe distance and my silence, as
long as you make it worth my while."

"Suppose I won't play?" I suggested.

"Then I'll go to the police or the F.B.I.--they're supposed to catch
kidnappers, aren't they?--and tell them what I know."

I stood up. This would be easier than I had expected.

"Okay, Virginia," I said, "go right ahead. There's the telephone. You
can use it to call the Secret Service for all I care. See what luck you
have with your story, when my wife is here to testify that I'm Winnie
Tompkins."

Her face paled and her eyes narrowed angrily. "Jimmie too?" she asked.
"Then you're both in it!"

"We're both in what?"

The door opened and Germaine Tompkins stood in the entrance.

Virginia Rutherford looked trapped and she instinctively pulled her
mink back over her shoulders.

"Nothing, Jimmie," she said at last. "I was foolish enough to hope that
if I came back and had a talk alone with Winnie, we could pick up
where we left off. He's been acting so strangely that he doesn't seem
like himself at all. And so are you. That's what I meant by saying that
you were both in it."

"Virginia," my wife said firmly, "my husband told you to stay out of
this house--and it's my home, too--and now I find you here. Please go
or I'll call the police."

The two women exchanged appraising glances which suggested that they
were both thoroughly enjoying the touch of melodrama that had come into
their well-fed lives.

"No, it's my fault for letting her in," I said. "She sent in word by
Mary--"

"You mean Myrtle."

"--that she would like to see me. I agreed to do so, so you can't blame
her. We talked things over and decided that it's all off--a few moments
of madness, but that's all, and not worth wrecking two marriages for.
Isn't that so, Mrs. Rutherford?"

Virginia shook her head. "No, Winnie, it is not so. Jimmie, I came here
with that gun. It wasn't loaded but the next time it will be. I made
Myrtle or whatever her name is show me in and I told her I would shoot
Winnie if she gave the alarm. Then I told him what I know about him."

"And what is that?" my wife asked.

"That he is not Winnie at all," Virginia declared. "That he is an
imposter, that he and perhaps you had done away with poor old Winnie. I
told him that I wouldn't tell his secret if he paid me to keep silent.
And he told me to call the police."

My wife went over to her and took her hand. "Poor, darling Virginia,"
she murmured, "why don't you go away and have a good rest? You've got
yourself all worked up for a nervous breakdown. Of course it's Winnie.
I'm married to him and I ought to know my own husband, shouldn't I?
You've simply got run down and all, with rationing and war-work. Why
don't you let Jerry send you for a few weeks to the Hartford Sanctuary
for psychoanalysis and a good rest?"

Virginia dashed my wife's hand away. "In other words, you think I'm
crazy!" she snapped.

"No, but I do think you're hysterical. This is Winnie, I'm Jimmie
and you're Virginia Rutherford. We've all been letting ourselves get
over-emotional and this war is a strain on everybody. Don't worry.
Jerry can fix it for you quite easily and I--we both will be glad
to help pay for it, if you're worried about the money. After all,"
Germaine added wryly, "the whole thing is pretty much of a family
affair, isn't it? Let's keep it that way."

Mrs. Rutherford reached over and grabbed the gun from the sofa.

"All right, Germaine Tompkins, murderess," she grated. "If that's the
way you're going to play it, I'll play too. Don't worry about my mind.
Start thinking about the electric chair. Remember, in this state they
execute women who kill their husbands."

Jimmie waited until the door closed behind the doctor's wife. Then she
turned to me with a curious expression of weariness.

"Poor man!" she remarked. "You have got yourself into a bad mess,
haven't you?"

I nodded.

"It didn't seem like one while I was getting into it," I said. "It's
only now when I'm trying to get things straightened out that it seems
so awful."

"Let's see," she continued. "How many women is it you've been trying to
keep away from each other? There's myself, of course, but wives don't
count any more, do they? And there's Virginia Rutherford and Myrtle,
and there was that blonde actress we met at Martha's Vineyard last
summer, and is it one or two girls at the office?"

Here was where I could object with complete sincerity. "I swear that
I've not been fooling with any of the office girls," I said.

"I know," Jimmie agreed wisely. "You always used to tell me that it was
considered bad for business to play with the help but after I saw the
way you went for Myrtle I decided that there were exceptions to every
rule."

"Nobody in the office," I repeated. "I swear it."

"Then perhaps it was the office next door. Maybe you brokers have
an exchange system for taking on each other's stenographers--charge
it to business expenses for getting information about each other's
dealings--but I know I've heard the name Briggs mentioned somehow in
your connection."

"The name means absolutely nothing to me," I insisted. "If it will make
you any happier I'll admit to a hundred women but I'm through with all
that sex-stuff. From now on, I'm going to be a one-woman man."

Germaine faced me with an air of resolution. "Would you mind giving me
a drink of brandy?" she asked. "I've something to say to you and I'm
afraid you won't like it."

I went to the portable bar and poured her a pony of Courvoisier.

"Here you are. Down the hatch! And now what is it you want to tell me."

"Believe me, Winnie," she said, "it's not easy for me. But I'd better
say it anyhow. I can't keep on suppressing it. Who _are_ you?"

"What's that?"

"Who _are_ you?" she repeated. "You look like my husband but you don't
talk like him. His clothes fit you but Virginia Rutherford is _quite_
right--you aren't Winnie Tompkins."

"How did you guess?"

"Don't think I'll give you away," she continued. "I won't because
you must have had a terribly important reason for doing whatever you
have done. You seem to be in deep trouble of some kind. I--I'd like
to help you, if I can. Don't think I'm hard on my husband. It's been
years since we--oh, you know. I married him for his money and I still
don't know why he married me. Yes, I do, but I've never liked to admit
it. He'd made a lot of money in the market and had built this house.
He needed a wife the way he needed an automobile, a portable bar, a
Capehart, a thoroughbred Great Dane and a membership in the Pond Club.
I was available, at a price, which he met--but that's all there is to
our story."

"Poor Jimmie!" I sympathized. "We're both lost, I guess. No, I'm not
Winnie but I don't know who else I could possibly be. You see, less
than twenty-four hours ago I was a lieutenant-commander on a light
carrier in the North Pacific and--"

Germaine slowly withdrew her hand from mine.

"Oh!" she exclaimed softly. "Oh Winnie! Poor old idiot! I'll take care
of you and see that you get over this. Wait, I'll call the doctor right
away. The Hartford Sanctuary's a very nice place, and I can come over
every week to--"

I shook my head. "You'll do nothing of the kind, my dear," I ordered.
"No doctor can help me on this one. Besides," I added, "how do you know
that I wasn't batty before and have just come to my senses."

Her eyes were frightened. "All right, dear," she agreed. "I like you
better this way, anyhow."




CHAPTER 6


"Thanks, Jimmie," I replied. "I'm going to try to stay this way."

My wife sat down beside me and studied me closely. "You _look_
different," she remarked. "To me, at any rate. You're sort of coming to
a focus. If only--. You're so different and--strange."

Here was my chance to recover lost ground.

"As near as I can make out," I said, "I've had a kind of amnesia. I
know you, of course, and my name, and that this is my house and that
Ponto is my dog, even though he tried to bite me. I know the Pond Club
and the Harvard Club, but that's about all I seem able to remember.
I can't recall where I work or where I bank, or who my friends are
or what kind of car I drive or what I was doing before yesterday
afternoon."

She relaxed at the holy scientific word 'amnesia,' as though to name a
mystery explained it.

"But you were saying something about being on an aircraft carrier in
the Pacific," she objected.

I laughed. "That must have been part of a very vivid dream I was having
in a chair in the bar at the Pond, when Ranty Tolan woke me up. It was
one of those dreams which seemed so real that real life seemed like a
dream. It still does a bit. That's where my alleged mind got stalled
and I'm still floundering around. Help me, won't you?"

"You didn't seem to need much help remembering Virginia Rutherford,"
she remarked, "but I'll try to fill in some of the gaps for you. You
have your own firm--Tompkins, Wasson and Cone--at No. 1 Wall Street.
It's sort of combination brokerage office and investment counsel. You
once told me that your specialty was finding nice rich old ladies
and helping them re-invest their unearned millions. You bank at the
National City Farmers and your car is a black '41 Packard coupe."

"That helps a lot," I thanked her. "Now how about my friends? If I go
to town tomorrow, I ought to be on the look-out for them. Business
isn't so good right now that I can afford to let myself be run in as an
amnesiac while my partners look after the loot."

She frowned. "I don't know much about your friends in town, since so
many of them are in the war," she admitted. "There's Merry Vail, of
course, who roomed with you at Harvard, but he hasn't come out here
much since Adela divorced him after that business in Bermuda. Sometimes
you talk about the men you see at the Club but I've never been able
to keep track of the Phils and Bills and Neds and Joes and Dicks and
Harrys. You'll have to find your own way there. At the office, of
course, there's Graham Wasson and Phil Cone, your partners, but you
won't have much trouble once you're at your desk. Wasson is dark and
plump and Cone is fair and plump and they're both about five years
younger than you are."

"The office doesn't worry me," I agreed. "I can handle anything that
develops there."

"You know, Winnie," Jimmie remarked, "if I were you I wouldn't try to
go to town for a few days. The office will run itself and you need a
rest. I don't know much about amnesia but I've always heard that rest
and kind treatment--"

"Uh-uh!" I dissented emphatically. "Worst thing in the world for it.
I've always heard that the thing to do is to go back over the ground
until you come to the thing that gave you the original shock and then
it all comes back to you. If I stick around Bedford Hills I'll just get
panicky over not being sure whether I remember things or not. I'll go
to town in the morning and see if I can't find myself."

She laughed, as wives laugh. "You may be a changed man," she announced,
"but you're still stubborn as a mule. Tell me, to change the subject,
you say that you remember me. Tell me what I seem like to you, now
that you've changed, as you say, aside from age, sex, scars and
distinguishing marks, if any, and marital status."

I closed my eyes and thought of Dorothy as she had been that last night
in Hartford before she walked out and I decided to join the Navy as a
Reserve Officer.

"You are piano music on a summer night--something Scarlatti or
Mozart--thin, cool, precise, gay. You are apple blossoms against a
Berkshire hillside. You are the smoke of fallen leaves climbing into
the cool October sky. You are surf on a sandy beach, with the gulls
wheeling and the white-caps racing past the lighthouse on the point.
You are bobsleds and hot coffee and dough-nuts by a roaring wood fire.
And you're a lost child, with two pennies in your fist, looking in the
window of a five-cent candy-shop."

Germaine relaxed. "Except for that last bit, Winnie, you made me sound
like a year-round vacation resort or an ad for a new automobile. You've
mentioned almost everything about me except the one thing I obviously
am."

"Which is?"

"A simple, rather stupid woman, I guess," Germaine sighed, "who's had
everything in life except what she wants."

"All women are simple," I pontificated, "since what they want is
simple."

"You moron!" she blazed. "Don't you see that no woman knows what she
wants until she is made to want it. You ... you never made me want
anything simple, except to crack you over the head with something."

After she had left, I sat for a long time. There seemed to be nothing
to do or say. Winnie's domestic life was still in too much of a snarl
for me to do the obvious thing and follow Germaine upstairs, and into
her bedroom, lock the door, and kiss her tear-stained face and tell her
that I was sorry I had hurt her.... Before it would be safe to accept
her gambits I must first explore my business connections. Hadn't my
wife said something about girls in the office?

       *       *       *       *       *

My first stop in the morning, after I had been careful to take a late
commuting train in to the city in order to avoid business men who were
sure to know and greet Winnie Tompkins, was the Pond Club.

Tammy was behind the bar and as soon as I entered he turned and mixed
me a powerful pick-me-up. I drained it with the usual convulsive effort
and then pretended to relax.

"Thanks, Tammy," I said. "That's what I needed." "Good morning, Mr.
Tompkins," he remarked. "I'm glad to see you back. You were looking a
trifle seedy--if you don't mind my saying so, sir--when you were in
here Monday afternoon."

"I took a day off in the country and got rested up," I told him. "I
feel fine now. Anybody in the Club?"

"Not just now, sir. A couple of gentlemen were asking for you yesterday
afternoon--that would be Tuesday. That was Commander Tolan, sir, and
a friend of his, a Mr. Harcourt his name was, who hasn't been here
before. They asked me if you were at your home but I just laughed.
'Him gone home?' I said. 'Not while he has a girl and a flat on Park
Avenue.' Begging your pardon, Mr. Tompkins, I knew you didn't want to
be bothered wherever you were and so I said the first thing that came
to my head."

"You're doing fine, Tammy," I assured him. "I don't want to see anybody
for a couple of days. Now then, I'd like you to tell me what happened
here Monday afternoon. It's the first time in my life I've ever drawn a
complete blank."

"Well, sir," the Club steward recited. "You came in about two o'clock
and sat down in your usual chair--that one in the corner. You said
something about having had lunch at the Harvard Club, sir, and had a
couple of Scotch and sodas here."

"Was I tight, Tammy?"

"Not to call tight. You didn't show it, and after a time you went to
sleep, like you was tired out. You was still sleeping when Mr. Morgan,
Mr. Davis and Commander Tolan came in. That would be a little after
three o'clock, sir. They made some talk about how you were sleeping
through the noise they made, that it would take a bomb to wake you.
Then, sir, I guess you had some kind of a dream. You began talking like
and thrashing with your arms and making noises. So Commander Tolan he
said, 'Jesus we can't drink with that going on' and went and shook you
by the shoulder until you woke up. You'd been dreaming all right, Mr.
Tompkins, because you talked wild when you woke up, about Alaska and
where were you. The others joked a bit about it after you left but I'd
take my oath, sir, that you weren't really what might be called tight,
Mr. Tompkins."

"Thanks a million, Tammy," I said. "That's a load off my mind. I drew
a blank and didn't know where I'd been or what I'd been doing. Can you
let me have some money? I'm a bit short of cash."

"Of course, sir. How much will you need?"

"A couple of hundred will do," I told him, "if you have that much."

"That will be easy, sir. If you'll just sign a check, like the house
rules says, I'll get it from the safe."

He nearly caught me. Signing checks was something I simply could not do
until I had learned to imitate Winnie Tompkins' signature. I had tried
in the guest-room at Bedford Hills, the previous evening, and found
that my original signature as Frank E. Jacklin was completely unchanged
by my transmigration, and that my own copy-desk scrawl was the only
handwriting I could commit. I had burned the note-paper on which I had
made the crucial experiments and flushed the ashes down the toilet. One
of my objects in coming to the Pond had been to see if I couldn't get
money by simply initialing a chit.

I hastily looked in my bill-fold. There was still a fair amount of
money left. It would last me until I found a way to draw on Winnie's
bank-account.

"Never mind, after all," I told Tammy. "I guess I have enough to last
me until I get down to the office. If anybody asks for me, you haven't
seen me since Monday and don't know where I am."

"Very good, sir," he agreed. "I'll take any messages that come for you,
sir, and not let on I've set eyes on you."

My next stop was at an old hang-out of mine and Dorothy's from my
early newspaper days: a place on East 53rd Street, where you can get
a good meal if you have the money to pay for it and the time to wait
for it--and I had both. I knew that none of Winnie's friends would be
seen dead in the place and I didn't want to try lunch at the Harvard
Club, where I'd have to sign the dining-room order or the bar-check.
The place was reasonably uncrowded--it was not quite noon--and I had a
pleasant lunch.

It was a little after one o'clock when I reached the Harvard Club. The
door-man glanced at my face and automatically stuck a little ivory
peg in the hole opposite the name of Tompkins on the list of members.
I checked my hat and coat and strolled through the sitting-rooms into
the large lounge-library beside the dining-room. A couple of men
nodded and smiled as I passed them, so I nodded back and said, "Hi!"
in a conversational tone. In the lounge I found a chair and a copy
of the World-Telegram, so I decided to catch up with the war-news.
The German Armies were beginning to crumble but there was still talk
of a stand along the Elbe and Hitler was reported fortifying the
mountain-districts of Southern Germany into a redoubt for a last
Valhalla Battle. The Pacific news was good. The fighting on Okinawa was
going our way and the clean-up in the Philippines was well in hand. The
Navy Department discounted enemy reports of heavy damage to American
warships by Jap suicide-pilots but, as an old Navy P.R.O., I could tell
that it had been plenty. I'd heard about the Kamikazes from some of our
pilots who had seen them off Leyte and I had no doubt that they were
doing a job on the 7th Fleet. Roosevelt had gone South for a couple of
weeks rest at Warm Springs, Georgia, and Ed Stettinius was in the final
throes of organizing the United Nations Conference at San Francisco--

"Hi, Winnie? Don't you speak to your old friends any more?"

I looked up to see a lean, wolfish-looking man, with a gray moustache,
a slightly bald head and definitely Bond Street clothes.

"Oh, hullo!" I said and returned to reading the paper.

The newspaper was firmly taken out of my hands and the man sat down
beside me.

"We've got to have a talk," he said.

"Why? What's happened?"

"There's been a lot of talk about you running around town in the last
twenty-four hours, Winnie. None of the other alleged friends we know
had the guts to tell you. But I thought your room-mate--"

"So you're Merry Vail," I said stupidly.

"You're in worse shape than I thought you were, Winnie," he replied.
"Yes, I'm Merriwether Vail who started his life-long career of rescuing
Winfred Tompkins from blondes and booze at Harvard in 1916. Now, if
you'll just crawl out of your alcoholic coma and listen to me for five
minutes before you take off for your next skirt, you'll learn something
to your advantage."

"How about a drink, Merry?" I asked, to keep in character.

"Not before five, so help me, and you'd better lay off liquor till you
hear this. Here it is. There's a story going the rounds that the F.B.I.
is after you. At any rate, at least one obvious G-man has been reported
in full cry on your foot-prints."

I sat up, startled. This was too much, even for purgatory. What _had_
Winnie been up to?

"What am I supposed to have done, Merry?" I asked. "Trifled with the
Mann Act? Told fibs on my income tax return? Failed to notify the local
draft board that I was taking the train to New York? Bought black
market nylons for my mistress? or what?"

Vail looked mysterious. "For all I know I may be letting myself in
for Alcatraz, old man, but the dope is that you've been violating the
Espionage Act, communicating with the enemy, or stealing official
secrets."

I leaned back in my chair and shook with laughter. "Of all the pure,
unadulterated b.s. I've ever heard! I give you my word of honor as a
Porcellian that there's not a syllable of truth in it."

Vail looked increasingly distressed. "If you're really innocent, you'd
better be careful. Ten-to-one you haven't an alibi, and you'll need
a lawyer. Slip me a bill now and retain me as your counsel. No, this
isn't a gag. Something's cooking, even if it's only mistaken identity,
and I've seen enough of the law in war-time to know that you'll be
better off with the old cry, 'I demand to see my attorney,' when they
march you down to the F.B.I. headquarters to answer a few questions."

"Thanks, Merry," I said, "and here's twenty bucks to go on with. If
the police are looking for me, I'd better go down to my office and see
that things are apple-pie before they lock up the brains of our outfit.

"Besides," I added, "you've just given me an idea of how I can make a
hell of a lot of money."




CHAPTER 7


Tompkins, Wasson & Cone maintained sincere-looking offices on one
of the upper floors of No. 1 Wall Street. The rooms were carefully
furnished in dark wood and turkey-red upholstery, in a style calculated
to reassure elderly ladies of great wealth that the firm was careful
and conservative.

The girl at the reception desk looked as though she had graduated with
honor from Wellesley in the class of 1920 and still had it--pince-nez
and condescension--but she was thoroughly up-to-date in her
office-technique.

"Oh, Mr. Tompkins," she murmured in a clear, low voice, "there's a
gentleman waiting to see you in the customer's room, a Mr. Harcourt.
He's been here since ten o'clock this morning."

"He's had no lunch?" I inquired.

She shook her head.

I clucked my tongue. "We can't have our customers starve to death, can
we? Send out for a club sandwich and some hot coffee. Give me five
minutes to take a look at my mail and then send him in. When the food
arrives, send that in, too."

She blinked her hazel eyes behind her pince-nez to show that she
understood, and I walked confidently down to the end of the corridor to
where a "Mr. Tompkins" stared at me conservatively from a glazed door.

My office lived up to my fondest dream of Winnie. It was an ingenious
blend of the 1870's and functional furniture--like a cocktail of port
wine and vodka. There were electric clocks, a silenced stock-ticker
in a glass-covered mahogany coffin, an elaborate Sheraton radio
with short-wave reception, tuned in on WQXR, and desks and chairs
and divans and a really good steel engraving showing General Grant
receiving Lee's surrender at Appomattox Court House, with a chart
underneath to explain who was who in the picture.

The desk I was glad to note, was bare except for an electric
clock-calendar which told me that it was 3:12 p.m. of April 4, 1945,
and a handsome combination humidor, cigarette case and automatic
lighter in aluminum and synthetic tortoise-shell. A glance out the
window gave me a reassuring glimpse of the spire of Trinity Church.
There was a single typed memo on the glass top of the desk, which read:
"Mr. Harcourt, 10:13 a.m. Would not state business. Will wait."

I pushed one of the array of buttons concealed underneath the edge of
the desk and a door opened to admit a largish blonde in a tight-fitting
sweater.

"Yes, Mr. Tompkins?"

"Please have Mr. Harcourt sent in," I said, "And when he comes, bring
your notebook and take a stenographic record of our conversation
and--er--what's your name?"

She raised her well-plucked eyebrows. "I'm Eleanor Roosevelt, my
parents named me Arthurjean--after both of them--Arthurjean--Miss
Briggs to you!"

"Very well, Miss Briggs, tell Mr. Harcourt I'll see him now."

A moment later, she reappeared holding a card in her fingers as though
it was a live cockroach. "Sure you want to see this?" she asked.

The card read: "Mr. A. J. Harcourt, Special Agent. Federal Bureau of
Investigation, U. S. Department of Justice, U. S. Court House, Foley
Square, New York 23, N. Y."

"Of course," I replied, "I've been expecting him for some time."

A. J. Harcourt was neat but not gaudy: a clean-cut, Hart, Shaffner and
Marx tailored man of about thirty-five, with that indefinable family
resemblance to J. Edgar Hoover which always worries me about the F.B.I.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Harcourt," I said pleasantly, "and what can I do
for the F.B.I.?"

Harcourt shook my hand, took a seat, refused a cigarette and cast a
doubtful glance over his shoulder at Arthurjean Briggs, who was working
semi-silently away at a stenotype machine.

"Oh, that's my secretary," I explained. "I always have her take a
record of important conversations in this office. I hope the machine
doesn't disturb you, Mr. Harcourt."

"If it's all right with you it's all right with me," he said
grudgingly. "I thought perhaps you'd rather have this private."

"Not in the least," I replied. "Miss Briggs is the soul of discretion
and I can imagine nothing we could talk about that I wouldn't want her
to hear."

The G-Man looked as though he was worrying over whether he ought to
call Washington for permission. They hadn't taught him this one in
the F.B.I. academy of finger-printing, marksmanship, shadowing and
wire-tapping.

"By the way, Mr. Harcourt," I added, "I just learned as I came in that
you've been waiting for me since ten this morning. It's after three now
so I took the liberty of sending out for a sandwich and some coffee for
you. I thought you might like a bite of lunch while you are talking
with me."

The Special Agent looked as surprised as though he had found Hoover's
fingerprints on the murder-gun, but he nodded gamely.

"Here it is now," I remarked, as there was a knock on the door and
a knowing-looking boy placed an appealing tray-load of sandwiches,
pickles and coffee in front of Mr. Harcourt.

"Now you go right ahead and eat your lunch," I urged. "Ask me for any
information in my possession and you shall have it. And of course
I'll have Miss Briggs send a complete transcript of our talk to you
at F.B.I. headquarters by registered mail. First of all, if you don't
mind, would you show me your official identification and let Miss
Briggs take down the number and so on. It's always best to put these
things in the record, isn't it?"

The G-Man gulped and produced a battered identity card, complete with
fingerprints, number, Hoover's signature and a photograph which would
have justified his immediate arrest on suspicion of bank-robbery.

"I imagine, Mr. Harcourt," I remarked, "that you've had plenty of time
in the last five hours to question members of my staff about whatever
it is you think they might know about my business."

He looked up, almost pathetically. "I asked a few questions," he
admitted. "This is just an informal inquiry. Nothing for Grand Jury
action--yet."

I didn't like that last word.

"Do you think I ought to call my lawyer in before I proceed with our
talk?" I asked. "I resent your reference to Grand Jury action. So far,
I don't even know what you wish to see me about and you have just made
a libelous statement in front of a reliable witness. Is that the way J.
Edgar Hoover trains his Gestapo?"

"I--well--"

"Come on, Harcourt, let's get on with it!" I interrupted. "I'm a busy
man and you've wasted five hours of the time my taxes help to pay for,
just waiting to take more of my time."

He pulled a black leather notebook out of his pocket and consulted it.

"The Bureau was asked to interrogate you, Mr. Tompkins, on behalf of
another government agency."

"Which? Internal Revenue? W.P.B.? The S.E.C?"

"No sir, it was none of those. I'm not at liberty to tell you which
one. I am simply instructed to ask you what you know about U.S.S.
Alaska and naval dispositions in the North Pacific."

I leaned back and laughed. "Now I get it," I said. "That's O.N.I, and
that triple-plated ass, Ranty Tolan, trying to win the war in the
barrooms of New York. It all goes back to a dream I had while I was
dozing at the Pond Club Monday afternoon. Something about the U.S.S.
Alaska being blown up off the Aleutians. Tolan was there when I woke up
and I passed a few remarks about my dream before I was fully awake, if
you know what I mean. That's all there is to it, Mr. Harcourt."

The Special Agent made a number of hen-tracks in his notebook.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Tompkins," he said. "No doubt you'll be able
to explain things if my chief wants to call you in. I don't think my
chief believes in dreams. Not that kind of dream. Not in war-time."

I laughed again. "I'm afraid I can't help that. So far as I am
concerned, the F.B.I. can believe in my dream or stick it in the files."

Harcourt coughed. "It's not easy working with O.N.I, or other
intelligence outfits," he said. "They never tell us anything. The
trouble with your dream seems to be that the general public isn't
supposed to know that the U.S.S. Alaska is in commission and that the
Navy department has had no word from her since last Saturday."

"Don't let that worry you," I said. "If she was anywhere near the
Kuriles, she'd keep radio silence, specially off Paramushiro."

"Oh!" Harcourt remarked. "O.N.I. didn't say anything about Paramushiro.
Thank you, Mr. Tompkins. We'll be in touch with you, off and on."

He rose, very politely, shook hands again, thanked me for the food,
nodded to Miss Briggs and made a definitely Grade A exit.

His steps died away down the corridor. Miss Briggs waited until he
was out of earshot then turned to me. "You God damned fool!" she said
fondly. "You had him bluffed until you talked about Paramushiro. Why
did you admit anything?"

I looked up at her broad, pleasant face.

"So you've made a monkey out of me. I alibied you up and down. Listen,
Winnie, the F.B.I. have been all over the joint since early yesterday.
We were warned not to whisper a word to you. There was an agent waiting
to grill me when I got home last night. I told him you'd been spending
the week-end with me."

"You told him--" I was startled.

"Sure! Why not? He wasn't interested in my morals. I told him about our
place up in the fifties and gave you a complete alibi from Friday close
of business until Monday noon. And now you have to make like a Nazi
with the ships in the Pacific. Say, what is it you've supposed to have
done--kissed MacArthur?"

"Damned if I know, Miss Briggs. That's part of the trouble."

"Lay off that 'Miss Briggs' stuff. That was to punish you for giving
me the fish-eye when you came in. I'm your Arthurjean and the market's
closed so you'd better catch the subway uptown with me and I'll cook
you a steak dinner at our place."

This was too deep water for hesitation, so I took the plunge. Taking
my hat and coat I told the genteel receptionist that I'd be back in
the morning. I waited for Arthurjean at the foot of the elevators and
followed her lead, into the East Side subway and up to the 51st Street
station, on to "our place."

It was very discreet--an old brown-stone front converted into small
apartments. There was no door-man and an automatic elevator prevented
any intrusive check on the comings and goings of the tenants. The
third-floor front had been made into a pleasant little two-room
suite--a "master's bedroom" (Why not 'mistress's?' I thought) with a
double-bed, dresser and chairs, and an array of ducks which revealed
the true Tompkins touch. There was a small sitting-dining room as
well, and a kitchenette with a satisfactory array of bottles in the
Frigidaire and a reasonable amount of groceries.

Arthurjean took off her hat and coat, fixed me a good stiff drink and
then disappeared into the bathroom. After a good deal of splashing and
gurgling, she reappeared clad in maroon satin pyjamas.

"There," she said, "now I feel better."

I smiled at her. "Here's to Arthurjean!" I said.

"Nuts to Arthurjean," she replied. "How about Winnie? You've always
been swell to me, and you know it. I don't care if you're a louse or
a souse. You can always come to me any time you're in trouble and
I'll fix you up. Now you're in trouble with the cops, so how about me
helping you? Huh?"

"You're a good kid," I said truthfully, for Arthurjean was indeed one
of God's own sweet tarts. "The truth is I'm in all kinds of a jam. You
see, I can't seem to remember what I've been doing before last Monday.
It's sort of like loss of memory, only worse. This F.B.I. thing is only
one of my headaches."

She looked at me questioningly. "So you don't remember where you were
before Monday?" she asked. She slouched across the room, leaned down
and gave me a hearty kiss. "Will that help you remember? It was like
I told that detective. You and me were right here in this place over
Easter and don't forget it."

I sighed. I liked Arthurjean, though she was as corned-beef and cabbage
to Germaine's caviar and champagne. "Okay," I said. "I won't forget it."

"Attaboy!" she agreed. "Now that we've got that settled, suppose you
tell me where the hell you really were over the week-end. You stood me
up Friday night and today's the first time I've set eyes on you since
you left the office Friday morning. Boy, you may have some explaining
to do to the F.B.I., but it's nothing to what you got to explain to
momma."




CHAPTER 8


"And so, Arthurjean," I concluded, "my guess is that for some crazy
reason it's up to me to take up where Winnie left off and try to do a
good job with the hand he's dealt himself."

She remained silent, hunched on the floor beside me, with her maroon
pyjamas straining visibly and a pile of cigarette butts in the
ash-tray at her side.

"Give me a break," I pleaded. "When I tried to tell my wife--Winnie's
wife--Mrs. Tompkins, that is--all she could think of was to send me off
to a plush-lined booby-hatch until I was sane again. The others--at
least Virginia Rutherford--are beginning to suspect that something is
wrong and that damned dog knows it. So be original and pretend that I
might be telling the truth."

She didn't answer. Instead, she stood up, stretched, strolled over to
the kitchenette and mixed us both two good stiff drinks.

"Mud in your eye!" she said.

"Glad to see you on board!"

"I don't see why not," she observed conversationally. "I don't pretend
to be smart and I know that the other girls in the office think I'm
nothing but a tramp because I don't pretend I don't like men, but I'm
damned if I think that Winnie, who is one of God's sweetest dumb-bells,
could have dreamed up anything as screwy as this."

"As I remember him, he wasn't any too bright," I said.

"Skip it! He wasn't dumb in business. He picked up a couple of million
bucks and gave them a good home in his safe-deposit box. He wasn't so
hot on music and books and art--except for his damned ducks--but he was
a lot of fun. He liked a good time and he liked a girl to have a good
time. He should have been born in one of those Latin countries where
the women do all the work and the men play guitars, drink and make
love."

I drew a deep breath. I had won my first convert. I knew what Paul
of Tarsus felt when he met up with Timothy. I thought of Mahomet and
Fatima, Karl Marx and Bakunin, Hitler and Hess. Crazy though the whole
world would consider me, here was one human being who could listen to
my story without phoning for an ambulance.

"Tell me about this Frank Jacklin," Arthurjean remarked. "I don't get
all the angles about him and this Dorothy. Seems to me you--Winnie,
that is--told me he was the guy she'd had a sort of crush on at school.
Winnie was still sort of sore about it twenty years later."

"It's hard for me to be fair," I admitted. "Jacklin was a big shot at
school and may have had a swelled head. Winnie wasn't so hot then--nice
but with too much money. Jacklin's people were poor, by comparison that
is. He got through Yale, slid out into the newspaper game, held his
job, married a girl, had a bust-up with his wife and joined the Navy as
a reserve officer after she walked out on him. The Navy assigned him to
P.R.O. work and sent him to the Pacific."

"He sounds like a heel," she observed, "leaving his wife like that.
Tell me more about her. Is she pretty?"

I thought a long time. "I don't quite know," I said finally. "I never
knew. She was necessary to me, long after I was necessary to her. She
had a mole on her left hip and a gruff way of talking when she was
really fond of me. I guess she got tired of living in Hartford and took
it out on me."

"Any kids?"

I shook my head vigorously. "Cost too much on a newspaper salary. She
said she didn't want any until we could afford them. I was fool enough
to believe her. Then when we could afford them she didn't want them.
Can't say I blame her."

"Did she make you happy?"

"Of course not! Who wants to be happy? She made me miserable, but
it was exciting to be around her. I never knew what I'd find when
I got home--a knockdown drag-out fight over nothing at all or
hearts-and-flowers equally over nothing."

Arthurjean yawned. "That part's convincing," she agreed. "I'll play
this one straight. You're Frank Jacklin _and_ Winnie Tompkins rolled
into one. The point is, where do we go from here? Let's see you sign
Jacklin's name."

I pulled out Winnie's gold, life-time fountain pen and wrote "Frank E.
Jacklin" over and over again on the back of an envelope. She studied it
carefully.

"That's no phony," she agreed, "and it's nothing like Winnie's
handwriting. Think I could get a check cashed on it?"

"Let's try," I suggested. "Tomorrow when I get to the office I'll
pre-date a check on the Riggs Bank at Washington. You mail it in for
collection and we'll see if it clears."

She shook her head. "No dice! If I tried that, first thing we know we'd
have the A.B.A. dicks after you for forgery. Can you think of anything
else?"

"Not unless you go to Washington and see Dorothy in O.S.S. and ask her
to verify my handwriting. Or, wait. You can go and talk to her and
notice whether she wriggles her nose to keep her spectacles up. You
can find out whether she's still nuts about Prokofiev. You can ask if
she still thinks that Ernest Hemingway is a worse writer than Charles
Dickens, and whether she still uses Chanel's Gardenia perfume."

"That's enough," she interrupted. "But how'm I going to get to
Washington and do all these things?"

"Next week," I said, "you and I can fly down on a business
trip--war-contracts, cut-backs, something official--and while I'm being
whip-sawed by the desk-heroes you can check on Dorothy. See if I'm not
right."

She nodded. "That's one way. What can we cook up? The office is tied up
in estate work and that leaves no chance for Uncle Sam. You get what he
leaves the heirs and they tell me that the inheritance tax is here to
stay."

I considered the problem. "Tell you what, Arthurjean," I replied. "I've
been thinking this over. The war's going to end this summer. What I saw
on the Alaska means that nobody can hold out against us. The Germans
are on their last legs, but most of the wise guys are saying that
it will take from eighteen months to two years to clean up Japan--a
million casualties, billions of dollars. This thorium bomb will do
the trick and the war will be over by Labor Day. There's a chance for
Winnie Tompkins to make another two or three millions."

She laughed sardonically. "How?"

"There's uranium stocks," I suggested.

"All sewed up by the insiders. Last year you--or Winnie--got a query on
uranium and found that there wasn't any to be had."

"There's wheat and sugar," I argued. "The world's going to be hungry.
There's a famine coming sure as hell. Buy futures and we'll be set."

"Sure," she agreed, "if you want to buy Black and can get funds into
Cuba or the Argentine. But there are inter-allied pools operating in
sugar and wheat and you can't break into the game without connections
at Washington."

"How about peace-babies?" I demanded. "We can sell our war bonds and
invest in something solid for post-war reconstruction. Say General
Motors or U.S. Steel."

Arthurjean crossed the room and rumpled my head affectionately. "Baby,"
she observed, "it's damn lucky for you and Winnie's dough I know my way
around the Street. Lay off heavy industrials until the labor business
gets straightened out. It's all set for a big strike-wave when the
shooting stops and a lot of investors are going to be burned. You can
sell short of course but you'll have to wait for that. If you must go
in for gambling, try the race-track or the slot-machines. Uncle Sam has
it fixed so that the only way you can make money out of the peace is
to be a Swiss or a Swede."

"But that doesn't make sense," I objected. "In any place and at any
time, advance knowledge on what is going to happen is worth a fortune.
How about selling some of the war industries short?"

She shook her head. "You wait till you've been to Washington. Some of
the smart guys down there may know the answers. Perhaps it will be
real-estate, if they can only get rid of rent-control. Probably it will
be surplus war-stocks but that's going to be a political racket. Anyhow
the tax-collector will be waiting for you, so why worry?"

"Speaking of cashing checks," I reminded her, "how in hell am I going
to get some dough? How does Winnie sign himself at the City Farmers
anyhow?"

She laughed. "He has three or four separate accounts. The one he uses
for purely personal hell-raising is just signed 'W. S. Tompkins.' Let's
see you try to write that. Remember he loops all his letters and draws
a little circle instead of a dot over the 'i'."

I tried that a few times until she shook her head.

"There isn't a bank-clerk in New York who wouldn't stop a check with
that on it. Let's see, he signed his name to something around here. See
if you can't copy it."

She fumbled under a pile of magazines and finally came up with a copy
of "The Story of Philosophy" by Will Durant.

"Winnie thought this would be good for me," she explained. "Here
it is: 'For Miss Arthurjean Briggs, with the compliments of W. S.
Tompkins.' He was like that--sort of formal--it gave him a kick. He
bought that for me second-hand after we'd been drinking Atlantic City
dry at an investment bankers convention. Try it."

I tried the signature again but the effort was even worse than my
free-hand efforts. This time it looked like what it was--a clumsy
forgery.

"Hell," I exclaimed, "I've simply got to do better than that. How about
my tracing it?"

"You'd be surprised," she told me, "how easy it is to spot a signature
that's been traced. It's something about the flow of the ink and the
angle of the pen. No two signatures are exactly alike and that's why a
tracing gives itself away. They got machines which spot it."

"Well, how'm I going to get some dough?" I demanded. "I can't draw on
Jacklin's Washington account--and the chances are there isn't much
there anyhow. And if I try to draw on Tompkins' account I'll find
myself in the hoosegow."

She got up and mixed us another pair of drinks. "I got it," she
announced. "It won't be too nice for you but it's better than starving."

"You mean you'll lend me some?"

"Hell, baby, I got no money--twenty-five or thirty in the account and a
few hundreds in war-bonds. No, this is better. Just hold out your hand
and shut your eyes."

It sounded like jewels. I leaned back in the chair, closed my eyes and
extended my right hand in front of me, palm upward. I heard her pad
into the bathroom. When she came back, her voice sounded strained as
she whispered: "This is it, baby. Keep those eyes shut!"

There was a smooth, tingling sensation across the tips of my fingers,
then my right hand was suddenly warm and wet. I opened my eyes to see
Arthurjean holding a stained safety-razor blade in her hand and staring
at me, white-faced, as the blood trickled from my finger-tips.

"Winnie--" she faltered, and slumped down in the divan.

I hastily grabbed the handkerchief from my breast-pocket and wrapped it
around my throbbing fingers.

"Ouch! Damn you!" I exclaimed.

"I'm sorry, baby," she whispered. "I didn't want to hurt you. It seemed
the only way--"

"You damned fool," I almost shouted at her. "Do you realize you flopped
with that blade in your hand and might have cut an artery?"

"No, did I?" She scrambled up hastily and looked around. "Gee, I feel
lousy. Does it hurt much?"

"Not yet. What's the big idea?"

"Now you sound like Winnie," she replied. "He never got ideas easy.
Listen, you big slob, if you've cut your fingers you got to have a
bandage and if you got a bandage on your right hand, your signature's
going to be screwy. All you need do is fumble it and I or one of the
girls will witness it and the bank will clear it and you'll get the
dough."

I thought that one over. "You've got something in your head besides
those big blue eyes," I admitted. "Now if you only have some iodine and
bandages we'll see if I can stave off lock-jaw."

She giggled. "Lock-jaw's the last thing _you'll_ get," she said. "There
ought to be something in the medicine cabinet. Gee," she added. "I
suppose I'll have to get you undressed and dress you in the morning
just like a baby. Ain't that something?"

"How about some food?" I demanded. "You said something about a steak
back at the office and all you've given me is Scotch and razor-blades.
You get on with your cooking and let me try to fix my hand."

I went into the bathroom, located some mercurochrome and a box of band
aids. Once the flow of blood had slacked, I managed to incapacitate
myself sufficiently for the purpose of forging Winnie Tompkins'
signature.

"Say, Winnie!" Arthurjean suddenly appeared at the bathroom door, with
an aroma of steak behind her. "I've just figured out something. If you
aren't Winnie but a ringer from the Aleutians, it's not decent for you
to see me in my pyjamas. We're strangers!"

"Oh, keep 'em on till after dinner," I said. "I won't stand on
ceremony. I'm hungry."

She laughed. "You sure can make like Winnie," she admired. "Jesus, the
steak's burning!"




CHAPTER 9


"Say, old man, what happened to your hand?" Graham Wasson, plump, dark
and fortyish, but very clean-cut and with a Dewey dab on his upper
lip, was my questioner. He sat across the glass-topped desk in my Wall
Street Office, while Arthurjean Briggs typed demurely in the adjoining
office.

"Changing razor-blades," I confessed. "The damn thing slipped and
before I knew it I made a grab for it. Lucky it didn't go deep. Hence
the surgical gauze and the lousy signature. Do you think you can get my
check cleared through the bank or should I write Winnie 'X' Tompkins,
his mark?"

Wasson chuckled like a well-fed broker. "We'll get enough witnesses to
your John Hancock to make it legal," he promised. "Now what you've got
to do is to ease old lady Fynch into the trustee's delight and take a
gander at her former investments. I've brought the list with me. As you
know, she insisted that you okay the deal."

I glanced at the typed list. "This stuff looks pretty good to me,
Graham," I said. "Detroit Edison's safe as the Washington Monument,
A.T.&T. is solid, and G.E. ought to do all right with this new
electronic stuff."

"And how!" My partner agreed. "Boy! what a windfall! Stuff like that is
scarcer than hen's teeth on the open market. With close to a million
bucks to turn over, we ought to do pretty well on this. Here's what
we're buying for her."

Wasson passed me a slip of paper. "The trustee's delight," he said.
"G-Bonds. You buy 'em, we should worry. No money back for ten years.
Morgenthau's dream-child."

The slip was attached to a printed Treasury form. "See here," I
pointed out. "These damn bonds depreciate 2.2% a year for the first
five years and then start climbing up the ladder again, and they're
non-transferable."

"That's it, Winnie. The trustee's delight," Wasson agreed. "They pay
2-1/2% a year if you hold them but if you try to sell them within
five years the discount means you only get about .03% on your money.
Once a trustee has put you aboard this roller-coaster, he can't
conscientiously advise you to get out."

"Who dreamed up that swindle?"

"Oh, a couple of dollar-a-year bankers we sent down to help the
Treasury win the war. It's a natural. It's patriotic to invest in
war-bonds. The yield's conservative as hell and you get it all back if
you wait long enough."

"But what if the old girl dies within the next five years? Won't the
estate be liquidated? How will the heirs feel when they have to take a
loss of $60,000?"

"That's their worry, Winnie," Wasson pointed out. "All we have to do is
sign the papers and la Fynch gets about $25,000 a year for the rest of
her life."

"Instead of the $40,000 a year she's getting out of her present
investments now."

"Sure, Winnie. We're not in business for our health. Industrials are
risky and Miss Fynch is awful set on beating Hitler. We take over her
present portfolio and take our chances on the market. If values shift
we're in a position to unload--but fast. She isn't. She only gets to
town twice a year, once between Bar Harbor and Long Island, and then
next time from Palm Beach to Long Island. Come on, Winnie, stick your
fist on these papers and I'll handle the transfers."

I shook my head. "I'd like to think this over," I said. "If I was an
old woman and expected only five or ten more years of life, I'd be
hanged if I'd tie myself down to these financial mustard-plasters. It
sounds okay to be patriotic, but I think I'd stick to the greater risks
and higher yields and get a run for my money. Tell you what, Graham,
you phone and tell her I'd like to have a talk with her before she
makes up her mind."

Wasson shoved back his chair and faced me, bristling. "I'll be damned
if I will. This is a natural and, handled right, is worth $100,000 to
the firm. You talked her into it and now if you're getting cold feet
you can talk her out of it. All I know is that you've gone nuts."

"We aren't so hard up that we have to swindle old ladies."

"Swindle my eye! What's wrong about $25,000 a year guaranteed by your
Uncle Sam?"

"Less income tax," I reminded him.

"Oh, sure--that--"

"Well, it's about $15,000 a year less than she's getting now. If she
sold out and invested in an annuity she could get about $70,000 a year,
tax-free. No, I don't want to rush her into this."

"Then you've forgotten how we made our pile in the first place," my
partner growled. "Phil Cone and I will have to talk this over. This is
a fine time to go soft on us."

I grinned at him. "Go on, talk it over. If you want out, you're
welcome. I'd rather like you to stick around, as I'm on to something
really big and I don't want the Street to say we fleeced our clients."

"I resent that, Winnie," Wasson snapped.

"What else would you call it? Reinvesting?"

"Listen," he exploded. "You built up this business. You invented the
methods. I'm damned if I let you call me a swindler for following your
lead!" And he stormed out, slamming the door. A moment later, he stuck
his head in again. "Forget it, Winnie. If you're working on a big
operation, count me in!"

I studied the list of the Fynch investments again and the more I saw
it the more I wondered how anybody but a fool would fall for the
proposition of putting money in the government bonds for ten years,
when you could clean up outside government.

There was a tap on the edge of my desk. I looked up to see Arthurjean.
"Mr. Harcourt is back to see you," she said. "I'll get set with the
stenotype. And don't worry about that Fynch dame. I'll give you a
fill-in later. She knows what she's doing."

"Fine!" I told her. "Now you show Mr. Harcourt in and make with the
stenotype. Did you finish copying what we said yesterday?"

Her mouth dropped open and her sweater quivered eloquently. "Omigawd!
baby! I clean forgot."

Mr. Harcourt seemed much more vital and self-possessed than on the
previous afternoon--perhaps because he had obviously had a sleep, a
shower and a hearty breakfast, presumably prefaced by ten minutes of
vigorous push-ups and toe-touching in bathroom calisthenics. At any
rate he looked fit.

"Morning, Harcourt," I said casually. "Sorry to tell you that Miss
Briggs was home with a bad headache last night and wasn't able to make
that copy of our talk yesterday."

G-Men on duty are not supposed to smile without written permission from
their immediate superior but Harcourt must have had an extra helping of
Wheaties for breakfast. "Call yourself a headache, Mr. Tompkins?" he
asked. "That's who our man reported Miss Briggs had last night at 157
East 51st Street, third floor front. Can I get her some aspirin?"

"There are no secrets from the Gestapo," I observed, "and I have no
comment to offer except to say next time come on up and have a drink
with us instead of doing the G-Man in a cold and drafty doorway across
the street."

The Special Agent gave an entirely unofficial wink at Arthurjean.
"Oh, hell," he remarked. "What's the use of all this coy stuff? The
Bureau isn't interested in your private life. What I wanted to say, Mr.
Tompkins, is that I reported our talk to my chief and he teletyped my
report down to Washington. We're not going to fool around with Church
Street on this one. The Director's going to take it up direct with
Admiral Ballister at the Navy Department. For my part, I told him I
thought it was all a pipe-dream but like I said the F.B.I. doesn't
believe in dreams that come true."

Arthurjean crossed the room and stood behind him, pressing a little
unregenerately against the back of his chair, until Harcourt remarked
conversationally to U. S. Grant in the engraving, "I'm a married man,
baby, with a wife and kids in Brooklyn."

My secretary smiled and gave him a smart tap on the top of his head.
"You're a good boy, junior," she told him, "and I'm all for you. But
don't you go making trouble for this dumb boss of mine or I'll call on
your wife, personal, and Tell All."

Harcourt murmured to the engraving that unconditional surrender was
_his_ name, too, but that Tompkins was making so much trouble for
himself that he was damned if he could see how the F.B.I. could make it
any worse. In any case, he added more directly, he would keep in touch
with me and let me know whether I was wanted up at the Federal Court
House.

"See here, Harcourt," I replied. "One good turn doesn't make a spring.
This is the screwiest case you've ever been on. If you can drop in and
visit Miss Briggs and myself on Saturday after lunch at our place, I'll
give you a fill-in that will rock the F.B.I. from its gats to its
toupees."

"That's mighty white of you--and Miss Briggs," the Special Agent
allowed. "If the chief lets me, I'll meet you up there, say about 2:30."

"Swell!" I said. "And which do you prefer--Scotch or rye?"

"I don't drink on duty," he told me, "but I find Bourbon helps fight
off colds this early spring weather."

After his departure, I locked myself in the office and with
Arthurjean's help, brought myself up to date on Winnie's business
operations. Tompkins, Wasson & Cone were not, as I had believed, a
high-toned bucket-shop. The proposed Fynch swindle was only the result
of a dopey old maid who practically insisted on helping beat the Axis
by turning her money into Government bonds. There was plenty of honest
graft and many a solid perquisite in straight commission work and
supervision of estates. The firm was not, of course, very scrupulous
but it always gave value for its transactions. It was, in fact, a
pretty slick set-up.

There was a buzz on my inter-office telephone and the receptionist
announced: "Mr. Axel Roscommon to see you, Mr. Tompkins."

"Oh, ask him to see one of the other partners, will you?"

"I told him that you were too busy, but he said he must see you and
would wait."

"He too?" I asked. "Okay. Send him in. Do you know an Axel Roscommon,
Arthurjean?"

"Uh-uh!" She shook her head. "The name's sorta familiar. Something in
oil before Pearl Harbor. I can find out if you'll wait a bit."

"Never mind," I told her. "I'll see him. You stay in the next room and
keep the door ajar so you can take a record."

She laughed. "I can do better than that, boss. I'll switch down the
inter-office phones and keep the door shut. That way. I'll hear every
word you say. It's like a dictaphone."

Mr. Roscommon was an extremely well set up man in the middle fifties,
about six-feet two, lean, with iron grey hair, a grey moustache,
steel-blue eyes and a bear-trap grip. He looked prosperous but not
worried by it. He spoke with a faint Irish lilt in his voice but his
manner was most direct and unHibernian.

"Mr. Tompkins," he remarked. "You must excuse the lack of formality
but you will understand when I tell you that I am chief of the German
intelligence organization in the United States. Now don't think I'm
crazy or indiscreet. The only reason I have come to you is because my
agents in the F.B.I. tell me that you are involved in the sinking of
U.S.S. Alaska off the Aleutians. Thorium bombs, wasn't it? Chalmis was
a pretty smart chap and I warned our people that he was getting hot.
Now I don't ask you why in Wotan's name the Fuehrer thinks it makes
sense to have two intelligence services in this country. Probably
Berlin didn't like my last reports. No, don't get excited. I've engaged
in no subversive activities, I'm an Irish Free State citizen and if you
go to Washington you'll find that they know all about me. Hitler may
want the old Goetterdaemmerung spirit in our outfit but I can't see the
point of too much zeal."

I offered him a cigarette. "What do you want to see me about, Mr.
Roscommon?" I asked. "For all you know there may be dictaphones planted
all over the place. My last visitor today was actually a special agent
of the F.B.I."

Roscommon lighted his cigarette with a flick of a gold Dunhill lighter.
"That would be Harcourt--A. J. Harcourt--wouldn't it? A fine chap and
a conscientious agent. I'd heard he'd been assigned to your case.
You'll find him completely reliable. As you know, in time of war there
has to be _some_ practical way of maintaining direct confidential
communication between the enemies. Switzerland? Bah! All milk
chocolate, profiteering and eyewash. I wouldn't trust a Swiss as far as
I could throw the Sub-Treasury Building. I'm acting here for Berlin and
you have at least three men in Berlin to keep in touch with the German
Government over there. That's the only practical way modern wars can be
fought, eh? As Edith Cavell said last time, 'Patriotism is not enough.'
The fact is that even in war, two great countries like Germany and
America must and do maintain direct contact."

I pushed the button for Arthurjean. "Miss Briggs," I asked, "have we
any brandy in the office?"

Dead-pan and nonchalant, she crossed the room to a small safe,
disguised as a Victorian low-boy, twiddled the dials and revealed a
neat little Frigidaire. She prepared two brandies and soda, handed
them to us and returned to her office.

"Prosit!" said I.

"Heil Roosevelt!" Roscommon answered.

"But what did you want to see me about?" I inquired. "_You_ may be all
right but _I'm_ already under investigation by the F.B.I."

"Nonsense, old boy, nonsense," he reassured me. "If they, get
troublesome, let me know--I'm in the phone book and my girl will always
know where to reach me, day or night--and I'll tell Washington to stop
proceedings. No, Tompkins, what I wanted to tell you was that--when
you report back to your superior and I'll lay ten-to-one he's that
ass Ribbentrop--just tell him that the war's lost. Our game now is
to salvage resources for the next war, which will be against Russia,
unless I miss my guess. We've got to use these last few weeks and
days to rush funds, patents, papers, brains and organization out of
the Reich. Send them to Sweden, to Switzerland, to Italy. Fly them to
Spain, slip them in U-boats to Buenos Aires or Dublin. Tell Ribbentrop
that New York understands our problem and will play the game right
across the board, but there must be no shilly-shallying, no nonsense
about 'last stands.' If Hitler wants a Siegfried finish, let him have
it, but from now on our job is to save Germany as an asset for her
Western Allies and as a people whom the world will need to fight the
Soviets. Tell him that, will you, old man? Thanks most awfully."

Roscommon finished his drink with an expert swirl of the glass, smiled,
shook hands and left the room as abruptly as he had arrived in it. I
picked up the outside phone.

"Get me F.B.I. Headquarters," I said. "I wish to speak to Mr. A. J.
Harcourt. Thanks, I'll wait."




CHAPTER 10


"Well, there it is, Harcourt," I ended my recitation. "Miss Briggs
believes me, my wife doesn't, and I don't expect you to. But if you're
interested, I can prove I'm Frank Jacklin any number of ways."

The G-Man finished his drink and stared absent-mindedly at the ceiling,
while Arthurjean poured him a new shot of Bourbon and water--his fifth.

"Mr. Tompkins," he said at last. "I'm drinking your liquor in your
house--or Miss Briggs' apartment, whichever it is--and it's not for me
to call you a liar."

"Don't you dare!" Arthurjean warned him. "Not while I'm around, G-Man
or no G-Man. Say, what do the initials A. J. stand for in your name?
Abba Jabba?"

"What do you think? Andrew Jackson, of course. No, Mr. Tompkins, I
won't call you a liar because, to tell the truth, I'm not sure that you
are. Lots of funny things have happened in this war. This might have
happened. But I can't do anything about it."

"Can't you at least check on the Jacklin angle?" I asked.

Harcourt shook his head. "Before I could do any checking, I'd have to
report my reasons to the chief. If I was asked for a reason, I'd have
to explain that I had grounds for thinking that Commander Jacklin's
soul--and the F.B.I. has never established a policy on souls--had been
blown from the Aleutians clear into Westchester County and is now
running round in the body of Winfred S. Tompkins, stock broker. That
report from me would go from my chief right up to J. Edgar Hoover, the
Attorney-General, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Cabinet and President
Roosevelt. Now, wouldn't that look nice on my record? Wouldn't that
just put me right in line for promotion? Be reasonable, you two. I'm
not saying I don't believe this yarn, but it would be worth my job to
act like I believed it--and I got a wife and three kids in Brooklyn, no
fooling."

Arthurjean remained silent for a few minutes, "Andrew Jackson
Harcourt--" she began.

"You haven't said anything about this sinister guy Roscommon," I
interrupted. "You could do something about him without worrying about
me and my story."

"Roscommon?" Harcourt shrugged his shoulders. "Going after him would
remind me of the time we hit the Governor of North Carolina with a
Great Smoky barbecued bear. Roscommon is all he says he is and orders
are out not to touch him. How do you think we ought to fight this war,
anyhow? Blind-fold?"

"What about that Great Smoky bear?" Arthurjean demanded irrelevantly.
"You-all from the South, honey-chile?"

"The Old North State, sugar! And you?"

"Tennessee, thank God! And the name's Arthurjean, Andy, and for the
millionth time I'll explain that my dad's name was Arthur and my
mother's name was Jean, so they ran 'em together, like Johns-Manville
or Pierce-Arrow, but it's all one word. No hyphen. So, there!"

I urged them to get over their rebel yell and come back to the subject
of the bear.

"Well, Mr. Tompkins," Harcourt explained. "It's this way. Up in the
Smokies we have a special way of cooking bear. All you need is a bear,
a bee-tree, a two-handed saw and a stick of dynamite. First, you kill
your bear. That's mighty important. You skin him and you gut him and
truss him up like a chicken. Then you ram him up as far as you can deep
inside a bee-tree, just below the honey, and wedge him in so he won't
slip. Then you start a slow fire underneath him inside the tree. The
fire sort of slow-cooks the bear, like a Dutch oven, drives off the
bees and melts the honey-comb. The honey just naturally drips down on
the bear meat while she's cooking. Just about the time the tree's ready
to fall--course, I should have explained you saw off the trunk just
above the honey so the bees can get away from the smoke and the old
tree will draw like a chimney--you set a fuse to a stick of dynamite,
toss it in the fire and run like hell. Well, sir, the dynamite goes
off and just naturally shoots the old roast bear out the tree like a
projectile. Then you pick it up, lug it back to the picnic grounds,
and I tell you, Mr. Tompkins, it's mighty sweet eating. Now this time
we nigh hit the Governor of North Carolina, he was making a political
speech over at the old fair grounds, and--"

"I think I get the picture, Harcourt," I said, cutting in on him
rapidly. "We did pretty much the same thing with baby seals and popcorn
in the Aleutians. When we were after Jap subs, the depth-charges killed
no end of baby seals--concussion, I guess. So we'd pick 'em up in a
life-boat, clean them, stuff them with unpopped popcorn, and stick
them in the fourteen-inch guns. Then we'd touch off a reduced charge
behind 'em. Seals are naturally oily so they went out the muzzle like
a regular shell. The intense heat of the explosion not only cooked the
seal but popped the popcorn. That puffed out, set up air resistance and
reduced trajectory. Then we'd send a helicopter out to pick 'em up and
have 'em in mess. Cold with chili sauce, they were delicious. One time
when we were bombarding Attu, the crew of No. 3 turret forgot we had a
seal in the center gun and fired it at a Jap redoubt. It hit--"

"I can see," Arthurjean remarked, "that I've been missing a lot of fun
here in New York, though I'll never forget the time we pretended we
found a dead mouse in a mince pie at the Waldorf--Now, who in hell can
_that_ be?"

The door-bell rang insistently.

Harcourt looked a little uneasy. "I thought it might save a lot of time
and trouble," he said, "if I asked Mrs. Tompkins to meet us here. I
told her that Miss Briggs was a friend of mine--sugar, you'd better
go in the other room and put on red night-things--so you don't need
something more _de trop_ than those to worry, Mr. Tompkins."

"That's just dandy, Harcourt," I agreed. "Did you ever see a wife who
couldn't spot a sex-situation at a hundred yards up-wind on a dark and
rainy night?"

"Can't say I did," the Special Agent admitted, "but I've never had but
one wife and she's busy with the kids."

There was a knock on the door and Harcourt opened it with a courtly
manner.

"Come right in, Mrs. Tompkins," he said. "My friend, Miss Briggs, is in
the other room and will be out in a moment. Mr. Tompkins and I--"

"This," said Germaine, "is Mrs. Rutherford. After Winnie didn't turn
up for a couple of nights, we put our heads together and decided that
two could worry as cheaply as one. So when I got your message, I just
phoned Virginia and here we are. Hullo, Winnie, is this another of your
homes away from home?"

Virginia Rutherford looked pretty much the way a roasting bear in a
bee-tree might be expected to feel while waiting for the dynamite to
explode: very sweet, red-hot and not giving a damn whether she hit the
Governor of the Old North State.

"Hullo, Winnie," she remarked dangerously. "This another of your
tousled blondes?"

"I resent that," Arthurjean said from the doorway. "This is _my_
flat and I didn't invite you and I'll have you know that I'm a very
respectable--well, rather respectable--working girl."

The effect of virtue was only slightly marred by the fact that, as she
spoke, a pair of silk panties slowly but inexorably slid below the hem
of her skirt and settled in a shimmer at her feet. Arthurjean looked
down.

"Oh, hell, girls," she said, "What's the use? Have a drink!"

"Thank you, Miss Briggs," Germaine replied. "I will. Make mine straight
Scotch and the same for Mrs. Rutherford. Are you, by any chance,
employed in my husband's office?"

"I'm his secretary," Arthurjean admitted.

"Winnie," Jimmie turned on me with a snap like those doors in Penn
Station which open by an electric eye, "and you swore that you had
nothing to do with the office-girls. I was fool enough to believe you."

"At the time, dear," I explained guiltily, "I didn't know it myself."

Harcourt came lumbering to my rescue. "Before you leap to any
conclusions, Mrs. Tompkins," he urged, "I think I ought to explain that
I represent the F.B.I. and that Mr. Tompkins came here today at my
request. Your husband happens to be in very serious trouble under the
Espionage Act. I personally am convinced that there's been a mistake
and that he's innocent, but my opinion is of no value unless I can
find evidence to support it."

"What's he done?" Virginia Rutherford asked eagerly. "Will he go to
jail?"

"Unfortunately, Mrs. Rutherford," Harcourt replied, "I'm not allowed
to discuss the nature of the charges against him. No formal indictment
has been lodged and if you can help me, none will be made. The
important thing is to know where he was and what he was doing from the
twenty-fifth of March until the second of April."

"Why the twenty-fifth of March?" my wife demanded. "He was with me at
Bedford Hills most of that time. I, and the maid at the house, Myrtle,
can testify to that. I don't think he went to the office much that
week. It was Holy Week. He and I went to church."

"Mrs. Tompkins," he said, "you are a true and noble lady. It's just too
bad that one of our agents has already interviewed the Hubble girl, who
testified that Mr. Tompkins didn't come home once all that week."

Germaine sank back in her chair and looked at me with an air of
misplaced consecration. "Winnie," she urged, "go ahead and tell him
where you were. I'm your wife and I don't care what silliness you were
up to or what woman you were with, just so they don't send you to
prison."

I smiled at her. "Jimmie," I replied, "I give you my word, I simply
don't remember. I don't know where I was. As I told you the other day,
I've drawn a blank as to what happened before last Monday afternoon."

Mrs. Rutherford took advantage of the moment of incredulous silence
which followed this announcement.

"Don't try to be chivalrous, Winnie," she urged me. "We hadn't planned
to advertise it, Jimmie, but Winnie spent that week with me. He rented
a flat for me uptown, Mr. Harcourt, about six weeks ago, and we put in
a whole week together. I daresay you think I'm a loose woman but--"

Harcourt looked quite painfully embarrassed. "I surely do not want to
contradict a lady," he told her, "but the Bureau checked up on that
apartment yesterday. The janitor and the cleaning woman both stated
that, except for last Monday afternoon and evening when you were there
by yourself, neither you nor Mr. Tompkins had been near the place for
at least two weeks. The bed linen and the bath towels hadn't been used
and the food in the ice-box was stale. There had been no garbage."

"Oh!" flared Virginia, "of all the low-down snoopers!"

"The country's at war, Mrs. Rutherford," the Special Agent replied.
"And while I'm at it I might as well save Miss Briggs the trouble of
telling me that Mr. Tompkins spent that week here with her. He did not.
We've checked this apartment house most thoroughly, as well as Mr.
Tompkins' office."

"Why that particular week?" I asked.

Harcourt turned to me apologetically. "In view of your earlier
statements to me," he declared, "I'm sure you will understand this
explanation. A certain ship did not sail from a certain port until the
26th of March. A certain article was not delivered on board that ship
until after she had sailed. Before then, the individual who brought
the article to the ship had no knowledge which ship had been selected.
Before then, nobody on that ship had any knowledge that any article
would be brought on board and had no knowledge of the nature of its
voyage. Whatever arrangements were made must have been made during the
following few days. That, at any rate, is the working theory the Bureau
has adopted. Have you no idea of where you might have been in that
period, Mr. Tompkins?"

I placed my head in my hands and thought back to that misty morning
ten days before, when the Alaska pulled out of Bremerton Navy Yard and
headed north through Puget Sound for Victoria and the Strait of Juan
de Fuca. I remembered how, as we returned recognition signals to the
Canadian base at Esquimault, a destroyer had put out, come alongside
and put a civilian passenger aboard us. I remembered the fuss he raised
on the bridge while we made a lee for the destroyer and hoisted a large
packing-case on board, and how it was hurried below decks with a Marine
guard. Then I thought of the run out west, past Dutch Harbor and Adak,
our light carrier slipping through the drifting fogs of the Aleutians,
while the slow Pacific swell pounded against our port beam and the
turbines whined and ship shook and the icy wind whipped across the
flight-deck. And I remembered that last night in the mess when Windy
Smith--of Texas, naturally--boasted that he--

"No, Mr. Harcourt," I told him, "I'm afraid that the things I remember
wouldn't help either of us. You go ahead and see what you can find out
about me, and so will I."

"Winnie," Germaine said reproachfully. "Tell him where you were, dear.
It's no use pretending that you don't remember. I know that you can
explain. I know there's nothing _really_ wrong."

Arthurjean walked across and put her hand on Jimmie's arm. "You'd
better have another drink, Mrs. Tompkins," she remarked, "and so had I.
This sort of thing is tough to take."

Virginia looked up brightly at Harcourt. "If Winnie won't help himself,
I will," she said. "I'll find out what the big dope was doing and when
I do--look out!"

"Come on, Jimmie," I told my wife. "Let's go home. I've had about as
much of this as I can stand. Harcourt, you know where you can reach me,
if you get the word from Washington. In the meantime, why don't you
follow up that Roscommon angle? That's the best lead I've struck."

Harcourt finished his Bourbon. "Mr. Tompkins," he observed, "you're
quite right but there isn't a single thing I can do about it. We've had
top-level orders to lay off that guy and with the Bureau, orders is
orders."




CHAPTER 11


When I entered my office on Monday morning, the genteel receptionist
informed me with some austerity that Mr. Roscommon was waiting for me.

"Okay, send him in," I directed, bracing myself for what would probably
be a stormy interview. If Roscommon was as well-informed as he claimed
to be, he must know that I had already reported him to the F.B.I.

"Smart work, Tompkins!" he beamed, giving my hand a vise-like squeeze.
"Working as I do with the highest echelons, I'm afraid I sometimes
forget the value of naiveté. You couldn't have invented anything better
calculated to slow down the Bureau than to report me as a Nazi agent.
Even the Director was impressed, though he'll see through your ruse
after a couple of days."

"Is that what you wanted to tell me?" I inquired, "because your visit
will certainly arouse new suspicions. I assume I'm still under F.B.I.
observation."

Axel Roscommon smiled. "Nothing to worry about, old boy, I assure
you. Naturally you'll have to go to Washington sooner or later and
explain things there. I suggest that you go next week, when the whole
Administration will be in a state of maximum confusion."

I asked him whether that would be any change.

"Absolutely, old boy. The war's been managed quite impressively well up
to now. After this week, with Roosevelt out of the way, things will
begin to fall apart and there will be plenty of pickings but the war is
already won, so that won't hurt."

Roosevelt, I observed, was down in Georgia, according to the papers,
but that didn't mean he couldn't keep in touch with things in
Washington.

Roscommon stood close against my desk and leaned forward on his hands,
facing me. "Listen carefully, old boy," he said, "and keep this to
yourself. Roosevelt will be dead before the week's out--on Friday the
thirteenth if there's any symmetry to be expected in this crazy world.
It's the same stuff they gave Woodrow Wilson over at Paris in the
spring of 1919. You may remember that chap Yardley wrote a book, 'The
American Black Chamber,' and told how the American Intelligence got
word of a plot to poison Wilson by one of America's allies. Not long
after, Wilson had a slight illness and a few months later had a stroke,
as they called it. You see your American Constitution--marvelous
document, that!--makes absolutely no bloody provision for the illness
of a President, and Wilson's paralysis paralyzed your government
for nearly two years, while America's allies cleaned up on the
peace-arrangements.

"Roosevelt is tougher than Wilson was. They slipped him the first dose
at Teheran early last year. When he came back that spring he had a
slight illness--they called it influenza--and he was never quite the
same. Except for a few trusted social associates, close friends and
members of the family, he was kept in strict seclusion. Then, with
his amazing vitality, he began to throw off the stuff and staged a
magnificent political campaign last fall. So they had to try again at
Yalta early this year. The second time they gave him too much. He had
one bad attack on the cruiser coming back from the Mediterranean. When
he addressed Congress, he had the same gaunt look and thick speech
that Wilson had towards the end. The final stroke is due this week and
has been held off only because he's taking things easy. No, old chap,
Roosevelt's doomed and all I can tell you is that the Germans had no
part in it. Only five men in America know about this, and F.D.R. is one
of them."

"You're talking utter piffle," I replied. "I can see how Hitler or Tojo
might want to get rid of Roosevelt but who else? Why don't you warn the
authorities. Or I could."

Roscommon smiled rather sadly. "What good would it do? There's no
antidote after the first twenty-four hours. If Roosevelt hasn't warned
them, why should you? All that would happen would be to put yourself
under the blackest kind of suspicion. Just fancy the reaction of the
American Intelligence. You march in and say, 'See here, the President's
been poisoned and will die before the end of the week.' They promptly
call for an ambulance and an alienist and send you to St. Elizabeth's
for observation. Then the President does die. 'By the Lord Harry!' they
think, 'this chap we locked up said Roosevelt would die and now he has
died. He probably had a hand in it himself. Let's fix him just to be
safe!'"

I nodded. "Yes, I can see that," I agreed. "Look at what happened when
Lincoln was assassinated. But if I'm not to pass word on to anybody,
what's the point of telling me about it--assuming it to be true, which
I doubt?"

"Naturally you doubt me, my boy, naturally. All you need do is to wait
until Friday the thirteenth and if I'm right you'll know it and if I'm
wrong you'll know it. But I assure you that I am not wrong. The war is
over and Roosevelt is the only obstacle to certain long-range practical
arrangements for organizing the peace. The Old World, mind you, doesn't
like outsiders like Wilson and Roosevelt telling them what to do with
victory. From now on, America is going to be immobilized. It's all
rather simple, really, but I haven't time to explain how simple it is
because the explanation is bloody complicated."

"You still haven't told me why you have passed on this fantastic story
to me," I pointed out.

"Oh, that? It's just this, my boy. Sell the war short! Sell it
short! You must use all the funds that Ribbentrop gave you to get
a real nest-egg. With Germany defeated, our intelligence will need
funds--decentralized funds--and this is your chance to do an important
job. I don't care what the Foreign Minister told you to do with the
money. Forget him--he's a dead duck, anyway. Just take the cash and
sell the war short. Make a killing and then we'll be able to finance
future operations."

After Roscommon had made another of his abrupt departures, I buzzed for
Arthurjean and told her to ask my partners to come in.

Wasson was the same as he had been before--plump, dark-haired and
energetic. Philip Cone was taller, fair-haired, blue-eyed, with a quiet
manner and a sleepy expression.

"Morning, Graham. Morning, Phil," I greeted them. "The other day,
Graham, you got peeved because I wanted to go slow on the Fynch
portfolio. I only had a hunch then but I knew we'd better not rush into
one of our regular reinvestment run-arounds. Now I've made a check and
I see the new line. Boys, from now on, we've got to sell the war short."

"What do you mean 'sell the war short?'" Wasson demanded. "The Japs are
good for another year and those Nazis are fighting pretty damn well,
too. You don't mean to go America First, separate peace or any of that
rot, do you?"

"You know me better than that," I reproved him. "No. My tip is that the
Germans will surrender within a month and the Japs before Labor Day.
What do we do to clean up?"

"Je-sus!" Cone drawled appreciatively. "The bottom will drop out of the
market!"

"No, Phil it won't," Wasson objected. "They won't let it. That would be
an admission that Wall Street is cashing in on the war."

"Well, aren't we cashing in?" asked Cone, "I haven't heard a single
broker or banker committing suicide since Pearl Harbor."

"Nuts to that talk!" Wasson replied. "No, Winnie, my point is that Wall
Street can't afford a peace-scare selling wave, and if stocks start to
drop the big boys will move in and support the market."

"How about commodities, Graham?" I asked. "You know that end of the
business. The whole world will be hungry and naked. Can't we move in
there without risk?"

Wesson laughed bitterly. "There will be only about eighteen governments
and government boards riding herd on you every time you move in with
real money in that racket. Anyhow, they tell me that this guy Roosevelt
has ordered the F.B.I. to move in on the Black Market."

"Well, boys," I observed, "the way you put it we can't do a damn thing
to make money out of the same kind of tip-off that set the House of
Rothschild up for a hundred years after the Battle of Waterloo. That
doesn't make sense."

Phil Cone smiled sheepishly. "Oh, I wouldn't say that, Winnie. We can
cash in but we'll have to step out of our field. We could shift a
million dollars to Canada. You can get a Canadian dollar for ninety
cents American. A year from now it will be back to par. That's better
than ten percent on your money in less than a year."

"What about South America?" I asked.

"Lay off the Latins, Winnie," Wasson advised me. "Brazil's the only
country in South America that's good for the long pull and just now is
no time to monkey with Brazil. They've got some politics just now."

I considered things a bit. "Let's see if we can figure out a way to
make a quick killing," I said. "Suppose, for example, something drastic
happened--like Roosevelt dying on one of his plane-trips--to mark the
end of some of these controls. What would happen to the market?"

Wasson chuckled. "If that guy popped off, there'd be dancing in Wall
Street and you'd have to shut down the Exchange because the ticker
couldn't keep up with the buying orders. Prices would go higher than
the Empire State Building. Hell! They'd hit the stratosphere."

"Is that your opinion, Phil?" I asked.

Cone shook his head. "Only a few suckers would feel like that, Winnie,"
he told me. "The big-time operators would be shivering in their boots.
As long as F.D.R. is in the White House there's no limit to what they
can make out of the war. If Roosevelt died now, you'd see the bottom
drop out of the market and the damndest wave of labor strikes we've had
since 1890."

"Damn it, Phil," I objected. "I wish you and Graham would get together
on this one. I can't quite follow all your ideas. Business conditions
and war-orders would continue, wouldn't they?"

Cone shook his head again. "No," he insisted. "The business community's
got confidence in Roosevelt. Sure he's a tough baby, sure he's got a
lot of dumb Harvard men sore at him, sure he's got the labor leaders
_and_ the G.I.'s rooting for him. But he's done a good job with the
war, he's let people make money and some of his best friends are
multi-millionaires, like Astor and Harriman. If he was to die, we'd
have this Missouri guy--whatsisname? Truman?--and what can he offer?"

"Got any comment on that, Graham?" I asked.

"The way Phil puts it, it sounds reasonable," Wasson admitted, "but
I still say that the first reaction to anything like that would be a
buying wave which would send the market way up."

I considered for a couple of minutes. "I can't say I agree with you,"
I said at last. "The big boys wouldn't let that happen any more than
they'd let a peace-scare knock the bottom out of the market. What would
labor and the G. I.'s think and do if they read that the Stock Market
quotations went over the top at a thing like that."

"Well, Winnie," Cone observed. "It isn't likely to happen."

"That's so," I agreed. "However, I think it would be a good idea to
work out a representative list of industrials and go short on the
market generally for the next thirty days. We can unload the Fynch
portfolio as a starter. We ought to be able to pick up two or three
hundred thousand if we work it right."

Cone nodded. "Graham and I will go to work on it now, and we'll have
the list ready before start of business tomorrow morning. That will be
the tenth, won't it?"

Wasson looked uneasy. "I don't like it so much, Winnie," he said, "but
I've never seen you lose money on a hunch yet so I'll string along.
Come on, Phil, this is a hell of a big war we're trying to sell short.
Let's hope we don't fall flat on our face."




CHAPTER 12


The phone rang. "Mr. Tompkins?" A girl's voice inquired. "Just a
moment, Mr. Willamer of the Securities and Exchange Commission will
speak to you."

I didn't like that "will." "And who the hell, Arthurjean, is Mr.
Willamer of the S.E.C.?" I asked in an aside.

"The woiks," she said.

"Hullo, Tompkins," a clear phonogenic baritone inquired. "This is Harry
Willamer. I saw your list of selling-orders this morning and wondered
if you would drop in and see me."

"Certainly," I said. "Shall I bring my books?"

"Not necessary. This is entirely informal. As a matter of fact, I have
some gentlemen from Washington whom I think you will be interested in
meeting. This is entirely unofficial, of course."

"How about meeting me at the Pond Club at one o'clock?"

"That will be grand," Mr. Willamer answered heartily. "The Pond Club at
one o'clock it is."

I turned to Arthurjean. "What kind of go-round is this? I start selling
and inside an hour the S.E.C. is on my tail. Isn't speculation legal
any more?"

"Baby," she remarked, "anything's legal as long as you're in with the
right guys. All I can tell you is that Willamer is hot stuff. His aunt
is a cousin of Jesse Jones or maybe it's Henry Morgenthau. So you watch
yourself and don't do any talking out of turn."

It was Tuesday, the 10th, and I had launched my plan of selling the war
short in a determined campaign to unload G.M. and U.S. Steel. I was
well covered in case of a rise, but there was already a million dollars
of the firm's money in the operation, behind the Fynch million which I
had used to break the ice.

The Pond Club was the same as ever. Tammy was polishing the glasses in
his little bar and there were no fellow-members in evidence. After all,
I decided, they weren't likely to show up much before three o'clock.
However, I decided that privacy was called for, especially if Commander
Tolan put in an appearance.

"Tammy," I explained, as he produced his usual pick-me-up and waited
for me to down it. "I'm expecting some gentlemen to join me in a few
minutes. Is there a room where we could have a private conversation and
still get something to drink?"

"Well, sir, Mr. Tompkins," the steward said, "I think I could let you
use the Minnow Room. That's private and there's a dumbwaiter to the
bar. Just push the buzzer and say what you want in the phone and I'll
send it right up to you."

"It sounds like perfection," I told him. "I'll go on up to the Minnow
Room. The gentleman I'm expecting is named Willamer and he'll have
some friends with him. Just send them up when they arrive. How do you
get there?"

Tammy looked a trifle startled. "That's where you had your bachelor
dinner, sir," he reproved me. "Up the stairs and first door to your
left, sir. You'll remember it when you see it, I'm quite sure."

Tammy was right. No one who had ever seen the Pond Club's Minnow Room
was likely to forget it. The wall on one side was lined solid with
illuminated tanks containing gold-fish making fishy little zeros with
their stupid mouths. The other walls were enlivened by frescoes of
drunken fish in various hilarious attitudes. Indirect lighting gave a
sort of Black Mass or Diabolical Fish-Fry effect to the whole. It was
definitely not a room to stay sober in.

"Tompkins?" The door opened and an egg-smooth young man with a baldish
head and pale eyebrows stood in the entrance. "I'm Harry Willamer. Meet
the rest of the gang. Here's Winston Sales of the War Production Board,
Lieutenant-Colonel George Finogan of the Army Quartermaster Corps and
Commander Raymond Coonley of the Navy Bureau of Supplies."

Except for the uniforms, they might have been cousins--they were all
fattish, baldish and blondish. They were all egg-like men, middle-aged,
all hearty in manner and all seemed to have no particular reason for
existing.

"Well, gentlemen," I asked, "what will you have to drink?"

"Scotch-and-soda," said Willamer. "Hell, let's make it Scotch for
everyone and save trouble."

"I'd like a whiskey sour," objected Commander Coonley. "I've got
butterflies in my stomach after working with those hot-shots from
Detroit last night."

"Okay," Willamer accepted the amendment. "One whiskey sour. Any other
changes?"

There were none, so I signaled to Tammy and our order was filled.

"Tompkins," Willamer remarked. "You'll excuse this short notice but
when I spotted your selling-orders in the market this morning I knew we
had to move fast. First of all, I'd like to know why you are selling,
when everybody else is buying."

"Mr. Willamer," I explained, "it's none of the S.E.C.'s goddamned
business what or why I sell so long as I follow the regulations."

Willamer laughed. "Who said anything about the S.E.C.?" he demanded.
"Oh, I get it. You thought this was an informal investigation by the
Commission. Right? My fault. Should have told you that this has nothing
to do with your firm's market-position or the S.E.C."

I took a reflective swallow of Scotch. "Then what the hell _is_ this?"
I asked.

Harry Willamer drew himself up, "We," he explained, "are the Inter-Alia
Trading Corporation. Your selling orders suggest that you don't expect
the war to last much longer."

"I don't," I told him.

"Neither do we," Willamer continued. "That's why we've been busy
organizing Inter-Alia. It's a neat set-up. Sales here, on the War
Production Board, is in a position to advise us of all cut-backs in
war-contracts and keep in touch with the whole contract-termination
program. Colonel Finogan is in the Quartermaster Corps and is the only
man in the Army--"

"In the world, Harry," Finogan corrected him.

"Right you are, George, in the world--who knows where all the surplus
war-stocks are located. His office routes them to the depots. That
in itself is worth a million dollars to the company. Anything from
jeeps to nylons, Colonel Finogan knows where they are and what price
will buy them. Commander Coonley is in the same position on Navy
Supplies. Between him and Finogan there isn't an ounce of anything from
parachute-silk to bull-dozers which we can't locate. As for me, I watch
the way money and markets move here in Wall Street."

I finished my drink. "That sounds wonderful, Mr. Willamer, but what
has it got to do with me? You have the makings of a ten million dollar
corporation between the four of you."

Willamer raised a soft, white, well-manicured hand in a
traffic-stopping gesture. "All but one thing, Tompkins," he said.
"We haven't got working capital to exploit this set-up. That's where
you come in. Tompkins, Wasson & Cone controls between three and
five million dollars and are smart operators. So long as you stuck
to conservative methods, no dice for Inter-Alia, but when I saw you
gambling on the early end of the war, I said to myself, this is where
we can do business with Tompkins."

"How much do you need?" I asked.

"Three hundred thousand would be enough to start with," Willamer
reckoned.

"Half a million," Finogan amended.

"Say you need half a million to start with and I put it up, what do I
get out of it?" I demanded.

Willamer looked a little secretive. "Well, Tompkins," he admitted.
"You'll get good security for your money, of course, and a share in
what we make. Say a fifth, since there are four of us in it already."

"That sounds reasonable," I agreed, "assuming you have a sure thing.
What's your first operation, once you get the money in Inter-Alia to
finance it?"

Willamer looked still more secretive. "That is a firm secret,
Tompkins," he told me. "If you decide to come in with us, I'll let you
in on our plans, but this thing is too big to talk about until we see
the color of your money."

I stood up. "Well, then, gentlemen," I announced, "will you have one
more round of drinks and then kindly get the hell out of here? I'm
delighted to have met you personally but I don't see the point of
wasting our time unless I know what I am putting my money into."

"Tell him, Harry," Sales urged. "We can trust Tompkins not to take
advantage of our plans. The way we're set up we could block him easy
if he tried to double-cross us."

"That's right," I said. "It's your plan and you have the inside track."

"Well, then," Willamer explained, "here's our first operation. The
Army and Navy have huge stocks of atabrine and quinine--left over from
Africa and the South-west Pacific. As soon as the fighting stops,
Colonel Finogan and Commander Coonley will declare these stocks surplus
to be sold at spot-sales where they are. We will be the only bidders
and we get a world-corner on malaria. The whole world needs that stuff
and if we move fast, during the confusion after victory, we can sew it
up and make the world pay our price. We ought to double our money in
three months."

"Double!" snorted Sales. "We ought to quintuple it like Papa Dionne.
South America is just lousy with dollars and here's a way to get 'em
back home. Malaria's a big item down there. No quinine, no oil."

"Well, gentlemen," I told the Inter-Alia boys, "I'll have to think
it over. As Mr. Willamer knows, I'm pretty heavily committed in the
present market. Get in touch with me about the end of the month and
I might be able to put--say, twenty thousand dollars--into your
proposition."

Willamer smiled unpleasantly. "Come, Tompkins," he said, "you can do
much better than that. Perhaps you don't realize that the S.E.C. might
just decide to investigate your firm's market-position. You can afford
to put in at least $100,000 now and, when you get out of your present
operation, make up the balance of that half million."

I went to the dumbwaiter and pushed the buzzer. "Tammy," I spoke into
the phone, "will you come up here and show these gentlemen out of the
club. We've finished our talk."

"Nothing doing," I said to the others. "I don't shake down well."

Willamer blinked his watery blue eyes at me. "That's libelous," he
stated. "I'm a lawyer and I ought to know. You can't accuse me of
blackmail in the presence of witnesses. By God, Tompkins, I'll have the
examiners in your office at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. And I'll sue
you for damages."

"Oh no, you won't," I informed him. "I didn't call you a blackmailer
and I doubt that your friends will care to testify. You didn't
know--perhaps I forgot to mention it--but this room is wired for
dictaphones and a complete phonographic record of this conversation is
already on wire. I'll send it over to the F.B.I. in the morning, unless
you--"

"Excuse me, Harry," said Commander Coonley with an air of decision. "I
didn't hear any reference to blackmail by Mr. Tompkins. I'd better be
getting back to my office."

"Me, too," chimed Lt. Col. George Finogan.

"Nice to have met you, Tompkins," Winston Sales observed as he strode
briskly for the exit.

Harry Willamer turned to me, not without dignity. "You son of a bitch!"
he remarked feelingly, and followed the others.

I waited until it was reasonably sure that the Inter-Alia group had
left the building. Then I went downstairs to the bar and found Tammy
alone.

"Tammy," I said. "You overheard our conversation down the dummy, didn't
you?"

"Oh no, sir. Not at all, Mr. Tompkins. I--"

"Of course you did, Tammy. You heard these gentlemen try to blackmail
me and you heard me tell them to go to hell, didn't you?"

I languidly waved a twenty-dollar bill under his snubby nose.

"Now that you put it that way, sir," the little bar-steward admitted,
"I do remember hearing that Mr. Willamer say that unless you gave him
$100,000 he'd start investigating your books."

"Splendid!" I congratulated him. "Just remember that, when the time
comes. Now see if you can get me Mr. Merriwether Vail on the phone.
He's in the Manhattan Directory--a lawyer."

"Merry?" I asked, after we had been connected. "I have a feeling I'm
going to need your legal services.... No, it's not that one ... it's
another kind of jam ... I'm being blackmailed.... No, you dope, it's
not a woman, it's an official.... Yes, I'll stick here until you can
get over.... What shall I order for you, a double Scotch?... Right! At
the Pond Club."

There was one more move to make. I called Bedford Hills,
person-to-person call, and asked for my wife. After the usual duel
between local and suburban operators, Jimmie's voice answered.
"Winnie," she said. "Thank goodness you telephoned me. You'd better
come out at once. The most dreadful things have been happening."

"It's not so wonderful here either," I told her. "Listen, Jimmie, you
come on in--"

"It's Ponto," she said, paying absolutely no attention to what I was
saying. "He's drunk--yes, drunk! He managed to upset that decanter of
old brandy you keep on your night table and lapped it up. Now he's
howling and hiccoughing like mad and I'm afraid to go near him."

"Oh, Jimmie, to hell with Ponto. Let him sleep it off. You come on
in to town. We've got to do some fast thinking. I'll meet you in the
Little Bar at the Ritz at five o'clock. Bring your night things, and
mine, too. We may have to leave town in a hurry. I'll explain when I
see you."




CHAPTER 13


Merry Vail listened to my account of the encounter with the Inter-Alia
gang and then rolled his eyes toward heaven.

"Poor old Winnie!" he expostulated. "Why didn't you try something
comparatively safe, like robbing a she bear of her whelps or yelling
'Hurray for Hitler' in Union Square? Harry Willamer is a vindictive guy
and his aunt or his mother-in-law is related to Jesse Jones. At least
that's what the Street believes."

"What can he do to me?" I asked. "I have him cold on a charge of
blackmail."

"Like hell you do!" said Merry. "First thing he'll check with the
F.B.I. to find out if there is a recording of your talk. And there
isn't. So it's your word and Tammy's against that of four high-ranking
government officials. You ask what they can do to you? You just call
Phil Cone at your office and see if they haven't started doing it
already."

The steward made the phone connection and in a few minutes Cone's
languid voice was complaining over the wire.

"Say, Winnie, what the hell have you been up to?"

"Nothing, Phil. Why?" I asked.

"It's just that the word's been passed to lay off Tompkins, Wasson
& Cone. The brokers don't want to handle our orders. You know Manny
Oppenheimer of Auchincloss, Morton, Caton, Beauregard & Oppenheimer?
You know how he used to lick your boots if you stood still long enough
for him to kneel down and stick his tongue out? Well, Manny cut me.
Yeah, that's right. Cut me! What's cooking? Even my best friends won't
tell me whether it's B.O. or dishpan hands."

"Just keep on plugging, Phil," I urged. "They can't refuse to handle
our orders if we insist. I'll put in some calls on this.... Yeah, I'm
up at the Pond Club with my attorney ... I'll try to call you back.
That guy Willamer is back of this because I wouldn't go along with his
proposition."

"Oh-oh!" Phil observed dismally. "That's enough for me. Think I'd
better join the Marines?"

"You keep away from the recruiting-sergeant until we finish this
operation," I told him.

I turned to Vail. "Merry," I said, "this is one for you to handle.
Brokers are trying to get out of handling our orders and tenth-raters
like Manny Oppenheimer are high-hatting Phil Cone. You put in a call
and find out what it's all about."

Vail meditated. "Okay," he said at last. "You understand I'm acting as
your attorney now?"

"Sure," I agreed.

He dialed a number. "I'd like to speak to the U.S. Attorney's office,"
he told the switch-board operator. "Yes, I'll wait.... Yes.... Oh,
Ned?... This is Merry Vail. I've been retained by Winfred Tompkins.
What I want to know is whether there are any charges against him....
Yeah, he's with me now.... No, he won't try to leave town. Suspicion of
kidnapping?... No fooling?... That's cockeyed.... Listen, counselor, my
client is innocent and stands ready to answer all charges--"

He turned to me. "Hell, he hung up!"

"What was that about kidnapping?" I asked.

"Oh, something completely screw-ball," my attorney said. "It's only
that his office has received an anonymous charge accusing you of having
kidnapped Winnie Tompkins and masquerading in his place. Ned also told
me you were in trouble with other governmental agencies and said he'd
see me in court."

"Damn!" I objected. "That sounds like Virginia Rutherford's idea of
a snappy way to find out where I was before Easter. It doesn't make
sense. If I kidnapped Tompkins, who am I supposed to be? I'm ready to
take a finger-print test any time, even with these bandages on my right
hand."

Vail clucked his tongue. "That attitude won't help," he said. "If you
don't look out they'll say your prints prove that you're the man who
kidnapped Charley Ross. No, Ned is full of prunes and he doesn't put
much stock in this kidnapping angle, but the wolves are after you all
right. Now I've passed the word, you can't leave the State, of course."

"Damn you, Merry," I objected. "I never told you--"

"You retained me, Winnie. That's enough. You'd be a damn fool to pull
out now. Every G-man in America would be after you. My advice is
to stick around. Today's the eleventh, Wednesday. Well, you have a
week-end coming up, so you might just as well go on commuting between
your office and Bedford Hills as be pulled off the fast freight at
Oneonta."

"Damn that Rutherford woman!" I remarked. "She is the one who turned
me in to the District Attorney. Up to now I've just had a few friendly
passes from a nice guy from the F.B.I."

"I can't advise you on the subject of your sex life," Vail said. "But
you have nothing to fear if you remember to cultivate a clean-cut manly
expression and an air of amazed innocence as you tell the Judge, 'Not
guilty, your Honor, and I reserve my defense.'"

"What shall I tell Phil Cone, though?" I asked.

"Wait a minute and I'll put in another call," Vail said. He dialed
another number. "I want to speak to Joe," he said. "Yes. Joe. Tell him
it's Merry Vail.... Joe, this is Merry.... Same to you. Say, what's all
this b.s. about Winnie Tompkins.... Oh ... the hell you say!... I don't
believe.... No, that's definitely not true.... If it was anybody but
you, Joe, I'd advise him to sue for libel.... Yeah, he's my client....
Of course he's innocent.... Lay you five-to-one in thousands he is....
Done!"

Vail turned back to me. "That was the chief fixer in New York," he
told me. "His word is good. This kidnapping charge is a phony. Just
a move to tie you up. What they think they have on you is a charge
under the Espionage Act, communicating with the enemy. Joe was vague
but it sounded plenty tough. The S.E.C.'s passed out word to be cagey
in trading with you. They can't black-list you or freeze your funds
without a hearing, but they sure can put on the heat. How much did
Willamer want you to put into his racket?"

"Half a million," I told him. "One hundred thousand now and the rest in
thirty days."

Merry Vail drew a wry face, sucked in his lips and signaled to Tammy
for another drink. "As a member of the Bar and an officer of the
court," he remarked, "I can't advise you to pay blackmail. On the other
hand, if you could see your way to making a substantial investment in
the Inter-Alia Corporation, it might make things much pleasanter all
around."

I shook my head. "No, Merry," I told him, "and you are through as my
attorney. I'll take my chances without a lawyer from now on, if that's
the sort of advice I pay you for. I don't mind a gamble but these boys
figure to use malaria to put a financial squeeze on the whole world.
Ever see a man die of malignant malaria, Merry? It's not nice and it's
not necessary, if you have atabrine or quinine. No, damn it, you go
peddle your papers and I'll fight this out alone. Tammy," I added. "Get
me the office, please. I want to talk to Mr. Cone again."

Vail grinned and clapped me on the shoulder. "Like hell you'll do
without an attorney, you damn fool!" he said. "I'm sticking with you,
with or without a fee. Say," he added, "what's come into you to make
you act this way? You used to get the heebie-jeebies at the mere
thought of legal complications."

"Phil," I said into the phone. "This is Winnie. Things are plenty bad
for me personally. You and Graham can pull right out now if you wish.
That louse Harry Willamer or somebody has put me on the spot and I'm
trying to prove I'm not a Nazi agent.... No, neither are you, but you
might have a hell of a time proving it. That's swell of you, Phil, but
I don't want to get you or Graham in trouble. Now's the time to pull
out of the firm if you like. Naturally I'm innocent but just now it's
tough. Okay, you take it up with Graham, will you? I don't want to have
to worry about either of you.... Sure I'm in a jam but it's not your
fault and has nothing to do with the firm...."

When I put the telephone back in its cradle I looked up to see Merry
Vail staring at me.

"Winnie," he said, "you're innocent for my money. Fun's fun but this
thing is dangerous. Now I'm your attorney and you'll sure as hell need
one so it's no use firing me. I don't know what sort of a frame they've
figured for you or why the F.B.I.--"

I laughed. "Okay, Merry," I told him, "you're still my attorney. The
F.B.I.'s been swell. The Special Agent assigned to check up on me, A.
J. Harcourt, couldn't be nicer. I'd trust him not to pull a fast one."

Vail frowned. "The F.B.I. may be swell," he answered, "but their hand
can be forced. They have to act on information received and superior
orders. Your man Harcourt may be the nicest guy in the world but if
he's told to bring you in he'll bring you in."

"Then what's your advice, counselor?"

"My advice to you, Winnie," he said, "is to try to forget about it.
Just go right ahead with your plans, whatever they are, just so you
don't try to leave this jurisdiction or go into hiding. The best thing
you could do is to go back to Bedford Hills and mind your own business
and don't let these government so-and-so's push you around. Hell, this
is a free country!"

"But I phoned Jimmie to meet me at the Ritz at five o'clock," I
objected, "with our traveling things."

Vail glanced at his wrist-watch. "It's not three yet. If you phone her
now the chances are she hasn't left. Tell her to stay put. Remember,
the less you act guilty or scared the safer you are. The dog doesn't
start to chase the rabbit until the rabbit starts to run."

I phoned back to Pook's Hill and was rewarded by catching Jimmie five
minutes before the taxi was due to pick her up.

"Hold everything, dear," I told her. "Plans have changed. I'm coming
out on the first train I can catch. How's Ponto?"

"Thank Heaven you called," Winnie's wife replied. "I couldn't find your
dressing gown and your traveling case is in the room with Ponto and I
didn't want to disturb him.... Oh he's snoring like mad. Passed out
cold, I guess. He shakes the house. I never knew dogs got drunk, did
you?"

       *       *       *       *       *

When I first arrived at Pook's Hill I had a definite program in mind.
First, I went to the kitchen, broke a raw egg into a tumbler and soused
it in Worchester sauce. Then I added a good slug of brandy from the
portable bar in my den. Armed with this Prairie Oyster, I went boldly
to the second floor, opened the door to my bedroom and contemplated the
debauched Great Dane.

Really, I could never have believed that a dog could look so completely
blotto. Ponto was a bum in every sense of the word. He lay drooling and
snoring on the bed, dead to the world.

"Ponto!" I ordered.

An ear pricked up, then dropped languidly back again. Then a blood-shot
eye opened and shut. There was a half-whine, half snarl, interrupted by
a violent hiccough.

"Here you are, Ponto!" I stated firmly, advancing on the bed, glass in
hand.

The blood-shot eye opened again and the beast began to shake and
shiver. I walked up, lifted his jowl in one hand, made a little funnel
of his lip and poured in the Prairie Oyster. Then I clamped a firm
control on the jaws, held Ponto's head back and let it slide gulping
down his gullet.

Ponto heaved. He shuddered. He shook himself free, leaped from the
bed and ran around the room, lurching, whining and shaking his head
violently. He stopped and sideswiped his muzzle with a clumsy paw. He
lay down on his back and rolled.

Then the dose took hold. A noble expression seemed to pour over his
brow. His eyes opened wide and remained open, with a clear and friendly
gleam. He stood up, shook himself, ran into the bathroom, gulped some
water from his bowl very noisily, and then came bounding back.

"Wuff!" He said to me.

Then Ponto reared on his hind legs, placed two large paws on my
shoulders and proceeded to lick my face thoroughly with a rough, wet
tongue. I had made a friend, I decided. As Androcles had won the
lion by removing the thorn from its paw, so had I tamed Ponto by
administering first-aid.

There was a tap at the door. It was Jimmie. "Are you all right,
Winnie?" she asked. "Is he still asleep?"

"Asleep!" I was contemptuous. "No, he's awake. Ponto and I are pals.
We understand each other. He had a hang-over and I fixed him. We're
buddies now, aren't we, old fellow?"

The answer was a low savage growl and I leaped through the door barely
in time to escape his earnest but rather shaky attempt to remove a
couple of pounds of meat from my exterior.

"Hell!" I explained, "that beast's not human. Let's send him back to
the vet's and get something easier to live with--a Yorkshire or a
poodle."

"I'd like a Chihuahua," said Germaine, "or one of those little Belgian
Schipperke gadgets."

"How about a collie?" I asked.

Germaine raised piteous eyes to me. "Do you want to make me ill, with
your talk of collies?" she asked. "Now come on down to the den and tell
me what's been going on in town."

"Well, Jimmie," I began, "it's a long, long story--"




CHAPTER 14


"If it's going to be long," she said, "we'd both better have a drink.
You always think better if you have a glass in your hand."

"Now, what is it you want to know?" I answered, after we were
comfortably settled in front of the electric fire.

"It's--it's just that everything is so queer," Germaine began. "You've
changed so that you almost seem like a different person. You even look
better, not so flabby, as though you took regular exercise. At least
I see a change, and then suddenly I find that you've been carrying on
with that Briggs girl and I can't tell whether you've really changed or
are just trying to fool me. She's a nice person, of course, and if you
_must_ have another girl, I'd rather have you pick someone--oh--safe
and comfortable like her. But you said you hadn't been playing with
the office girls. And then there's Ponto. He used to adore you and you
swore by him. Now he tries to bite you and you want to get rid of him.
And then there's all this talk about where you were during Holy Week
and that F.B.I. man and Myrtle tells me they've been asking a lot of
questions about you and Virginia. What _have_ you been doing, dear,
that you can't remember when our whole life may depend on it?"

"Jimmie," I told her. "I wish to God I knew. You must believe me when
I tell you I can't remember things before Easter Monday. That was the
second and today is the eleventh and I can remember everything that's
happened since then. Before that it is all blank and all mixed-up in
that dream I had."

She moved away from me, slightly. "You can't tell me that the F.B.I.
would be interested in your dreams," she said sharply. "Not in time of
war."

"They are in this dream," I told her. "You see I dreamed--if you want
to call it that--that a certain American ship blew up in the North
Pacific. The trouble is that the public hasn't been told that there is
such a ship, like that 'Old Nameless' in the Solomons, and that the
Navy Department doesn't know what happened to it. _I_ believe that
it did blow up. Harcourt believes my story, in the main, but from
the F.B.I. angle they have to check up on whether I'm not part of an
Axis spy-ring which could have caused the explosion. If I could only
remember where I was and what I was doing the week before I could clear
myself."

Her face lighted and she relaxed. "Oh, is _that_ all?" she exclaimed.
"I _know_ you couldn't have done anything like that. All you've
probably been doing is to go off with one of those silly girls of yours
to some out-of-the-way place. That ought to be easy to check, even if
you registered under a false name. For the first time, you know," she
added, "I'm almost _glad_ you've been chasing all those stupid blondes
of yours. It will make it easy to establish your alias."

"Alibi," I corrected her. "Let me fix you another drink. From now on,"
I added, "there are going to be no more blondes or red-heads. I like
Arthurjean Briggs--she's named Arthurjean for her father and mother.
It's one word like Marylou or Honeychile--but she's more like a friend
than a--oh--you know. You saw her. But I guess you're right. I must
have been chasing around so much my mind got tangled up in itself and
sort of blew a fuse. If I can't get my memory straightened out soon
I'll look up a psychiatrist and see if he can't fix me."

"You know, Winnie--" Germaine began and then fell silent.

"Yes, Jimmie?"

She turned towards me and smiled rather wistfully. "You know, I was
going to say that you and I--perhaps--Well, it's so long since we've
been really--oh--_close_ to each other. I wondered--"

"You mean that perhaps we ought to patch things up between us?"

"Isn't that what a wife's for?" she asked. "I mean--I mean when things
get difficult it ought--there ought to be _one_ person to whom you
could turn."

I slipped my arm around her and drew her close to me on the lounge. She
lowered her face against my coat and I could feel her shaking.

"You're crying!" I said. "You mustn't cry."

"Oh, Winnie, I've been so alone--so--"

I raised her face to mine and kissed her, tasting the wet, salt tears.
Her lips were warm and soft against mine. Suddenly she pressed herself
against me and responded to my kiss so fiercely that we were both
startled. We sprang apart, almost guiltily.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Oh--you haven't kissed me like that--"

She raised her lips again and this time we held it.

       *       *       *       *       *

What with one thing and another, I didn't get back to the office until
the Market closed on Thursday afternoon. I found my two partners in
pretty good control of our operations but frankly mystified as to the
cause of the official mugging of Tompkins, Wasson & Cone. We had laid
out two and a half millions in all, despite the attempt to scare us
off. The market had continued steady.

Neither Graham nor Phil asked me any direct questions about the events
on Wednesday. They talked straight business and kept their curiosity
in check. It was close to half-past four when we finished our general
discussion of the operation, so I decided that they were entitled to
some kind of explanation in return for their loyalty.

"See here, boys," I told them. "You've both been perfectly swell about
this rat-race the S.E.C. started. Harry Willamer tried to put the
squeeze on me for half a million dollars to finance him and a bunch of
official bastards in a shady deal. When I turned him down he threatened
to tie us up with a Commission investigation. I bluffed him out of it
at the time by pretending there was an F.B.I. dictaphone record of
our talk, so he laid off the heavy heat and just started needling us
a little. Any time now he'll make the check at the F.B.I. and when
he finds there isn't any record he'll try to tie us up tighter than
a drum. All we can do is wait it out. The market's going to start
dropping any day now and we'll clean up."

"Oh!" Wasson said. "Was that it? Willamer's a bad actor. Thanks for
telling us, Winnie. Phil and I knew that there must be something screwy
when--"

The door flew open and Arthurjean appeared, her face white.

"God!" she said at last. "He was such a swell guy. He--"

"Who? What's the mat--"

"It's Roosevelt!" she choked. "He's dead. It just came in on the
ticker."

"No!"

"He died at Warm Springs." And she hid her face in her hands and left
the room, sobbing.

Phil Cone stood up, paper-white, crossed over and turned up the radio.

"Flash!" the announcer was saying. "Warm Springs, Georgia. President
Roosevelt died this afternoon following his collapse from a severe
cerebral hemorrhage. More in a moment. Keep tuned to this station."

"Well, I'll be eternally damned!" I said. "So he was right--"

Cone whirled on me. "You knew about this," he stated flatly "When we
were talking yesterday morning. You had more than a hunch. You knew he
was going to die."

"Be your age, Phil," I told him. "How in hell _could_ I know?"

"Je-sus Ke-rist!" Wasson growled. "This will knock holy hell out of the
Market. Lucky trading's closed for the day. They can't open tomorrow.
They'll have to shut down all the exchanges. They'll have to close the
banks. God! What a mess!"

Cone still looked dazed. "No dancing in the streets?" he asked
bitterly. "I thought this was going to send values sky-rocketing."

Wasson swung on him. "The hell with that talk, Phil," he snapped. "I
was just shooting the bull. Roosevelt dead! Jesus H. Christ! You know,
he wasn't a bad old buzzard after he got rid of all that New Deal
nonsense and set to work winning this war."

Cone had recovered his poise. "Sure he did a swell job winning the war,
but now we're going to lose the peace, sure as shooting!"

"Hell!" Graham's choice of expletives was strictly rationed. "This
means that Truman will take over. What sort of a guy is he? You got any
idea, Winnie? He's not up to Roosevelt, that's sure."

I shook my head. "I don't know from nothing," I began. "Sh!"

The radio announcer resumed his broadcast. "Warm Springs, Georgia.
President Franklin Delano Roosevelt passed away at four thirty-five
this afternoon, Eastern War Time, following a severe cerebral
hemorrhage. The late President had been spending a few days at his
Georgia retreat getting rested after his strenuous trip to the Yalta
Conference. Earlier this afternoon he complained of a severe headache
and almost immediately became unconscious. He died peacefully a little
later. His death came at a moment when American troops in Germany and
on Okinawa were driving ahead toward the victory he--"

Cone switched it down again. "_He_ had a headache!" he muttered. "What
do you think _we're_ going to have?"

The telephone rang. I picked up the instrument. It was one of those
automatic phonograph recordings. "The Stock Exchange will not be open
tomorrow by order of the Governors, out of respect for the memory of
the late President Roosevelt. That is all--The Stock Exchange will not
be open--" the metallic feminine voice went on. I hung up.

"You're right about one thing, Graham," I said. "That was an automatic
message to say the Exchange will be closed tomorrow. It's probably on
the ticker, too."

It was.

Cone sat down suddenly, as though his legs had turned to rubber.

"Now it will all start again," he said. "Sell out and pack up, pack up
and clear out."

I crossed the office and put my hand on his shoulder. "Cheer up, Phil,"
I told him. "It won't be as bad as that. Graham and I will stick with
you and that's true of Americans generally."

Cone shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. "Thanks, Winnie," he remarked.
"You're a good fellow and a good friend. I've got something to say
to you. You won't like it. I got worried yesterday when you started
talking about Roosevelt maybe dying and I tipped the F.B.I. on what you
said."

I laughed. "If the F.B.I. arrested every man in Wall Street who had
ever talked about Roosevelt dying the jails wouldn't hold them. Don't
worry, Phil. In your shoes I'd have done the same thing."

The phone rang again. It was the receptionist. "Mr. Harcourt is here to
see you, Mr. Tompkins," she informed me. "Shall I ask him to wait?"

"Tell him I'll see him in a couple of minutes," I replied.

"This is it, boys," I told my partners. "It's the F.B.I. Now, the
Market's going to drop. It will be a bear market in a big way,
dignified as hell, and we're in ahead of the others. You two just carry
on. Try to get a line on this guy Truman. Some of our Kansas City
correspondents may have the dope. Phil, no hard feelings about this
F.B.I. angle. They've been riding me for days on some crazy story Ranty
Tolan started about me last week."

Wasson looked at me coldly. "If I thought that you had anything to do
with this--" he began.

"Oh skip it!" I begged him. "You know me better."

I picked up the phone and told the receptionist to send Harcourt in.

"Mr. Tompkins," he said. "I've been ordered to ask you to come up to
the Bureau's headquarters right away."

"Am I under arrest?" I asked.

"Well," Harcourt admitted, "I haven't got a warrant but I think maybe
you better come with me."

"What's the charge?"

"My chief will tell you what it's all about," he said. "My orders were
to bring you in for questioning."

"Okay," I agreed. "I'll come along quietly. Phil, will you tell Miss
Briggs to ring up my wife and say I won't be home tonight and not to
worry. I'll be all right."

Harcourt came and laid his hand on my arm. "Come along then," he
ordered gruffly.

"How about my lawyer?" I inquired. "Graham, will you phone Merry Vail
and tell him I've been taken up to the F.B.I. for questioning?"

Harcourt looked up at me. "Is Merriwether Vail your lawyer?" he asked.
"I wouldn't bother to call him. We've picked him up too. All your
associates, outside of business and--er--pleasure, are being rounded
up. The President's dead, Mr. Tompkins, and you're going to do some
talking to my chief."




CHAPTER 15


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.
"_That_ will 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."




CHAPTER 16


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."

"How _is_ he?" she asked. "I know too much to ask _where_ he 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! Who _are_ you, 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 of _the_ Chicago 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 what _is_
your 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.




CHAPTER 17


"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. "So _you_ are 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 do _not_ state 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 establish _some_ liaison 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."




CHAPTER 18


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 name _is_ Mrs. 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. "_Now_ I see why you've been acting so strangely. You're in
_intelligence_. Of course you couldn't tell _anybody_. 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, _this_ is 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 the _inside_ of 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.




CHAPTER 19


"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 spent
_years_ in 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 did _you_ do 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. "I _am_ so 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.




CHAPTER 20


There was a brisk knock on the bedroom door. I walked over and
opened it, to see F.B.I. Special Agent A. J. Harcourt. He gave me a
reproachful glance and pushed his way into the room.

"I can only stop a minute, Mr. Tompkins," he said, "but I have orders
from the Director to call on you in person and present the apologies of
the Bureau for having inconvenienced you. If you had only told us you
were connected with Z-2 there would have been no trouble."

"Sit down, Harcourt," I urged him. Then I crossed to the bathroom door.
"Don't come out until you're decent, dear," I called to Germaine. "The
F.B.I. is here."

Some muffled instructions answered, so I went around the room and
picked up the various scattered wisps of silk and rayon, and thrust
them through to my wife.

"That's all I was to say, Mr. Tompkins," Harcourt repeated, still
standing, "that the Bureau is mighty sorry about the whole business."

"Sit down!" I told him again. "Now get this Z-2 thing straight.
There isn't any Z-2. I just invented it, trying to get myself out of
this jam. I never was a Z-2 agent. What I told these people was all
moonshine."

Harcourt nodded. "We know, of course, that you're not allowed to admit
you're in Z-2 to anybody but the top guys, but we know that Z-2 does
exist. If it didn't how could the President abolish it?"

"How's that again?" I asked, sinking into the one easy chair.

"Yeah, special confidential Executive Order No. 1734, signed today,
abolishing Z-2 and transferring its duties to the War Department.
There was something else, too, about giving you the Order of Merit for
_quote_ special services which contributed usefully to the conduct of
the war. _Unquote._"

"Listen here, Harcourt," I insisted. "I can't help it if the President
pulled a boner. I _told_ him there wasn't any such thing as Z-2 and
all he said was that I ought to take a good long rest. I simply got
so damned tired of trying to prove that I couldn't remember what
Winnie Tompkins had been doing before April 2, that I invented my own
alibi--Z-2."

Harcourt scratched his head.

"Cross my heart and hope to die," I assured him.

For the first time since he had delivered his wooden official apology,
the Special Agent relaxed. "That's one for the book," he said with
deep feeling. "Mrs. Harcourt's little boy isn't going to let it go any
farther. So far, only the President of the United States, the Army, the
Navy, O.S.S. and the F.B.I. believe you were in Z-2. I'm not sticking
my neck out to tell them it's all a lot of malarkey. That leaves only
the State Department and the Secret Service. How come you've skipped
them? You must be slipping, Mr. Tompkins."

"I'm seeing the State Department tomorrow morning," I explained. "I
think I'll let the Secret Service alone. Incidentally, Mrs. Tompkins
also believes all this Z-2 business. It will do as a stall until I
learn what I was really doing before I drew a blank."

"Not for me!"

We both looked up. In the doorway--which I must have forgotten to
latch--stood Virginia Rutherford.

"No Winnie"--she began. "Oh, hullo, Mr. Harcourt--You haven't fooled
me. I know there's something behind all this business. Imagine the
nerve of that silly General, practically jerking me out of bed to come
down and listen to him babble about Von Bieberstein to that pretty Mrs.
Jacklin. Who is this Von Bieberstein anyhow? He sounds like a brewer."

"Kurt Von Bieberstein," explained A. J. Harcourt, "is supposed to be
the ace Nazi Operative in the U.S.A. The Bureau has been trying to
locate him for the last ten years. We don't know what he looks like,
nothing about him, except his name. All we ever got on him was one
fragment of a short-wave message in 1935 and a letter in a code we
couldn't break, just before Pearl Harbor."

The bathroom door opened and Germaine entered the room. "Well,
Virginia," she observed, "you seem to be making yourself at home. Mr.
Harcourt, have I no legal right to privacy in my hotel room?"

Harcourt rose and bowed. "Certainly, ma'am," he told her. "If you
object to her presence you are entitled to order her out. If she
refuses to go, you can throw her out or call the house detective."

Jimmie laughed. "Good! Virginia Rutherford, you get out of my bedroom
or I'll throw you out."

Virginia relaxed back against the pillow. "Act your age, dearest," she
said. "You don't want any public scandal about your husband, do you?"

"Oh!" Germaine paused. "Of course not!"

There was another knock on the door.

"Come in!" we chorused.

This time it was Dorothy Jacklin.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, none too brightly. "So we're all here."

"This is Mr. Harcourt of the F.B.I., Mrs. Jacklin," I said. "He's an
old friend of mine."

Dorothy turned to me. "There's one thing I'd like cleared up, Mr.
Tompkins," she said.

"Yes?" I asked.

"I certified to O.S.S. that you were with Z-2. I've checked over our
confidential files and I can't find any record of Z-2. Things like that
go on my efficiency rating and I might get into trouble. After all,
you were admitted to the Administration Building without the usual
references and identification. General Donovan is very strict about
such things."

"There is no such thing as Z-2, Mrs. Jacklin," I assured her.

"Aha!" Virginia chortled, "here it comes."

"Winnie!" Germaine was hurt.

"President Truman just today signed a special order abolishing Z-2
and transferring its duties to the War Department. If you need the
references for the O.S.S. record that dear little colonel of yours can
get it from General Wakely at G-2. That's right, isn't it, Harcourt?"

"That's right, Mr. Tompkins. All government intelligence agencies have
been notified. When you get back to your office, Mrs. Jacklin, you'll
find that O.S.S. has a copy of the order."

Dorothy turned to me. "Isn't that lousy!" she exclaimed. "After all
the splendid work Z-2 did, to have the Army take it over and grab the
credit!"

I shrugged my shoulders. "It's what we expect in this government
game," I said. "A passion for anonymity is not only expected of us,
it's rammed down our throats. Only Admirals and Generals are good
at intelligence. Period. However, I'm just as glad it's over. The
President told me to take a rest and I think it's a good idea."

"Well!" said Germaine. "Of all ingratitude!"

"I think the best idea is for us all to go downstairs and have some
champagne cocktails," I suggested. "Things often seem better that way."

Harcourt looked grave. "I'm not allowed to drink on duty, Mr.
Tompkins," he observed, "but I'm not on duty now. Come on, Mrs.
Jacklin," he continued, "let's go on and show them."

Dorothy looked startled. "Show them what," she asked.

"Show them that we intelligence services can take it ma'am," the
Special Agent observed. "You're O.S.S. and I'm F.B.I. and these others
have just been consolidated out of the game."

Dorothy flashed him a smile. "Well--" she began doubtfully.

"Go ahead, Harcourt," I urged with malice aforethought. "Show her a
photo of your wife and three children in Brooklyn."

He grinned. "That gag was strictly for Miss Briggs," he said, "but down
here I'm an unmarried man."

"Pooh!" said Dorothy. "I never saw an administrator down here yet who
let himself worry about a wife and family somewhere else. The F.B.I.
must be weakening."

Harcourt smiled. "Well, anyhow, Mrs. Jacklin, ma'm, the first round of
drinks is on me--just to celebrate Mr. Tompkins' happy release."

I didn't care so much for that one. "Expense account, you spy-catcher?"
I asked.

The Special Agent nodded. "Yep," he agreed. "My own expense. I was
ordered to apologize handsome to you, sir, for the Bureau, and by gum
we Harcourts do it right. What'll it be? Root beer or Moxie?"

       *       *       *       *       *

The next morning, early if not bright, found me fumbling my way around
the corridors of the State-War-Navy building in search of the proper
official to handle secret intelligence reports. I finally unearthed him
in the form of six-feet of languid Bond Street tailored perfection--a
red-headed diplomat lily by the name of Dennis Tyler, Chief of the
Liaison Section. To him I addressed myself.

"Oh, yes, so you're Tompkins--of Z-2," he observed. "Yes, yes. Quite
too tragic for you."

"Tell me, Mr. Tyler," I inquired, "did you ever hear of Axel Roscommon?"

Tyler leaned back in his chair and contemplated me soulfully. "Now
don't tell me that poor old Axel is a Nazi agent, Mr. Timkins--"

"Tompkins, Mr. Wiley."

"The name is Tyler, Mr. Tompkins," he grinned. "No, dear old boy--to
quote Axel--we do not _think_ that Mr. Roscommon is a Nazi Agent. We
know it. I had the devil of a time fixing it up with the F.B.I. so
they wouldn't arrest him. We can't let the Swiss--God bless their
cuckoo-clocks--represent Hitler over here. We need a man of the world
who realizes that milk chocolate has no place in diplomacy, to maintain
contact with the Third Reich. No, Axel's a fine fellow. He's on a
strict allowance. One military secret a month--usually a little one
and every now and then a phoney--so as to keep his job. He sees that
our people in Berlin get the same allowance. All very cozy and no harm
done."

I nodded agreement. "Yes, Mr. Tyler," I told him, "I know the
picture. It's just that I have a hunch that Roscommon may be Kurt Von
Bieberstein."

Tyler exploded. "Absolute, obscene rot, Tompkins! Not a word of
truth in it. Roscommon is foxy, if you like, but he hasn't got Von
Bieberstein's ruthlessness. No, we made a thorough check on our Axel,
before we let the Gestapo accredit him to this government. He's just a
good contact-man and a first-rate field operative--plays a dashing game
of backgammon and a sound hand of poker, holds his liquor well, and,
with an unlimited expense account, stands unlimited rounds of drinks.
No, we can't get on without Axel Roscommon. He's taken half the sting
out of my income-tax, he's so lavish with his friends.

"What on earth made you confuse him with Von Bieberstein?" he
concluded. "Kurt's a devil. He's slipped through the fingers of every
Allied intelligence service. Even the Gestapo doesn't know much about
him. He's never been photographed or fingerprinted and he reports
directly to Hitler. Even Himmler has no file on him."

"It was only this, Mr. Tyler," I told him. "It was Roscommon who warned
me two days before Roosevelt's death that the President would die
within the week. That isn't easy to laugh off."

Tyler became deadly calm. "Don't ever repeat that story outside of this
room," he warned me. "We know who did it and why. We'll settle that
score some day. In the meantime, just forget it, unless you don't mind
diving into the East River in a concrete life-belt."

"Then Roscommon wasn't guessing," I observed.

"Of course he wasn't guessing. As a matter of fact, it was I who told
him. Just as it was I who told F.D.R. God! He was a good sport. He
listened to what I had to say and then do you know what he did? He
laughed. He said that so many Americans had died in this war that one
more made no difference and he ordered me to hold off until after the
peace treaty before getting the group responsible."

This was getting too deep for me, but I owed it to Germaine to make a
grab for the brass ring.

"President Truman was very complimentary about my work for Z-2," I
told him. "He wants me to take a rest now that the War Department has
taken over our work. After that, I wondered whether there mightn't be
something in the diplomatic service. The President thought I would be
useful here. I've plenty of money and--"

Dennis Tyler groaned convulsively, hunched forward over his desk and
clutched his flaming red head in his hands.

"--and you have a beautiful wife who would make a charming American
Ambassadress, no doubt: Yes, Mr. Tompkins, I see it all. You went to
a good school, no doubt you even attended Harvard. You just missed
combat service in the last war and were unfortunately too old for
this one. You know how to make money in Wall Street, if it wasn't for
those damned Roosevelt taxes. You do not speak French--except for the
purpose of 'La Vie Parisienne'--nor German nor Italian nor Spanish
nor Russian, not to mention Arabic and Chinese. You know nothing of
economics, sociology, natural science or political geography. You have
been to Canada, the West Indies and no doubt to 'Gay Paree,' and to cap
the list of your qualifications, you are a Republican and this is a
Democratic Administration."

"Then there isn't a chance," I mumbled, my cheeks flaming with
embarrassment.

"Did _I_ say that you had no chance?" demanded Dennis Tyler. "On the
contrary, you seem to be fully qualified for any diplomatic post
within the gift of this Administration, at least as much as any of a
dozen of our well-named envoys extraordinary. But, Tompkins, you're a
decent sort of chap. Don't do it! For your wife's sake, if not mine,
let the poor old State Department go to hell in its own quiet way
without speeding the process--Oh, well, I suppose I shall never learn.
Doubtless you will be our next Ambassador to Portugal and I shall have
one more black mark against me."

I held out my hand. "If the popular demand becomes too great for me
to resist, Mr. Tyler," I assured him, "I may be forced to accept a
diplomatic appointment, but even then you would be safe from me. I
don't like double-talk."

Dennis Tyler looked up, shook my hand and winked broadly at me. "Just
between us, Tompkins," he whispered, "who put you up to that Z-2 line
of yours? You have the whole town fooled. No, don't look virtuous, dear
old boy--again to quote the immortal Axel--I happen to know that you
can't possibly be connected with Z-2, because until yesterday, when the
Army grabbed it, I was head of Z-2 myself!"




CHAPTER 21


"You were what?" I demanded.

"I am--or was--the head of Z-2," Tyler replied. "You know, Mr.
Tompkins," he continued, "I find it most intensely interesting that
you should have picked on that particular combination--Z-2--for your
higher echelonics. In fact, I should like to have you psycho-analyzed,
in order to learn why you, of all people, should have selected the
super-secret insignia of the super-secret Roosevelt intelligence
outfit. Not that it matters now, of course," he added. "With this new
growth across the street I'd be lucky if the White House knew the
difference between Z-2 and B-29."

I studied Tyler's face. Who he was, I had only a remote idea, so many
had been the different offices that had shunted me around. But in spite
of his airy-fairy persiflage and la-di-da manner, I felt that he was
straight.

"Okay, chief," I said. "I confess. I robbed the bank but I didn't shoot
the cashier. That was Muggsy. You see, chief, it was this way--"

Tyler sat back and heard me out from A to Z-2, in the history of my
last two weeks.

"I can't expect you to believe me, Mr. Tyler," I concluded, "but I'd
like to have it on record somewhere in this town that I had told the
truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and all I get for it
is an Order of Merit citation."

"Few escape it!" he cried. "My poor old bewildered Tompkins. Of course
I believe you. Stranger tales than yours have passed across my desk. I
have served under one President who _thought_ he was Jesus Christ, one
who _knew_ he was Jesus Christ and two who were afraid the voters would
realize that they were _not_ Jesus Christ. I have seen five successive
Secretaries of State who had no doubt that they were God's Vice-Regent
on earth. As for drawing a blank, Mr. Tompkins, that is no news to this
Department. What we diplomatic underlings fear is when our superiors
fail to draw blanks. Why I remember--but no matter."

"Then what would you do if you were me, Mr. Tyler?" I asked him. "I'm
the innocent victim of the damndest set of circumstances ever dreamed
up."

The red-headed young diplomat looked at me warily. "The
Department, sir," he said, "does not answer hypodermic--I mean
hypothetical--questions. What is good enough for the Department is good
enough for me."

"But here I find myself," I reminded him, "in high favor with the
intelligence forces and with the reputation of a Don Juan in the bosoms
of my family, and no idea how I got there."

Tyler chuckled. "I always knew they were plural," he said. "Think
nothing of it. Stupider men than you have stood in far higher repute in
this town and the reputation of Don Juan is easily acquired. For all
you know, you may be a perfectly sterling family man and quite devoid
of political intelligence."

"How's that again?"

"Just a figure of speech," Tyler answered airily. "Just the same, Mr.
Tompkins, it would be interesting to know why you picked on Z-2 and
where you got your undoubted talent for brass-knuckled duplicity. So
far as I can see, you've sold yourself as Z-2 to all the brass hats,
including the Kansas City lad who woke up to find himself President."

"Again in my own defense," I said, "I did it only because the F.B.I.
had a gun at my back and were going to give me the works if I didn't
clear myself inside of twenty-four hours. I always thought," I added,
"that in this country you were assumed innocent until proved guilty."

Tyler winked wickedly. "There's a war on," he announced, "and doesn't
the F.B.I. know it!"

I bade the diplomat good-bye and left the State Department with a
sense of personal uneasiness. Who would have dreamed that there was a
Z-2 organization before I imagined it! If this kind of thing kept on
happening it mightn't be a bad idea to take a fling at the Hartford
Sanctuary and have myself psyched by experts.

"Beg pardon, sir, but are you Mr. Tompkins?"

The Hart, Shaffner & Marxed youngster who accosted me on the State
Department steps had a definite bulge under his left shoulder that
warned me he was armed.

"Yes, and who are you, sir?" I inquired.

"I'm Monaghan from the Secret Service," he told me. "The Chief wants to
see you."

"And who is the Chief?" I asked.

"Chief Flynn, of course," he said. "It's only a few steps over at the
the Treasury Building."

"All right, Mr. Monaghan," I agreed. "I'll come along quietly. Am I
under arrest? Should I send for my lawyer?"

"The Service don't go much for lawyers," he said. "This way, sir."

With Monaghan at my elbow, I turned right on Pennsylvania Avenue and
walked in front of the White House and turned down East Executive
Avenue to the side-entrance of the Treasury. A few baffling twists and
turns in the corridors of Morgenthau, and I found myself in a large,
sparsely furnished room, facing a white haired Irishman.

"This is Tompkins, Chief," Monaghan reported and left me with the
gimlet-eyed Secret Service executive.

"You W. S. Tompkins?" he asked me.

"Yes. And who are you?"

"My name's Flynn."

Neither of us said anything for a couple of minutes. He was obviously
waiting for me to ask him why I had been brought to him--so I
deliberately kept silent, pulled out a cigarette and lighted it. Seeing
no ash-tray, I flicked the burnt match on the official green carpet and
waited for him to open the conversation.

"So you don't need to be told why you're here, Tompkins," he purred.

"I came here, Mr. Flynn," I told him, "because one of your men
practically put a gun at my ribs in front of the State Department. What
do you want? A ticket to a prize fight? A good write-up in the papers?
Tell me what it will cost me and I'll pay within reason. I didn't know
that the Irish had got control of the Secret Service or I would have
mailed the money ahead--in cash, of course, no checks, all small bills
not consecutively numbered."

Flynn scowled out the window in the general direction of the White
House. I dropped some more cigarette ash on the carpet.

Suddenly he whirled to me. "We're here to protect the President," he
snapped, "and we don't propose to take any lip from you."

I said nothing. Then I noticed the flag over the White House at
half-mast.

"Why's that flag at half-mast, Mr. Flynn," I asked.

"Because the President's dead."

"Was he murdered?" I asked.

"He was not! He died of natural causes, but we don't go for people
plotting to kill any President, even if he's dead. Our job depends on
it."

I rubbed out the stub of my cigarette on the corner of his mahogany
desk and lighted another one.

"Since Roosevelt wasn't murdered, what am I here for?" I asked. "I'm
a perfectly respectable New York business man. I'm registered at the
Willard and my wife can identify me. I have plenty of other references,
if you need them. The F.B.I., say, or General Wakely in Counter
Intelligence. If you have anything to ask me, I'll be glad to try to
answer questions, but I'm damned if I propose to sit here and let
myself be accused of something I never dreamed of doing."

"And what are you going to do about it?" he asked. "Sue?"

"Oh, I have no doubt that you can beat me up and send me to the
hospital, but as soon as I'm out I'll tell my story and then I guess a
man named Flynn will be looking for another job."

Flynn smiled. "And why do you think the hospital will be letting you
go, Mr. Tompkins? Of course, if it was only for a broken leg or a
fractured skull, it would be easy, but what about St. Elizabeth's?"

I raised my eyebrows.

"Never heard of it," I said.

"St. Elizabeth's," he explained, "is where we send people in Washington
who aren't right in the head. We have a lot of alienists and
psychiatrists there who can look you over, keep you under observation.
They can hold you there as long as they like, because if there's any
question about a man's sanity, they would be failing in their duty if
they let him go."

"In other words, Mr. Flynn," I interrupted, "you threaten to send me to
the local lunatic asylum if I raise any objection to your methods. Is
that the game?"

Flynn was on familiar ground here. "Mr. Tompkins," he asked me. "How's
your health? You don't look any too good to me. Don't you think you'd
be better for a little special care?"

I laughed admiringly. "So that's how it's done, is it? Well, I never
thought the Secret Service was reduced to blackmail. Okay, I'll pay."

"Who ever mentioned pay?" Flynn was indignant.

"Nuts!" I replied. "Cops are all the same. They jail Capone for income
tax because they can't convict him of being a racketeer. You think
you're being cute by sending people to the booby-hatch if you have no
proof that they're dangerous. So, go ahead, send me to St. Elizabeth's
but don't think for one minute that I'm not on to the Irish."

Flynn's face grew slowly and magnificently purple. "By God!" he
shouted. "What's the matter with Ireland, anyhow?"

"Ireland?" Now he was on my ground. "Too proud to fight the war for
freedom. Ireland? To hell with Ireland! This is the United States of
America. What has Ireland to do with your duty to the United States?"

Flynn slumped back in his chair, muttering.

"Go!" he said hoarsely. "Get out of here, get out of this building, get
out of this town. By God Almighty, if I catch you here within the next
twenty-four hours, I--I--"

"Scratch a cop and find a four-flusher," I observed incautiously.
"You're still looking for Booth in Ford's theatre and are figuring ways
to guard Garfield in the Union Station. For all you know, Roosevelt may
have been killed, but if he was, you know I had nothing to do with it.
The record shows I'm one of the few people who tried to do anything
about it. And you don't dare touch the man who told me."

"Who was that?" Flynn demanded sullenly.

"Axel Roscommon," I said, "another Irishman, so you don't dare lay a
finger on him."

"Roscommon!" Flynn snorted. "A black Protestant from Ulster. He's no
Irishman, but I can't touch him, as well you know. The bloody British
in the State Department are protecting him."

"So you take it out on me, eh?" I suggested.

Flynn drew himself up. "See here, Mr. Tompkins," he said, "I've told
you to get out of Washington and stay out of Washington. In a job like
mine I have to follow my hunches and my hunch is that if you aren't out
of here by noon tomorrow we'll send you over to St. Elizabeth's for
observation. After all, we can't have people threatening the President."

"When did I ever threaten the President?"

"Sure and you did it just now," declared the Chief. "You used
threatening and abusive language about the President of the United
States, within the meaning of the Act, and the Secret Service is not
going to stand for it."

"In other words, Mr. Flynn," I observed, "You can't win against the
Cops. Anything to keep their job. Okay, I know when I'm licked. I'll
leave town and I'll even beat you to the booby-hatch. If this is
sanity, I _want_ to be locked up."

Chief Flynn hunched his shoulders and scowled at me.

"Yes," I told him, "I'll check myself with the psychiatrists."

"Mr. Tompkins," Flynn remarked quietly, "the more I see of you the more
I feel that you ought to have immediate medical attention."

He lifted his telephone and began dialing a number.

"And won't that look swell on your record," I said, "when President
Truman gives me a citation for the Order of Merit the same day that
Chief Flynn locks me up as a threat to the President."

"Oh!" Flynn laid down the receiver and looked at me with dawning
respect.

"Oh! is right," I replied, and left the room.

Nobody tried to stop me as I walked out of the Treasury but I knew
that I must take no more chances. From now on it was a race to the
alienists, and the best hope for continued liberty lay with my getting
there first.

I hailed a taxicab. "Drive me to the Phipps Clinic, Johns Hopkins
Hospital," I told the driver.

"Jeeze, Chief! That's in Baltimore."

"You are absolutely right," I told him, "and it's fifty bucks for you
if you get me there inside the hour."

I sank back on the cushions of the rear seat. I had come out of the
Washington rat-race worse off than when I had entered it. Then it was
merely a question of my liberty. After three days it had become a
matter of my sanity.




CHAPTER 22


The white-coated medical man--he said that he was associate
psychiatrist at the Phipps Clinic--beckoned me to follow him into a
side-room. He waved me to be seated and closed the door.

"You see, Mr. Tompkins," he told me, "everybody's crazy."

There is no point in recounting the stages which had converted my panic
flight from the wrath of the Secret Service into this interview with
one of Johns Hopkins psychiatric staff, except that I had been amazed
by the ease with which he had drawn me aside shortly after I had sat
down in the waiting-room.

"Of course I realize, doctor," I replied, "that everyone must be
abnormal since that is how you establish an average normality. My case
is so peculiar, though, that I'd like to have you check on me."

"Here we can take you only on the recommendation of a registered
physician or psychiatrist," he told me. "We're understaffed and
over-crowded as it is. My advice to you would be to return to your
home--you live near New York, you say--and put yourself in the hands
of your regular family physician. There are plenty of institutions
in your part of the country which are fully qualified to give the
necessary treatment. Even if you were recommended to us now we could
only put you on the waiting list."

I murmured something vague about war-conditions and neurotics, but he
raised his hand like a traffic-cop and interrupted me.

"The war, at least so far as active service is concerned, has taken a
load off us, Mr. Tompkins," he informed me. "You see, in normal times
people live under any number of pressures which force them to restrain
their natural impulses. War gives them outlets--including sex, a sense
of gang solidarity, and permission to commit acts of violence and
homicide--which would result in jail-sentences for them at other times.
Of course, there are a good many psychos coming out of actual combat
but the government takes care of them. No, the bulk of our current
cases are essential civilians: generals, administrators, politicians,
business executives--who find that the war simply redoubles the
pressures on them. Some of them are really insane in the medical sense
but their positions are so high that we dare not insist on their
hospitalization. Instead, we have a simple prescription which most of
them find no difficulty in taking. Perhaps it would help in your case."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Oh, just go out and get drunk now and then, and find yourself a
girl-friend. Blow off steam, in other words. Find an outlet for your
natural impulses. If the White House had consulted me, Roosevelt might
still--Oh, well, no use crying over spilt milk. Half the mental trouble
in this country is due to people trying to be something they are not,
and the other half is due to people trying not to be something that
they naturally are. Primitive people are rarely troubled with neuroses."

"But you said that everybody's crazy, doctor," I objected. "How does
that fit into the picture?"

"Mr. Tompkins," the psychiatrist remarked, "you must have noticed that
the only sane people today are the alleged lunatics, who do what makes
them happy. Take the man who thinks he is Napoleon. He _is_ Napoleon
and is much happier than those who try to tell him that he isn't. The
real maniacs are now in control of the asylum. There's a theory among
the psychiatrists that certain forms of paranoia are contagious. Every
now and then a doctor or a nurse here and at other mental clinics goes
what they call crazy and has to join the patients. My theory is that it
is sanity which is contagious and that the only sane people are those
who have sense enough to be crazy. They are locked up at once for fear
that others will go sane, too. Now, take me, I'm--"

At that moment two husky young men came in and led him away. After a
short interval one of them returned.

"I'm sorry this happened, sir," he apologized. "Dr. Murdoch is a
tragic case. He was formerly employed here and every now and then he
still manages to escape to one of our consultation rooms. He's quite
harmless. What was he telling you?"

"That the only sane people in the world were the lunatics," I said.

The young man nodded. "Yes, that's his usual line. That's what got him
committed in the first place. For my money, he's right but he oughtn't
to go around saying it. And what can we do for you?"

I told him that the "associate psychiatrist" had advised me to put
myself in the hands of my family doctor and had prescribed a dose of
wine, women and song as a method of restoring my mental balance. I was
troubled by serious loss of memory, I said, and needed treatment.

He nodded again. "Boy, when I finish my internship and start private
practice, am I going to clean up in the upper brackets with that one!
Murdoch's crazy to waste that on these people in Phipps. They can't
follow his advice. This one is strictly for Park Avenue."

I left the clinic, phoned the hotel in Washington from a pay-booth in a
corner drug-store, and told Germaine to join me at Pook's Hill. I said
that I had had to leave Washington in a hurry and would explain when I
saw her. I added that I'd just had a consultation at Johns Hopkins and
had decided to take medical treatment.

"I know one thing you don't need treatment for--your nerve!" she
replied and hung up on me.

When I reached the house in Bedford Hills, I was welcomed by
Mary-Myrtle at the front door and by the loud barking of Ponto from my
bedroom. Germaine had not yet returned.

"How's Ponto?" I asked the maid.

"Oh, he's fine," she told me, "just fine. He eats his food and sleeps
regular and is just like he was."

"Good, I'll take a look at him."

I went upstairs and held my bedroom door ajar.

"Hullo, Ponto old boy," I said in the curious tone one uses towards
dogs, children and public men. "Here I am back from Washington."

He lay on my bed, with ears pricked up, gazing at me intently.

"Yes, Ponto," I continued. "I got the Order of Merit from President
Truman himself and met all the big shots, so if you take a bite at me
now it will be sabotage."

Ponto put his ears back and let his tongue dangle from the side of his
mouth, while his tail made a haze as it thumped delightedly on the
pillow. If he hadn't been an animal, I would have said he was laughing.

"There, old fellow," I soothed him.

He wuffed affectionately, jumped to the floor, and stood beside me,
panting and drooling.

"Thank God, you're well again, Ponto," I told him. "We can't have two
loony people in this house. Now it's my turn to go to the vet's and be
treated."

Ponto's answer was to lick my hand convulsively and wag his tail and
otherwise give a splendid impersonation of an affectionate "Friend of
Man" whose beloved master has returned. So I took him downstairs with
me and turned him out for a run on the lawn while I sat in my den and
tried to get my thoughts in order.

What worried me most was Virginia Rutherford's sudden change in
manner. From having been definitely the woman scorned--angry, hurt and
hell-bent for revenge--she had adopted an air of friendly complicity
the moment I had left the White House. This made no sense to me.
Germaine was unchanged but that was because she was a simple woman who
was in the obvious process of falling in love with her own husband.
Whatever I did would be all right with her, which was a great comfort
but not much help. Then, too, I was beginning to get uneasy at the
increasing glibness and complexity of the lies I was telling. It was
almost as though I were playing a part for which at some time I had
once rehearsed. As Tyler had told me in the State Department, it
_would_ be interesting to know how I happened to invent the legendary
"Z-2."

There was the crunch of gravel as an automobile slowed to a stop
outside, the click of a key in the lock and then Germaine was in the
den and in my arms, with all the etchings of ducks staring at her.

"Winnie," she exclaimed. "You _are_ the most unexpected person. I had
the most awful time at the Willard after you phoned me. When I tried to
pay the bill they wouldn't take my check because my name wasn't Grant.
In fact, I had to telephone that nice Mrs. Jacklin before I could find
a bank that would give me the money. Then that Mr. Harcourt from the
F.B.I. came in and talked to me for the longest time. He seemed quite
surprised when I told him you had gone to Johns Hopkins. Don't you feel
well, dear?"

"I never felt better," I assured her. "No, Jimmy, that was because
somebody in the Secret Service got the idea that I ought to be put in
an asylum. It's a nasty little trick of theirs, I gather, to send a man
to the booby-bin for life if they don't like him but have no evidence
against him. So I thought I'd play it smart and beat them to the punch.
That's why I went to Baltimore, to get a mental check-up at the Phipps
Clinic."

"Did they--Are you--Are you all right?" she faltered. "I couldn't bear
it if--"

I laughed and gave her a good hug. "I'm all right," I told her. "They
didn't have time to examine me but gave me two bits of advice. First,
I was to get Jerry Rutherford to handle my case. I guess you need
political influence now to get yourself locked up. And then, I was told
that I ought to have more licker and wimmin in my life. It seems I'm
getting in a rut."

"Winnie!"

"Uh-huh! They recommended it for curing highly inhibited cases like
mine. I'm repressed or something."

"It must be something," Germaine observed fifteen minutes later. "Oh,
dear, I didn't even think whether the door was locked. I'm a sight. You
don't act repressed to me."

She turned her face towards me, her eyes laughing.

"In any case, I'll have to see a doctor," I said, "and it might as
well be Rutherford. He knows so much about me that I won't have to do a
lot of explaining."

"Winnie!"

Germaine swung her feet to the floor and straightened her clothes.
"Winnie," she repeated, "_must_ you go to a doctor? Can't we try the
_other_ prescription--I mean, give it a _good_ try?"

I shook my head.

"No can do. I've got to get my memory straightened out. You and
I--well, _we're_ all right now. But there's my business and then
there's the Secret Service. I _can't_ seem to remember a thing before
the second of April and I did so much lying in Washington, trying to
cover up, that I may get into real trouble. That's what Virginia said,
that I'd lied myself into a worse mess than I'd lied myself out of."

My wife pouted. "Don't these treatments take a long time?" she asked.
"I remember when they sent Cousin Frederick to the asylum after
that time when he put tear-gas in the air-conditioners in the Stock
Exchange, it was three years before they let him out. Of course he
_was_ crazy, though we pretended it was only drink. That time he tried
to tattoo the little Masters girl--But won't they keep you locked up
and do things to you?"

"Hanged if I know," I said, "but they can't keep me there a day longer
than you or I want. It isn't as though I was being committed to an
asylum. It's just that there's a bad crack in my memory. They'll try to
find out what's wrong and patch it up. Perhaps I won't have to stay
after all."

"Do they let wives come and visit their husbands?" she asked dreamily.
"I mean--"

"I've never heard that the medical profession encouraged that kind of
therapy," I told her.

"Speaking of insanity," I continued, "Ponto, you will be glad to know,
is back to normal."

She got up and made a face at me. "Of course," she remarked with
deliberate provocation, "If you think more of Ponto than you do of me.
I'm so glad, Winnie, to know that Ponto is better. He's your dog, isn't
he? What was wrong with him? What medicine did you give him? What did
the vet say--"

She ended in a startled squeak and ran for the door.

"You beast!" she exclaimed, turning on me, "it _was_ locked, all the
time. Oh, Winnie--"

A thousand years later she said once more, "Oh, Winnie!"

Then she laughed.

"Just the same," she said, "I'm glad about Ponto. I still think I don't
like the way he's been acting."

She yawned.

"And now, sir," she added, "will you please let me go to my room. I'm
_still_ rather dirty from my trip and I ought to get a few things
unpacked. And besides," she laughed again, "I'm ravenously hungry."

"So am I," I remarked truthfully, "but--"

"I _know_ we're both crazy," she told me some time later, "and perhaps
they'd better give us a double-room at the asylum. But I know that
unless I eat something right away I'll be dead in the morning."

"Let's see if there's anything in the ice-box," I said. "Mary's
probably given up dinner long ago."

"Her name is Myrtle," Germaine corrected me.




CHAPTER 23


Dr. Rutherford's office was tastefully furnished, in the suburban
medical manner, to suggest a Tudor tap-room. There was, of course, a
spotless chrome and porcelain laboratory connecting, as well as an
equally sanitary lavatory.

"Good of you to squeeze me in, Jerry," I remarked to Rutherford. "Fact
is I need your professional opinion."

Rutherford stroked his little dab of a moustache. "I've sent in my
application to the Army Medical Corps," he told me. "I hoped you'd come
to straighten out the money end."

"That will be taken care of any time you need it," I assured him. "Miss
Briggs at my office will have full details. I'll phone her and my
lawyer to fix it up as soon as I get back to the house."

"Well, what seems to be wrong with you, old man?" he inquired. "War
getting too much for you? Got a hang-over? Need vitamins? Bowels
regular? I must say you're got a better color and have lost weight
since the last time I saw you."

"It's nothing wrong with my body, and I _have_ lost weight," I
explained. "It's my mind. I've had a complete loss of memory as to what
happened before April second. In Washington, I was lucky to avoid the
booby-hatch. They couldn't handle me at Hopkins, so they told me to
consult my family physician. I guess that means that you are elected."

"Family physician is good," Rutherford remarked with a rather
unprofessional grin. "But hell! I'm no psychiatrist. Of course, in
practice around here I bump into a few psychopathic cases but I must
say you've never struck me as the type."

I assured him that I was in dead earnest about this matter, that I must
somehow get myself certified as sane or I might be in trouble with the
government.

"Rot, my dear fellow!" Rutherford assured me. "You've had some kind
of psychic trauma or shock that's resulted in temporary amnesia. That
could happen to anybody. You're as sane as I am."

I asked him whether he'd be willing to sign a medical certificate to
that effect.

"Well," he replied slowly, "that's another story. I'm not a specialist
along psychiatric lines. Up here I get mostly baby-cases, indigestion,
some alcoholism and now and then, thank God, a real honest broken leg.
My name on a certificate wouldn't mean much in sanity proceedings.
I'd rather have you run over to Hartford and see Dr. Folsom at the
Sanctuary. He has the stuff and the equipment to put you through the
standard tests."

"That's okay by me, Jerry," I agreed, "but I'd still like you to put
me through a few paces so that your records will show that this is on
the level. If some bright boy in Washington decides to throw me in the
asylum for making nasty faces at the Big Brass, I want to have a clean
medical record for use in a counter-suit for false arrest."

Rutherford stood up and looked out the window. "I'm a hell of a poor
choice for a man to look into your private life, after this business
with Germaine and Virginia," he observed.

"That's why I want to keep it all in the family," I told him. "Listen,
Jerry, until she came out to Pook's Hill the other day I have no
recollection of ever setting eyes on Virginia. Under the circumstances,
she's as superfluous as a bridegroom's pajamas. I faked as well as I
could but the plain fact is that I have no memory of her, of you, of
Jimmie or anybody around here before April 2nd. Now that's not normal,
to put it mildly."

"You know, Winnie," the doctor remarked professionally, "I think
that your quote loss of memory unquote is nothing but a defense
mechanism. I know a bit about your affairs and they seem to have got so
complicated--with three or four women on a string, business problems,
liquor and so forth--that you simply decided subconsciously not to
remember anything about them. Your mind's a blank as to everything you
want to forget."

I shook my head. "The trouble is, Jerry, that my mind's not blank at
all. I remember a hell of a lot but it's all about another man."

"How's that again?"

So I told him the whole story, from beginning to end, skipping only
the bits about the thorium bomb and Z-2 for reasons of security, and
omitting the name of the carrier. He took notes and studied them for a
while. Then he looked up at me and smiled.

"This beats anything in Freud," he observed. "I still stick to
my off-the-cuff diagnosis that you had something that gave you a
shock--it needn't have been anything big, you know; just a straw
that broke the camel's back--and then developed this loss of memory
as a defense mechanism. And this transfer of personalities with
Jacklin--metempsychosis is the fancy word for it--is not the usual type
of schizophrenia, but it falls into a pattern of wish-fulfillment.

"You probably don't remember it but ever since I've known you, you've
been grousing about this fellow Jacklin, whom none of us have ever
met. It's been close to an obsession with you. I gather that you had
some kind of a school-boy crush on him, which he ignored, and your
feelings turned to hatred. You seem to have kept close track of him and
his doings all these years. Subconsciously you must have identified
yourself with him. I'm just guessing now--Folsom could make a
scientific check--but I should say that you may have developed a split
personality, based on envy and jealousy for this chap. Jacklin's had
to make his own way, while you've always had plenty of money and good
business connections, especially since you got over the depression.
He was in uniform, serving his country, and you were a civilian,
enriching yourself. He had separated from his wife while you were
tangled up with a lot of women...."

"But how did I know that Mrs. Jacklin had a mole on her left hip?" I
asked.

"Nine women out of ten have at least one and often more moles on both
their hips," he said, "as you should know. In any case, I take it that
you didn't verify the statement. No, Winnie, at the Sanctuary they can
deal with this sort of thing scientifically and tell you how to make
the readjustment."

"My wife doesn't want me to readjust too much," I told him. "She'd
rather have me crazy and stick around with her than sane but off
chasing a bunch of skirts."

"Can't say that I blame her, old man," he agreed, controlling himself
with a visible effort, "but that's her affair and nothing to do with
your case."

"Quite!" I told him, "and let me say that you've been a hell of a good
sport about this mess. Believe me, Jerry, I'm not trying to alibi
myself so far as Virginia is involved, but I don't remember anything
about her and me that couldn't be taught in a Methodist Sunday School.
It's--it's almost as though I had been born again, given a last chance
to relive my life. If that's what trauma does for you, we ought to have
more of it."

"Listen, Winnie," the doctor remarked. "This is between us, of course,
but the sanest thing you ever did was to get shed of Virginia. She's
fun and all that, but after a few weeks it's boring to live with a
one-track mind with red hair. Germaine is worth a dozen of her. Perhaps
when I get back from the Army, Virginia will have settled down enough
to be a doctor's wife. You'll see that she gets the money, won't you?"

"Sure," I agreed, "and I'll give you a tip I learned at Hopkins.
The short-cut to medical riches. A loony psychiatrist there says he
always advises middle-aged men to do a little heavy drinking and woman
chasing, in order to get rid of their inhibitions. There ought to be a
fortune in that kind of medical treatment, especially in Westchester."

Jerry Rutherford laughed. "Westchester's discovered the prescription
all by itself," he said, "and they're just beginning to learn that
when a middle-aged American sheds his inhibitions, there's damn little
of him left. Now, you'd better run along and get packed for a stay
in Hartford. I'll phone Folsom and tell him you're driving over this
afternoon. He'll fix you up if anyone can."

"Swell!" I thanked him.

When I got back to Pook's Hill, I called the office and told Arthurjean
that I was leaving for a rest-cure at the Hartford Sanctuary and
to tell my partners that I didn't want to be disturbed by business
affairs until further notice. I asked her to get hold of Merriwether
Vail and meet me at the Sanctuary as soon as they could make it.
They were to bring the necessary papers so that I could deed over
$15,000 to Dr. Jeremiah Rutherford of Bedford Hills, to be paid in
monthly installments of $1,000 to his wife. I added that there was
nothing seriously wrong with me but that the best advice I could get
recommended a rest-cure to head off a possible nervous breakdown. Then
I said good-bye to Germaine, gave Ponto a farewell pat on the head and
piled into my Packard for the drive to Hartford.

The Sanctuary proved to be a large, pleasant brick building--something
about half-way between a country club and a summer hotel--in the better
groomed suburbs of Hartford, with a fine view of the Connecticut River.
The ample grounds were surrounded by a high spiked iron fence and the
gates to the driveway were closed, until I had identified myself to
the guard on duty. In fact, it reminded me of the routine of getting
admitted to the White House grounds, except that this time I was not
accompanied by General Wakely. At the front door, a uniformed attendant
took charge of my bags and gave directions to have my car sent to the
garage. Then I was ushered into one of those hospital waiting-rooms
that defy all interior-decorating efforts to give them a respectable,
homelike touch.

A few moments later, a pretty nurse in a white starched uniform
directed me to follow her. We went through a door, which she was
careful to lock behind her, along a corridor and up one flight of
stairs to a pleasantly furnished bedroom, where my bags were already
waiting for me. She told me to get undressed and go to bed--which I
did, after she had carefully unpacked my belongings, removing my razor
and my nail-file.

"Dr. Folsom will be by to see you in a few minutes, Mr. Tompkins," she
informed me. "Just ring if you want anything."

After she left, I felt good and mad. How in blazes did they expect
to minister to a mind diseased, if they began by the old routine of
getting the patient stripped and bedded? Then I realized that this
was just a simple matter of establishing the institution's moral
superiority, at the very outset, and my anger evaporated. I lay back
and dozed for a few minutes until the door opened and a burly man, with
a glittering eye and strangler's hands, entered my room.

"I'm Dr. Folsom, Mr. Tompkins," he informed me. "Dr. Rutherford phoned
that you were coming over for a check-up. Before we get down to
business, there are a few routine questions I'd like to ask."

They were routine: Name, age, address, next of kin, annual income,
banking connections, name of recommending physician, and whether
patient had previously received mental treatment in an accredited
psychiatric institution.

"Shall we mail the bills to Mrs. Tompkins?" he asked.

"Hell, no! Give them to me. I brought along my check-book."

Dr. Folsom nodded approval. "Here is the bill for the first week," he
said. "We generally ask our patients to pay in advance."

He handed me a folded piece of fine bonded paper. On it, tastefully
inscribed, was the information that I owed The Sanctuary, Hartford,
Conn., $250.00 for room, board and attendance for the period of April
20-25, inclusive. There was a space for my signature and the doctor
thrust a fountain-pen into my hand. "Just sign there and we'll send it
to your bank for collection," he said.

"What's all this fine print?" I suddenly demanded.

"Oh, that's just a matter of form," he explained.

"Wait a minute," I urged. "I was always taught that when in Hartford
you ought always to read the small print at the bottom of the page."

I studied it out. "The above signature," it read, "constitutes an
agreement not to leave or attempt to leave The Sanctuary without the
prior approval of the Management."

I looked at Dr. Folsom. "If you don't mind, doctor," I told him, "I'd
prefer to sign one of my own checks and have it cleared in the usual
way. What's the idea of having me sign away my liberty like that?"

Folsom smiled disarmingly. "That's one of the ways we judge whether a
patient is really sane. Only a crazy man would sign it," he explained.
"More seriously, Mr. Tompkins, you must remember that a private asylum
has quite a problem in controlling its patients. They are not generally
committed to our care by court orders and usually come here only at the
request of their families with their own reluctant consent. Without a
signed agreement of that kind, we might be exposed to legal annoyances,
suit for damages or even a kidnapping charge, if a patient changed his
mind and decided to act nasty."

"I see your point, doctor," I told him. "I've asked my attorney and my
private secretary to meet me here a little later today. I have some
business I must clean up before I can settle down for treatment. I'll
consult him about the kind of agreement to sign with the Sanctuary.
So far as I'm concerned, I don't see the necessity for any agreement.
I want to get a simple sanity test and see if you can recommend any
course of treatment for dealing with a serious loss of memory."

"I'm not sure that it is the management's policy to accept a patient
under such unusual conditions," he said. "I'll have to consult my
associates."

"See here, doctor," I replied. "All I want now is to have one of the
psychiatrists give me the works, tell me whether I'm sane or crazy, and
then I'll pull out. I don't want to stay here under false pretenses and
I don't intend to stay here a minute longer than I want to. I'll pay
any fee you charge, within reason, but I'm damned if I'll sign my own
freedom away, with Wall Street getting set to shoot the works."

Dr. Folsom laughed. "I can't say that I blame you, Mr. Tompkins. And
you don't sound unbalanced to me."

"But I want a document signed to that effect," I declared. "You see,
some of my business associates have been trying to have me adjudged
incompetent so as to get control of my money. It's about three million
dollars at present quotations. So I'm out to build up my defenses in
advance of the show-down. _Now_ do you understand?"

"Oh!" The Director of the Sanctuary was enormously relieved. "That's no
trouble at all. I'll send up our business psychiatrist, Dr. Pendergast
Potter--he studied under Jung in Vienna, you know--and he'll give you
our standard businessman's sanity-test. We have quite a few cases like
yours, you know. It's surprising how many business partners seize on
insanity as a key to robbing their associates. It's done every day. And
our fee for this service will be five thousand dollars."

"Five thousand dollars it is!" I agreed.

"Good!" Dr. Folsom beamed. "I'll send Potter over right away."




CHAPTER 24


When Dr. Pendergast Potter arrived, he proved to be a short,
square-built man, with a red spade beard and soft but shifty brown
eyes--like an Airedale's. He had, he told me almost at once, studied
with Jung in Vienna and I thought of that mischievous parody--

    "Bliss was it in that Freud to be alive,
    But to be Jung was very Heaven!"

"Dr. Folsom tells me, Mr. Tompkins," Potter continued in a sort of
heel-clicking, stiff-bow-from-the-waist manner which was meant, I
suppose, to reveal his Viennese training, "that you have reason
to believe that your business partners are plotting against you,
conspiring to throw you in the asylum? This sense of special
persecution, sir, have you had it long? Perhaps when you were a child,
you hated your father? It began then, not so? And, later at school,
perhaps--"

I got out of bed and advanced on the psychiatrist.

"Dr. Potter," I informed him, "you are here for only one reason, to
certify that I am sane in the legal sense. For this service I am paying
the Sanctuary a fee of five thousand dollars. To which, of course, I
will add a personal fee of one thousand dollars to you, Dr. Potter,
assuming that you can sign a certificate of sanity with a clear
scientific conscience."

Potter subsided in the arm-chair and cackled gleefully. "Boy, oh boy!"
he exclaimed, "for one thousand smackers I'd certify that Hitler is the
Messiah. Damn Folsom for sending me in blind! He didn't tell me it was
one of those."

"Besides," I added, "I have a really serious loss of memory, which is
worth your attention, though I haven't time to go into it now. So get
ahead with your tests, please, and let's clean up this one."

"Cross your knees, either leg!" he ordered and gave me a few brisk
taps just below the knee-cap with the edge of his flattened palm. My
knee-jerks were all that could be desired.

"Good!" remarked Potter. "That's still the only physical test for
sanity that's worth a damn. Hell! They have all sorts of gadgets but
they all amount to the same thing: Is your nervous system functioning
normally or is it not? What seems to be the trouble, Mr. Tompkins?
Partners closing in on your assets or has your wife made book with
your lawyer?"

"My only trouble," I informed him, "is that I'm damned if I can
remember anything that happened before April second of this year.
That's been getting me close to trouble and I'd like to clear it up. I
remember all sorts of things before then, but it's about another man."

"Hm!" Potter suddenly looked formidably medical. "That's what I call
schizophrenia with a pretzel twist. We could keep you here and give you
sedatives and baths and exercises and analysis, but it would be just
the same if we left you alone. You've had some kind of shock causing a
temporary occlusion of personality, and the best thing you can do is
wait. Sooner or later there will be another shock and everything will
come straight again. What do you think you remember from the blank
period?"

"Damned if I know," I replied. "I think I sank a battleship or killed a
President, or something."

Potter laughed. "That's just a variation of the good old Napoleon
complex--which is an inferiority complex gone wild. You ought to take
up a hobby, like expert book-binding or watch-repairing. That would
give you a sense of power and you wouldn't feel the need for sinking
ships. Ten to one, you can't even shoot a decent game of golf."

"I'm pretty good at poker," I defended myself.

"That's not power, Mr. Tompkins, that's just shrewdness. You have a
profound sense of physical inadequacy. The record says you're married.
Any children?"

I shook my head.

"That's it," Potter declared. "We had a case like that in Jung's
clinic--a baker named Hermann Schultz, who insisted that he was the
Emperor Friedrich Barbarossa. We were baffled for a while, since
Schultz was married and had three children. Then we learned that his
wife was the girl-friend of one of the Habsburg Archdukes and that
poor Schultz was not the father of little Franz, Irma and Ernst. We
solved it for him with his wife's help. She agreed to have another
child. Of course, it was the Archduke's but Schultz never guessed.
He ceased to believe that he was the Barbarossa and became a highly
successful baker. What you ought to do, Mr. Tompkins, is to father a
child and then you will forget all this nonsense about battleships and
Presidents. Not so?"

I grinned at him knowingly. "There's much in what you say, Dr. Potter,"
I complimented him, "but what the hell can I do about it bottled up
here in the Sanctuary? Just give me a clean mental bill of health--in
case any of my partners try to pull a fast one--and I'll go home to my
wife and give earnest consideration to your suggestion. After all, if
that fails, I can always take up wood-carving. Or try another girl."

"There are one or two around here--" he began, then checked himself.
"Well," he continued, "I can't say that I see anything really abnormal
about you. Sitting here, talking with you, I would have noticed any
psychopathic tendencies. We psychiatrists develop a sort of sixth sense
for the abnormal. I couldn't prove it scientifically, but I am sure as
Adam ate little green apples that there's nothing wrong with you that
can't be cured by a drink, a kiss and a baby."

There was a brisk knock on the door and the nurse appeared.

"Sorry to disturb you, doctor," she said, "but there's a man named Vail
downstairs with a writ of habeas corpus for Mr. Tompkins."

Potter looked at me accusingly, as though Jung had never for-seen this
kind of complication.

"Merry Vail," I agreed. "Yes, he's my lawyer. I told him to come here
but never dreamed--just send him up, nurse. In the meanwhile, doctor,
if you could get that certificate ready--"

Potter again gave the effect of heel-clicking, and withdrew.

Three minutes later Merriwether Vail and Arthurjean Briggs came
bursting into my room.

"Glory be, you're still safe, old man," my lawyer announced. "When Miss
Briggs phoned me your curious message, we put two and two together."

"And made it twenty-two?" I suggested.

"No, we made it four. We weren't going to stand for any nonsense from
the F.B.I. and I owe them something for pulling me in for questioning.
And when you spoke of fifteen thousand dollars and a doctor, I had a
brain-storm. So I flew up here and swore out a writ from the Federal
Court. I got a deputy to help me serve it--cost me all of twenty
bucks--and here we are."

I turned to Arthurjean. "Honeychile," I asked, "did you by any chance,
think to bring me some of the office brandy? I've been moving so fast
for the last three days that I'm out of training."

My secretary turned her back, gave a sort of dip-dive-and-wiggle and
produced from God knows where a half pint bottle of what proved to be
excellent brandy, well-warmed above room temperature. I heartlessly
refused to notice Vail's pathetic signs of desperate thirst and passed
the flask back to Arthurjean. "Thanks," I told her, "that just about
saved my life."

"Mr. Vail was all set that the doctors had hijacked you and were
holding you for ransom," she remarked, taking a short but deep drink
herself. "Seems like there's been a mistake."

"Uh-uh!" I indicated strong disagreement. "I came here under my own
power and am about to leave under the same and in my right mind."

"Whoever said you weren't?" Vail demanded. "God! we'll sue them for
libel."

I shook my head. "It was the Secret Service and only God can sue them,"
I said. "They took a notion to have me thrown in the Washington asylum
because they were sore at me on general principles. So I decided to
beat them to the draw and produce a certificate of sanity."

Vail looked at me with amusement. "Worst thing you could possibly
do, old man," he informed me. "If you start going around showing
people proof that you're not crazy, first thing you know you'll be in
Matteawan. Now if you want to prove to anybody that you're really in
your right mind, you'll try to do the right thing by this little girl
here."

In some bewilderment I looked at Arthurjean, whom nobody could
accurately accuse of being little.

"What are you driving at, Merry?" I asked.

"I refer to my client, Miss Briggs," he replied with dignity. "We have
strong written evidence of breach of promise."

"Sugar-puss?" I turned to my secretary, "Don't tell me that you've
shown my letters to this legal lout?"

She nodded. "Sorry, angel, but a girl's got to take care of herself in
this world. You remember where you wrote me, 'Be but mine and I shall
buy you a porterhouse steak with mushrooms'."

"It was onions, darling," I insisted. "Onions aren't breach of promise.
Damn it! they're cause for divorce."

"It was mushrooms," she repeated. "That was the same letter in which
you promised me hearts of lettuce, and ice-cream and--" she broke down,
sobbing with laughter.

I pulled her face down to me and gave her a kiss. "You big slob," I
told her, "all you think about, with democracy at the crossroads, is
food. Take that shyster downstairs and wait for me. I'll be down as
soon as I collect my certificate. Even if I can't wear it on my coat
like a campaign-ribbon it will be nice to hang in my den alongside my
Harvard B.A. diploma and the moose I didn't kill--it was the Indian
guide but they don't count--in New Brunswick."

Arthurjean laughed. "You sure do make your help sing for their supper,
angel," she told me. "And just because I call you angel don't you start
worrying about that nice wife of yours. From now on, I'll make like a
sister."

So I smacked her on the porte-cochere and ordered her out of the room
until I got dressed. As the door closed behind her and Vail, I rang for
the nurse and asked to have my bags packed.

"Goodness, Mr. Tompkins," she exclaimed. "Don't you like it here? We
understood that you wanted a rest-cure."

She stood just a fraction of an inch too close to me and I was aware of
pretty brown hair under her starched nurse's cap, a whiff of something
that smelled far more expensive than antiseptic, and a pleasingly
rounded effect underneath the prim blouse of her uniform. So I put my
arm around her, gave her a friendly kiss and said, "Name, please, and
when do you get off duty?"

"Emily Post," she answered, "so help me, but don't let that stop you,
and nine o'clock tonight."

"Good," I told her. "Will you join us for dinner and a drink at--what's
the best hotel here now we've a war on?"

"The Governor Baldwin," she replied.

"Meet us at the Baldwin, then, as soon as you can get away. I'd like
you to meet my friends socially and--"

She nodded brightly and hurried from the room, with a distinctly
unmedical motion of her hips.

A moment later Dr. Folsom came lounging in, his strangler's hands
dangling at his side.

"Sorry you feel you must leave, Mr. Tompkins," he told me. "Here's that
certificate. It will stand up in any court east of the Mississippi if
you have to use it. That will be five thousand, as agreed."

I sat down at the little writing-desk and laboriously made out three
checks: one for five thousand to the order of the Sanctuary, one for
one thousand to the order of Pendergast Potter, and another for one
thousand to the order of--

"Any initials, Dr. Folsom?" I asked.

"A. J.," he replied, "but just make it to the Sanctuary."

"A. J. Folsom," I wrote on the final check and endorsed it with "W. S.
Tompkins," as well as I could with my still bandaged fingers.

"What--" Folsom was startled. "Gosh! You're a white man, Mr. Tompkins.
And Potter will be glad to have this, too. He is--"

"Think nothing of it!" I announced grandly. "The market's been working
for me all week, and this won't even cost you income-tax; I'll put it
down as a gift."

Folsom's face was positively transfigured with gratitude and a devotion
that would not have been out of place in a stained glass window.

"By George!" he insisted. "You _are_ a white man. I'd be proud to go
before the Supreme Court of the United States and testify--" He stopped
abruptly. "Are these checks good?" he inquired.

"Oh, come, doctor, who's loony now?" I demanded. "Why would I expose
myself to a bad check charge just to keep out of a private asylum with
my lawyer fully equipped with a writ?"

"That's so, that's so!" he beamed reassured. "Well, sir, it's been fine
having you here and any time--day or night--if you want refuge from the
stormy blast, just come out to the Sanctuary. We'll always be honored
to put you up and give you the best we have for as long as you care to
stay. Believe me, Mr. Tompkins, it may seem odd but you'll never find
warmer hospitality or a more sincere welcome than right here in this
little old asylum."




CHAPTER 25


The grill in the Governor Baldwin was not crowded and we had no trouble
getting a pleasant table in the corner, while four colored men blew
into metal objects, hit things and delivered themselves of various
rhythmic noises. From time to time they paused, in order to allow the
perspiring couples who jiggled and writhed on the dancefloor time to
cool off. While waiting for Emily Post to appear, Arthurjean was very
subordinate, calling me "Mr. Tompkins" and acting, quite as the boss's
secretary should act when out for dinner with the boss. Merry Vail was
in high spirits and insisted on having the deputy who had helped serve
the writ join us for a drink. But the deputy was a pallid young man
with--he told us--a heart-murmur that kept him out of the armed forces
and he never touched anything strong.

So we shed him ahead of the time when the nurse from "The Sanctuary"
showed up in a slick dancing-dress that seemed painted on her torso
and a make-up that was a tribute to the skill of the advertisers of
cosmetics. Vail took one look at her and his face lit up like Broadway.

"Spring is in the air," he remarked to the world at large. "Will you
dance, Miss Post?"

She flashed a smile that promised some and hinted at more, and said,
"You bet!"

I watched them as they took the dance floor and the music took them. I
turned back to my secretary.

"What gives, angel?" I asked.

She beamed at me. "Winnie," she observed, "you're _it_. Perhaps the
most famous man in Wall Street, in a quiet way. You caught the market
just right. Mr. Wasson and Mr. Cone pulled out just right, before the
big operators decided they must be patriotic and support quotations
before you made too much money. We've cleaned up nearly three million
dollars and Mr. Cone's so happy about it he's got him a brand-new
girl-friend."

"How about Wasson?" I asked. "Has success gone to his head?"

"Oh, he's just the same as ever. He didn't bat an eyelash except to
say that you were one wise so-and-so to figure the break."

"And how about yourself, Arthurjean?"

She grinned at me. "I guess a girl can tell when she's washed up with
a swell guy. But you're not Winnie--not the Winnie I knew--and there
aren't going to be any fun and games from now on, I guess."

She took a hearty pull at her highball.

"So we're friends," she announced. "You've got a swell wife waiting for
you. If you ever need me, I'll be around. If you don't, that's okay
too. But Gawd, honeychile, we did have us some fun--Winnie and I. He
had a theory that monogamy was a kind of hardwood that grows in the
tropics, and that made him kind of nice to play with. What gives with
you?"

I gave her a fill-in on the Washington trip and the events that had
brought me to The Sanctuary, and she listened with a growing smile.

"Why--" she began, but the music stopped, and Vail and Miss Post
returned to the table.

"Winnie," Vail announced, "spring hath come to Hartford, Conn., and
I've decided to take a room at this hotel. This is a mighty fine little
city, isn't it? Clean, vital, New England honesty and all that, not to
mention insurance. And--" His eyes strayed fondly in the direction of
the nurse who sat with eyes demurely downcast.

"Okay," I told him. "This is the official opening of spring. Just give
me those papers I wanted to sign. The money for Dr. Rutherford, I mean."

He stared at me.

"You don't mean to say you were serious about that!" he exclaimed. "I
thought it was a gag to tip me off that you were being railroaded to
the asylum. Hell, I'll have the stuff drawn up and you can sign it on
Monday. There's nothing doing in town over the week-end and Rutherford
can wait. If you like, I'll try to beat him down. For my money, he'll
settle for five thousand and to hell with his family honor."

I shook my head. "No dice, Merry. It's fifteen thousand--a gentleman's
agreement."

"Hell! no gentleman has any business making agreements. That's what
lawyers are for."

The music started up with a rather miscegenated attempt to marry
Mendelssohn's Spring Song to "Pistol-Packing Momma." He grabbed Emily
Post by the arm. "Come on," he urged. "Got to dance. I'll show you some
steps that aren't in the book of etiquette."

"Why, Mr. Vail!" she agreed, and they were off again.

I resumed my talk with Arthurjean. "You'd better stay here, too," I
told her. "It's getting late and they lock up the trains on the New
Haven road along with the cows."

She looked the question at me.

"Nope!" I replied sturdily. "I'm going to drive back and see whether
spring has come to Bedford Hills. Even commuters have children now and
then," I added. "They used to blame it on sunspots or Roosevelt but
now I guess they'll have nobody to blame but themselves."

In return for a five-spot the hotel door-man told me how to find the
nearest Black Market gas-station, so I tanked up the Packard and worked
myself across country until I hit the Parkway.

The night was clear and cool but there was a hint of blossoms in the
air.

Vail was right. Spring had come to the commuters and I thought
sardonically of what could be expected at every country club the next
night--Saturday. I missed the turn-off for Bedford Hills and wasted
a couple of hours wandering amiss through the maze of Westchester
roads, but finally I found myself on a familiar road and soon eased
the Packard to a slow stop on the crackling gravel of the entrance of
Pook's Hill.

I left my bags in the car and walked quietly along the grass until I
let myself in at front door. A muffled woof from the kitchen showed
that Ponto had drowsily recognized my tread as I tip-toed up the
stairs and into my bedroom. It was three o'clock in the morning and
the frogs were still jingling in the marshy meadows as I stood by the
window and tasted the night air. Then I undressed rapidly and put on a
dressing-gown and slippers. I turned off the lights and tip-toed across
the hall to my wife's bedroom.

Her door was closed but, when I turned the handle, it proved not to
be locked or bolted. I closed it softly behind me and approached the
edge of the bed. Germaine was sleeping quietly, the faint glow of the
starlight outlining her dark hair against the white pillow.

Suddenly she started.

"What? Who's that?" she cried.

I leaned over and brushed her hair with my lips.

"It's me," I told her truthfully. "Everything's all right."

"Hurry!" she murmured. "You'll catch cold."

A moment later, she remarked conversationally, "Heavens! You _are_
cold."

Then she burrowed herself against me and wordlessly raised her lips to
mine.

       *       *       *       *       *

When I opened my eyes in the morning the bed felt strangely deserted. I
reached over and found that I was alone.

"Jimmie!" I called. "Jimmie!"

She appeared at the bathroom door.

"Hullo," she remarked. "Where did you come from? And what are you doing
there? Don't you know that all respectable married couples sleep in
separate rooms, according to 'House and Garden'?"

"I'm not respectable," I told her. "Please notify the editor."

"You certainly are not!" she observed. "You nearly gave me
heart-failure, sneaking into my room like that when you were supposed
to be in Hartford. It would have served you right if I'd called for the
police."

"I'm just as good as the average policeman," I suggested. "Come over
here and I'll show you how we Tompkinses--"

But she evaded me.

"No, sir. We must set a good example to the servants. It's way past
breakfast time and I don't want Myrtle to guess that we're absolutely
shameless."

Breakfast was waiting for us when we came downstairs and we gave
a reasonably good impersonation of an elderly married couple at
the breakfast table. I read the financial section of the "Times"
and Germaine again busied herself with the social page of the
"Herald-Tribune", now and then reading brief items about marriages, and
divorces, while I grunted noncommitally about the state of the market.
As a matter of fact, we both believed we had succeeded admirably when
our attention was attracted by a meaning kind of cough.

It was Mary-Myrtle.

"What is it, Myrtle?" Germaine asked with a radiant smile.

"It's not my business to say so," the maid stammered, "but I wanted to
know whether you would really keep me on. I--I like it here--and I'm so
glad you're happy, Mrs. Tompkins."

"Of course, you're going to stay with us, Myrtle, but however did you
guess?"

"You can see it in your face, Mrs. Tompkins," she said, "and Mr.
Tompkins he was looking at the sporting page and talking about U.S.
Steel and A.T.&T. And--oh, it's nice."

And she fled from the room.

Germaine looked at me like the angel at the Gates of Eden. "There!"
she exclaimed. "That's what happens when I trust you. You can't even
find the right page in the paper to fake from. Next time I'm going to
marry a man who doesn't look so damned happy it's a give-away."

"It's spring," I explained stupidly.

"You know, Winnie," my wife said suddenly, "speaking of spring, I've
been thinking about Ponto. You've had him for five years now and I
think he's getting a little queer. Don't you think it would be a good
idea to send him to the kennels and have him bred? Perhaps that's all
that's been wrong with him."

"Spoken like a woman, Jimmie," I said, "but I agree that it wouldn't do
any harm. I'll phone Dalrymple after breakfast and have him send over
for Ponto's Sacre du Printemps. He's got championship blood and, unlike
holy matrimony, there's money in it."

She shrugged her shoulders unspeakably.

"Poor Winnie!" she mocked. "You'd be worth millions if you'd been paid,
like Ponto."

"It mightn't be a bad idea, at that," I remarked. "If you realize the
years of apprenticeship and training, the high degree of professional
skill required--"

"Come here, then," she ordered, "I'll pay you."

She did.

"You won't forget about Ponto," she added breathless after her kiss.
"The poor darling oughtn't to be celibate in this household. I wouldn't
want it to happen to a dog."




CHAPTER 26


On the morning of Monday, April 23rd (the date seemed unimportant
at the time), I took the early morning train into New York. Spring
had done its fell work and the club car was full of middle-aged
business-men, with dark circles under their eyes, prepared to fight
at the drop of a hat anyone who said they weren't as young as they
felt. With Jimmie's perfume still in my nostrils, I hadn't the heart
to deride them, so I did the next best thing and talked them into a
poker-game.

By the time we pulled into Grand Central I was eighteen dollars and
seventy cents ahead, thanks to a full-house just before we reached
125th Street.

Instead of joining my fellow-brokers in their Gadarene rush for the
downtown subway express, I strolled north along Park Avenue to the Pond
Club.

At the Pond Club I found Tammy engaged, as ever, in polishing the
glasses behind his gleaming little bar.

"My! Mr. Tompkins," he exclaimed. "You look as though you'd just made a
million dollars," he told me. "The usual, sir?"

"It was nearly three millions, Tammy, and accept no substitutes. What I
need is concentrated protein. How about a couple of dozen Cotuits and
some black coffee?"

The steward raised his eyebrows knowingly.

"I'll mix you one of my Second Day Specials, sir," he said. "Funny
thing about that drink. One night, young Mr. Ferguson--he's a new
member, sir--was feeling merry and felt a sudden sense of compassion
for the statue of Civic Virtue in front of the City Hall. Of course,
I've never seen it but they tell me that it's a very fine work of art,
by a person named Mac Monnies, I believe. He wasn't a member of the
club, of course, but that's what I understand the name to be. So Mr.
Ferguson would have nothing for it but to take one of my Second Day
Specials down to the Civic Virtue and give him a drink. It seemed that
Mr. Ferguson felt quite sorry for the statue down there in front of
LaGuardia without any company. So he took a cab downtown and poured the
drink down the mouth of the statue for a joke, like. But here's the odd
thing, sir. They had to throw a canvas over the statue and send for a
man with a hacksaw before the Mayor decided it was proper to expose it
to the citizens again."

"Then bring me a double Second Day Special, without cold chisels or
hacksaws, if you please," I ordered.

He smirked knowingly but had the tact of good club servants to say
nothing. I sipped his concoction, which tasted entirely unlike the
egg-nog it outwardly resembled. A moment later, I tried another sip. It
was not at all unpleasant, so I drained the glass. This, I decided, was
exactly what I needed, so I drank the second one without drawing breath.

"Ah-h-h!" I beamed. "That is much better. Now if anybody phones me, say
I'm not here, unless it's one of my friends."

"Would that be true of that Mrs. R., sir?" he inquired. "That lady with
the red hair you told me about, Mr. Tompkins?"

"If Mrs. Rutherford calls," I said, "let me know."

He smiled slyly. "Then I was to deliver a message to you from her, sir.
She wants you to call her at the apartment, she said. Circle 8-7326,
the number is. She said it was important."

I dialed the number. Virginia answered.

"Winnie?" Her voice was cool and amused. "You'd better come up here in
a hurry. It's urgent."

"Where is here?" I asked.

"At our place, the apartment," she said.

"Better give me the address," I suggested. "I can't seem to remember."

"Winnie, that particular joke is getting tiresome. You know perfectly
well it's 172 East 72nd Street and the third floor front. The name,
naturally, is Smith."

"John Smith?" I inquired.

"Natch! And hurry, unless you want to be in worse trouble than you can
imagine."

I signaled to Tammy. "One more Second Day Special, please."

He looked worried. "Are you quite sure, sir," he demurred. "Two is as
much as I've ever seen a man take."

He returned to his mystery and produced the fatal brew. I drank it
slowly. By Godfrey! this was more like it. I tossed him a five-dollar
bill.

"Just remember that you haven't seen me," I told him.

"Quite, Mr. Tompkins."

I managed to snag an uptown taxi and rolled in comfort to 172 East 72nd
Street.

I pressed the button marked Smith and was rewarded by a clicking of the
latch. I climbed the stairs and on the third story tapped the little
brass knocker. The door opened and Virginia appeared clad somewhat in a
white silk dressing-gown and with her red hair sizzling out at me.

"Come in, stranger," she said.

She closed the door and settled herself comfortably, with a cigarette,
on the suspiciously broad day-bed. I sat down in a very deep easy
chair, facing her, and lighted a cigarette too.

"Well?" I inquired.

"Winnie," she began, "you know I never try to interfere with your
private life or try to ask questions, but don't you think this farce
has gone on long enough?"

I flicked some ash on the carpet and tried to look inscrutable.

"You know what you are doing, of course," she continued, "and your
performance in Washington was magnificent, but just between ourselves,
can't you relax?"

Although the windows were open, the room seemed oppressively warm. I
threw back my coat and confronted her without speaking.

"Of course," Virginia continued, "I know we've got to be discreet.
There can always be dictaphones and detectives and it seems that the
F.B.I. knows all about this place, but can't you just--"

She jumped up and faced me. With an angry movement, she snatched off
her dressing-gown and flung it on the floor.

"There!" she said. "Is there anything _wrong_ with me? Am I repulsive?
Or don't you care?"

It must have been the three specials that lifted me from the easy chair
and whisked me across the room to the embattled red head, but it must
have been my guardian angel that prompted my next move. I pulled out my
fountain pen and wrote rapidly on the back of an envelope: "I suspect
that we are watched."

Her eyes widened and she quickly grabbed her gown and draped it around
her. I laid my finger to my lips.

"What I came to see you about, Virginia," I said, "is to tell you, once
and for all, that all is over between us."

That was a mistake. She gave me a wink, dropped the gown and came and
sat beside me on the arm of the chair.

"I too, Winfred," she said dramatically, "have become increasingly
distressed by your apparent coldness."

She cuddled down and planted her lips on my ear while her tongue
flicked like a little snake's.

"No," she continued, "the time has come, Winfred, when we must face
the facts, unpleasant though they may be. I was never meant to be a
part-time girl for any man."

Her sharp little teeth nipped my neck savagely.

"Virginia," I said, "what I had to say--what I mean is--"

I never said it. Her mouth was suddenly glued to mine and she melted
into my arms.

"Damn you!" I told her. "There."

The apartment door-bell was buzzing like an accusation.

"Tell them to go away," she murmured. "Say we're not at home."

I disentangled myself, ran to the door and jiggled the button that
released the downstairs catch. "Go and make yourself decent," I told
her. "I'll stall them if you aren't too long."

I listened as the footsteps slowly mounted the stairs. It was a man's
step. Then came a brisk tap on the brass knocker. I opened up. It was
A. J. Harcourt of the F.B.I. He seemed rather surprised to see me.

"Good morning, Mr. Tompkins," he began. "I thought that--"

"Oh, come on in," I urged him. "Mrs. Rutherford will be out in a
moment. I--we...."

He nodded. "You certainly do get around," he admitted. "Last the Bureau
heard you were a patient up in Hartford, and here I find you in--"

"In a love-nest," I suggested. "A den of perfumed sin. A high-priced
hell-hole. I got here about ten minutes ago. Mrs. Rutherford said that
I might be in trouble but she didn't get around to explaining what
trouble."

He grinned. "When a girl speaks of trouble, she means herself," he
orated.

"Oh, is that so?"

Virginia appeared at the entrance to the bathroom, completely though
revealingly clad, and advanced into the room brandishing her sex like
an invisible shillelagh. "And what has the F.B.I. to do with me, Mr.
Harcourt?" she demanded.

Poor Harcourt looked abashed but made a speedy recovery, getting out of
the rough in one stroke.

"Now that Mr. Tompkins is here, Mrs. Rutherford, mam," he said, "I have
nothing to see you about. We heard he had gone to a private asylum in
New England and I was told to see you and ask if you knew any of the
circumstances."

"Oh!" Virginia sat down on the rumpled day-bed. "That sounds rather
like a lie, you know."

"That's not my fault, mam," Harcourt replied. "My chief gives me my
orders and I follow them without being asked for my opinion. If the
Bureau wants to check on Mr. Tompkins through his friends--"

Virginia beamed and dimpled. "You couldn't do better than come to me,"
she admitted.

"Well, here I am," I told him, "and Mrs. Rutherford needn't feel
bothered. What is it now?"

"We just wanted to get the rights of your run-in with the Secret
Service," he told me. "Our liaison there told the Director that you
stood Chief Flynn on his ear and that Flynn threatened to swear out a
lunacy warrant against you. How come?"

I gave him a full account of my encounter with the Secret Service and
ended by producing the certificate of sanity signed by Dr. Folsom.

"There it is," I declaimed.

The Special Agent smiled. "You're nothing if not thorough, Mr.
Tompkins. Have you had any luck filling in that blank period before
Easter? The Bureau would feel much happier if you could remember. Now
don't get me wrong. The case against you is closed. You're off our
books. We believe that you're telling the truth, but just the same it
seems funny you can't remember."

Virginia Rutherford turned on him, like a battleship bringing a battery
of 16-inch guns to bear on a freighter. "Perhaps he has a good reason
for not remembering," she remarked. "Perhaps he went somewhere, with
some one--in skirts!"

"That's just what puzzles us," Harcourt admitted. "We've had fifty
agents from the New York office alone making checks, as far north as
Montreal, in Portland, Boston, Providence, and even Cincinnati and
Richmond. We've checked trains, buses, airlines and the garages, as
well as the hotels, boarding-houses and overnight cabins. There isn't
anybody that can remember seeing Mr. Tompkins, with or without a woman,
during that week."

"Then you're still investigating me?" I asked, while a chill went down
my spine.

The Special Agent shook his head. "Not at all, Mr. Tompkins. Like
I told you, the investigation was called off last week, when we
established your Z-2 identity. This is just the result of the inquiries
we started the week before last."

"And you can't find a trace?" I asked.

"Not a thing," he said.

Mrs. Rutherford turned to me, flung her arms around me and planted a
far from sisterly kiss on my lips. "Winnie, old dear," she observed,
"you are simply incredible."

And she left the apartment.

"Wonder what she meant by that?" Harcourt mused.

"We're probably happier in ignorance," I told him. "Come on, A. J.,
I'll buy a taxi down town. I've got to stop in at my office and gather
some of my unearned income. They tell me we've made nearly three
million dollars in the last ten days."

Harcourt consulted his note book. "The Bureau's figures put it at
two million eight hundred seventy thousand and two hundred forty-six
dollars and seventy-one cents, if you want to know," he said.

"So you _are_ keeping me watched," I remarked.

"What do _you_ think?" asked Special Agent Harcourt of the F.B.I.




CHAPTER 27


"What's the big idea?" I demanded. "I thought I was in the clear."

Harcourt looked somewhat embarrassed.

"Perhaps I oughtn't to tell you this, Mr. Tompkins," he explained, "but
like you said, you're in the clear with the Bureau. We've checked and
double-checked and any way we slice it, you're still okay. Maybe you're
Tompkins with a lapse of memory, maybe this yarn of yours about Jacklin
is on the level, but we're sure of _you_."

"Then why all this interest in me?" I asked. "You've been swell with
me personally, but it's getting on my nerves having you pop up all the
time. Though I must say I was relieved when you showed up today. Mrs.
Rutherford--"

He grinned. "Red heads spell trouble anywhere, any time," he observed.
"No, it's this Von Bieberstein we're gunning for. Mr. Lamb at the
Bureau has a notion that Von Bieberstein may have some connection
with you that you don't know about. He might be using your office as
a post-box or be somebody that you know as someone else. It sounds
screwy, I know, but this Von Bieberstein is a slick baby. For all I
know, he might even be a woman."

I glanced inquiringly in the direction of Virginia's apartment.

"Not for my money," he said. "We've checked her, too. And it isn't that
Tennessee secretary of yours, either. There's a girl for you. We've got
her biog right back to the Knoxville doc that delivered her. But the
Bureau doesn't think it's an accident that you turned up in the middle
of this case, so I've been told off to check on all your contacts.
Seems mighty funny, you a millionaire and me an average guy even if
Arthurjean still thinks I got a wife in Brooklyn, but it's the war, I
guess."

"'Says every moron, There's a war on!'" I quoted. I scratched my head.
"If only I could remember that blank spot, I might be able to help you."

Harcourt studied his finger-nails attentively. "We're taking care of
your office contacts, of course, and we have a couple of men working
up in Bedford Hills. But New York's the hell of a big town and almost
anything could happen to you outside of your office and your clubs. Got
any ideas?"

"What sort?"

"Well, there's always women but I guess we've carried that line as far
as it will take us. We've checked the doctors and the dentists and the
bars and the nightclubs. How about astrologers, say? Hitler made use of
them in Germany. He might use 'em over here, though we've screened 'em
all since before Pearl Harbor."

I laughed. "I doubt that a man like Tompkins would use astrology," I
told him.

Harcourt shook his head. "That's where you'd be wrong. You'd be
surprised how many big Wall Street operators go for that guff."

"It doesn't register," I replied, "but I'll phone the office and see if
Miss Briggs knows."

When I made the connection, Arthurjean informed me that the phone had
been ringing all morning and when would I be in. Vail, she reported,
was still in Hartford with a bad case of Emily Post. I asked her about
astrologers and she said she didn't know but would find out. In a
little while she reported that Phil Cone thought I'd once gone to see
that Ernestina Clump that used to advise the Morgan partners.

"Okay," I told her. "I'll be in about four this afternoon and will
handle any calls or visitors then."

I turned to Harcourt. "It doesn't sound like much but Phil Cone thinks
I once consulted Ernestina Clump. Want me to make an appointment?"

He nodded, so I looked up her number and dialed the office in the
Chrysler Building where Miss Clump kept track of the stars in their
courses and the millionaires in their jitters.

Arranging for an immediate appointment through the very, very
well-bred secretarial voice that stiff-armed me was not easy until
I said that I would pay double-fees. Then she believed it might be
arranged. "That will be two thousand dollars," she imparted, "and you
must be here at one o'clock precisely."

As we taxied downtown together, Harcourt was uncommunicative, except
for the remark that it was right handy to Grand Central and would be no
trick to stop off before catching trains.

Miss Clump, as it turned out, was a motherly woman whose wrinkled
cheeks and plump hands suggested greater familiarity with the
cook-stove than with the planets. Her office showed the most refined
kind of charlatanry--everything quite solid and in good taste, with no
taint of the Zodiac. At a guess, about ten thousand dollar's worth of
furnishings was involved and I imagined that the annual rental might
run as high as six thousand.

"Well, Mr. Tompkins," Miss Clump remarked in a pleasant, homey voice
with a trace of Mid-Western flatness, "I wondered when you would be in
to see me again. The stars being mean to you? Or is it another woman?"

"Let's see," I stalled, "when was the last time I consulted you?"

She cackled. "Young man, you've been comin' to see me, off and on, the
last ten years. Last time was in March. That was about the red-head.
Virgo in the House of Scorpio you called it."

I nodded. "That would be it, I guess. She's more scorpion than virgin."

She patted my hand comfortingly across the table. "They all are," she
said, "unless they're really in love. Then even the stars can't stop
'em. What's the matter now?"

"Police," I said. "Loss of memory. Women and money are all right but
I'm being followed and I've drawn sort of blank for the whole month of
March. Can you take a look at my horoscope and tell me what the stars
were doing to me then?"

She stared at me shrewdly. "Police," she remarked. "Land's sakes, I
don't want trouble with the police. Young man, you--"

I hastened to interrupt her. "That's only a figure of speech. I'm in
trouble with the government. Just tell me what I was doing in March and
give me a hint of what lies ahead next month."

She examined the chart carefully and made a few pencilled notes on a
scratch-pad. Then she looked up at me in bewilderment.

"This doesn't make much sense, Mr. Tompkins," she told me, "but here it
is. So far as I can make out, in March you went on a long trip and had
some kind of bad accident. There's Neptune and Saturn in conjunction
under Aries and Venus in opposition. That could mean more trouble
with that girl, I s'pose. Then early in April you came under a new
sign--money it looks like, lots, of it, and Venus is right for you. It
looks like happiness. Now for the future, there's something I don't
understand. There's a sort of jumble--an accident mebbe--right ahead of
you and then some kind of crisis. You're going to live quite happy with
a woman for a while--and, well, that's all I can see, except--" she
paused.

I raised my eyebrows. "Except what?" I asked. "I want the truth."

She lowered her head. "It _might_ be a bad illness," she said, "but
it's the combination I generally call a death--somebody else's death,
that is. You aren't planning to murder anybody, are you?"

I leaned back in my chair and laughed heartily.

"Good Lord, no! Miss Clump. And even if I did I have money enough to
hire somebody to do it for me--like the government. Here's a check for
you," I added. "Two thousand, I think you said."

"Be careful," she told me in a low voice, almost in a whisper. "Be
very, very careful. I don't like to see that combination in the stars.
It might mean bad trouble."

I rejoined Harcourt in the downstairs bar of the Vanderbilt Hotel and
gave him a quick account of Miss Clump's forecast.

"That looks pretty hot," he allowed, "except that it sounds like
anybody. The usual line is money coming in, successful trouble, and
just call again sometime. Anyhow, the Bureau doesn't handle murder and
you don't look like a killer to me, even though you've got yourself
back in good shape, physically, I mean."

"She sounded pretty much in earnest," I told him, "but I'm damned if I
know where I'd begin if I went in for a career of killing."

"So you think she's on the level?" he asked. "It's all hooey to me."

I considered carefully before I answered him.

"The astrologers claim," I told him, "that they practice an exact
science. They have won law-suits based on that claim and have won
exemption from the old statutes against gypsies and fortune tellers.
Miss Clump is a good showwoman. Her fees are high as the Chrysler
Building and her office costs plenty. No stuffed owls or dried bats or
any junk that would make a businessman think he was going slumming.
When she talked to me she seemed honestly surprised at what she claimed
she saw in the stars and she certainly sounded entirely in earnest when
she warned me. My guess is that she's on the level and has nothing to
do with Von Bieberstein, if there is such a person."

Harcourt sipped his Coca-Cola, being on duty and hence not drinking, in
official silence.

"Yeah," he agreed at last. "Could be, though we'll have to check her
and her secretary and her clients, right up to but _not_ including
Democratic Senators and Cabinet officers."

"How about barbershops?" I asked him. "Or drugstores? I've always
thought they'd make the best intelligence centers in America. You can't
keep track of everybody who buys a dime's worth of aspirin or a package
of Kleenex. What's to prevent the cigar counter at any hotel or drug
store being the place where two Nazi agents meet. The clerks wouldn't
know them and in a town like this nobody would even notice them."

The Special Agent finished his drink and banged the glass down on
the table. "That's just the trouble with this town," he announced.
"There's so many services here that everybody uses you can't possibly
check them. Well, you run on down to your office and see if you can't
find out something else. Thanks for the lift on Miss Clump. Now I've
got to call headquarters and get a special detail to go to work on her."

"You don't seriously think that she knows anything about Von
Bieberstein, do you?" I asked.

He smiled ruefully. "No, I don't, but the way you describe her,
she's a sort of nice, old-fashioned woman, and yet she drags down a
thousand bucks for fifteen minutes of astral horse-feathers in this
tough burg. There's something screwy about a set-up like that. Now
I've seen the files on most of the big-time astrologers that operated
here--Evangeline Adams and Myra Kingsley were tops in their time--and
there's not one of them can touch this Clump woman for money. I don't
forget that the first woman I ever arrested--it was before I joined the
Bureau and I was on the homicide detail in Raleigh--was just as sweet
and gentle as your Aunt Minnie. All she'd done was poison her husband
and her two children so's to be free to sleep with her brother-in-law.
So it's going to be plenty work for the Bureau to check this one,
before we're sure she's okay."

I told him that I didn't enjoy being put in the position of an F.B.I.
Typhoid Mary, who automatically exposed his acquaintances to immediate
visitations of G-men.

"Shucks! Mr. Tompkins," he assured me, "they'll never know we're
around. We got a pretty smooth outfit now and we have ways of checking
you never dreamed of. When we go to work, we do a neat job and if we
don't learn anything, well, that's that--but we don't bother folks
while were doing it."

"All right," I agreed. "I'll be down at the office until the morning."




CHAPTER 28


The highly respectable receptionist at the office of Tompkins, Wasson &
Cone almost smiled at me.

"There are several gentlemen waiting for you, Mr. Tompkins," she
announced. "Some of them have been here since before lunch. Do you plan
to receive them or shall I ask them to return tomorrow?"

"No, I'll see them in a few minutes," I replied. "Miss Briggs will let
you know."

No sooner had I settled down at my desk, however, than Graham Wasson
and Phil Cone came dancing in, wreathed in tickertape.

"We're rich! We're rich!" they chanted.

"Where's the Marine Band and 'Hail to the Chief'?" I asked. "How rich
are we, anyway?"

"We cleaned up," Wasson said. "Just a bit under three million in
one week. It was as you said. We went short of the market and after
Roosevelt's death, boy! did they liquidate! And thanks to Phil here, we
got out before the big boys put the squeeze on the shorts."

"That reminds me, Winnie," Cone interrupted, "one of the mourners
in the customers room who's waiting to see you is Jim DeForest from
Morgan's. He's been waiting here since two o'clock. You'd better see
him quick, huh? We don't want to keep 23 Wall waiting, do we?"

"Nuts, Phil," I told him. "I'll see them in the order of their arrival.
That's what they do at Morgan's when you haven't got an appointment."

I pushed the button for Arthurjean.

"Who's been waiting the longest, Miss Briggs," I asked.

She consulted a little pack of memo forms. "There's this Mr.
Sylvester," she said. "He was here when the office opened and has been
waiting here all day. He wouldn't state his business."

"Okay," I replied. "Send him in or he'll faint from hunger."

Mr. Sylvester was florid in a quiet Latin way and looked as though
he might be anything from an operatic tenor to the proprietor of a
gambling ship. He waited until my partners had withdrawn.

"Mr. Tompkins," he said, speaking quietly, "I represent a syndicate
that's reorganizing the free market in meat. We need a real smart guy,
well-connected, like yourself, to head it up and keep track of the
money. We'll pay a million dollars a year any way you like it--Swiss
banks, Havana, Buenos Aires, Mexico City--and no tax."

"I'm always interested in a million dollars but I never did like
Atlanta," I told him.

"Atlanta!" He shrugged his shoulders. "We got lawyers could talk Capone
outa Alcatraz and we got a fix on the Courts, too. What would you be
doin' in Atlanta?"

"I doubt that they'd make me librarian," I said, "and I don't think I'd
make the ball-team, so I guess I'd have to work in the laundry. What's
the trouble with the black market, anyhow? Seems to me you've got
O.P.A. right in your corner."

"Too many amateurs and outsiders," he told me, "just like with
Prohibition. Meat's bad and too many cops get a cut. We aim to do like
the beer syndicates--organize it right, keep prices reasonable, have
the pay-off stabilized, make it a good banking proposition. We've
checked on you. You're smart. Would a million and a half do?"

I shook my head. "I've got a million and a half," I remarked.

"Okay," Mr. Sylvester straightened up, shook my hand and gave a little
bow. "Think it over!" he urged. "If you change your mind put an ad in
the Saturday Review personal column. 'Meet me anywhere, Winnie!' That's
cute. 'Meet' and 'Meat,' see? Our representative will call on you."

I asked Arthurjean to send in the next visitor and to my surprise she
announced DeForest.

"Hell!" I told her. "There must have been others ahead of him."

"There was," she said, "but they agreed to let him see you first. They
said they'd be back tomorrow. They were from Goldman Sachs and Lehman
Brothers so they wanted to give Morgan's first crack at you, I guess."

Jim DeForest proved to be one of the vaguely familiar figures I had
noticed flitting around the Harvard Club.

"Winnie," he said, "I just dropped in to say that we have been pretty
well impressed by the way your firm handled itself in this recent
market. Mr. Whitney wanted to know whether it would be convenient for
you to drop in and have a talk with him soon."

"Today?" I asked.

DeForest glanced at his Rolex. "Today's a little late," he remarked,
"but give him a ring tomorrow. No, damn it! He's leaving for a short
trip to Washington. Make it next week and he'll have plenty of time for
you."

"What's it about, Jim?" I asked. "Don't tell me that I'm going to be
offered a Morgan partnership?"

He looked as though I had burped in church.

"I hardly think so," he replied. "If that were the case, Mr. Lamont
would have seen you somewhere uptown. You know the way they gossip in
the Street. No, I rather fancy that Mr. Whitney wants you to be one of
our brokers for floor operations. Or, he might, since you specialize
in estate work, want you to help with some of the new issues we are
planning to underwrite."

"Either way would suit me fine, Jim," I told him. "Do you know," I
continued, "this is the second happiest day of my life. The first was
when I got married."

DeForest seemed a bit relieved and permitted himself a worldly smile.

"And today," I continued, "I received the greatest honor that can come
to an American in Wall Street. Believe me, Jim, this means more than
having just cleaned up three million dollars in straight trading. After
all, what is money worth if it can't buy what isn't for sale?"

This idea seemed to be taken under DeForest's advisement for future
consideration but he let it pass. After all, a million dollars is dross
compared to the approval of the employers of men like Jim DeForest,
still limping along on twenty-five thousand a year twenty years after
graduation.

"Grand to have seen you, Winnie," he said, indicating that the audience
was at an end. "I'll tell Mr. Whitney that you'll see him next week.
And of course, no talk about this. We don't like to encourage gossip
about our operations."

I promised that I would be silent as the grave, not even telling my
partners or my wife. "After all," I pointed out, "it's not a good idea
to arouse false hopes. Perhaps Mr. Whitney will change his mind."

"I hope not," DeForest said solemnly, as though I had mentioned the
possibility of the Black Death. "I most certainly hope not. We don't do
business on that basis, you know."

"Well, Miss Briggs, who's next?" I inquired, after DeForest had
withdrawn with the affable air of royalty inspecting a clean but
second-rate orphan asylum.

"Since those bankers left, there's only three waiting. One's a general
but he comes after this other man, what's his name, Patrick Michael
Shaughnessy, whoever he is."

"Send in the Irish," I told her.

Mr. Shaughnessy was an Irish-American counterpart of the Mr. Sylvester
who wanted to reorganize the free market for meat. He was a natty
dresser and he spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

"Mr. Tompkins," he told me, "I'm from, the Democratic National
Committee. The Chairman--and gee! Bob's a wonder--wanted to ask whether
you'd consider a diplomatic appointment."

"Of course, I would," I replied, thinking of Germaine's artless desire
to be an Ambassadress, "but that depends on where I'm sent and that
kind of thing. What have you in mind?"

"There's only one post open right now," he remarked. "That's Bolonia or
Peruna or hell, no, it's Bolivia. That's somewhere in America, ain't
it?"

I agreed that Bolivia was located in the Western Hemisphere. "That's
where the tin and llamas come from, Mr. Shaughnessy," I educated him.
"The capital city of La Paz is located about twelve thousand feet high
in the Andes and the inhabitants are mainly Indians. I don't think that
Mrs. Tompkins would care for it."

His face fell. "You'd be an Ambassador, of course," he informed me,
"and that's always worth something. But the Boss said--that's Bob, of
course, we all call Bob the Boss--that if you wouldn't fall for Bolivia
to ask you what about Ottawa. That's the capital of Canada. It's right
next to Montreal and those places and there's good train service to
New York on the Central any time you want to run down for a show or a
hair-cut. Bob said Canada was a real buy."

"Oh, a buy?" I remarked.

Shaughnessy looked at me shrewdly. "Uh-huh!" he replied.

"How much will it cost me to be Ambassador to Canada?"

Shaughnessy was faintly aggrieved. "The Boss don't like to talk about
money and jobs that way, Mr. Tompkins. He always says think of the
chance to serve the country. Say, you're a good Democrat or if you
aren't a Democrat you're the next thing to it, a Republican that is,
and you want to make a contribution to the Party. We always got a
deficit, see. If there ain't one now there's one coming right up. Say
you lay two or three hundred grand on the line. That goes a hundred
grand to the Committee and another hundred grand divided among the
State Committees. You see, we got to take care of the Senate so they'll
vote to confirm you and there are some operators up there what won't
vote for nothing 'cept they get taken care of first. Then the rest
we put into a dignified publicity campaign, to build you up with the
public and let the Canucks see they're getting something special when
the President nominates you."

I considered this one carefully. "Do you let me pick the public
relations firm that handles that end of the campaign, Mr. Shaughnessy?"

He grinned artlessly. "I should say not!" he chuckled. "How do you
think we boys on the Committee make a living? No, we pick the firm
that does the job and that's all you need worry about. We own 'em. So
you see you're protected right across the board. Any time we sell an
Ambassadorship, we deliver."

"Doesn't the State Department have something to say about it?"

Shaughnessy told me exactly what the State Department could do about
it, so I told him to let me have a few days to think it over. After
all, three hundred thousand dollars was quite a lot of money to pay
for a diplomatic post. It wasn't as though I could make it pay off in
Scotch whiskey or mining shares as in the past.

"That's what you think," the agent of the Democratic National Committee
rapped out. "Listen, Mr. Tompkins, if you buy that job take me along as
your private secretary and I'll show you how to make it pay like a bank
and no ifs. What shall I tell the gang?"

"Tell them I'm definitely interested," I replied truthfully, "but I'd
like a couple of weeks to think it over."

My next visitor was General Forbes-Dutton of the Army Service Forces.

"Remember me, Winnie?"

"Why sure!" I replied with great cordiality. "If it isn't--"

"That's right," the General interrupted. "Well, boy, after Pearl Harbor
I got me--I was asked to go to Washington to help out, so the bank
said it was my duty, that they'd hold my job for me, and I've been
there ever since. I'm on Westervelt's staff, in charge of financial
procurement policies. Neat, eh?"

"So you're still working for the bank?"

"Not _for_ them, Winnie. _With_ them. We're both working for the
government. Financing war-contracts, you know. Now Westervelt's heard
good things about you, Winnie. He was much impressed by the way you
turned down that gang of chiselers who tried to horn in on the quinine
deal. They're all out. He's got a big job in mind for you. How'd you
like to be a Brigadier-General?"

"It's a little late for that," I told him. "The war's almost over."

He laughed very heartily. "It's a honey of a job, Winnie. Here's what
gives. This war's almost over, as you say. Then the Army will have
the job of selling off the stuff it doesn't need and boy! it has
everything. We've just about cornered everything there is and the whole
world's going to be crying for the stuff. We want a good trader in
charge, who knows how to play ball with the boys, realistic that is.
No star-gazer, eh? And that's where you come in. There's millions in
it. Hell! there's billions. We got to go slow in selling it or we'd
bust the market, wreck values and stall reconversion, so we had us a
brain-storm when we heard how you cleaned up in the Funeral Market. How
about it? Want to play ball and get next to the biggest break you ever
heard of?"

I looked Forbes-Dutton squarely in the eye.

"Isn't it going to be a headache?" I asked. "I mean, won't there be a
stink in Congress about it? I'm no fall-guy."

The General shook his head. "Congress is in on it, every man jack of
them outside a few screwballs," he assured me. "We got a deal worked
out in every District--all legal and clean, of course--so there isn't
a Senator or Congressman that can't march right up to the trough and
get his. Hell! there's so much of it--food, tractors, jeeps, clothes,
ships, machine-tools, factories even--that we could buy every
Congressman ten times over and still have plenty of glue. With you on
top--"

"It still sounds as though you were looking for a fall-guy," I told him.

He again laughed merrily. "Anywhere you fall in this surplus game you'd
still land soft and be in clover. What about it? Shall I phone the
Pentagon?"

"Sorry to stall you," I said, "but I've got to think it over. I've got
to talk to my lawyer. I'd still like to come down to Washington and
study the angles."

"Angles? Hell! This hasn't any more angles than a big ripe watermelon.
Brigadier-General's not a bad title for a post-war use. When these
G.I.'s come back they'll want to find soldiers running things. Okay,
Winnie, I see your point. I'll tell the General you'll be coming down
to look the ground over. You'll get the Order of Merit, of course--"

"I've already got it," I informed him.

"The hell you say! That's wonderful. Well, then we'll fly you over to
London or Brisbane and give you a couple of theatre citations to dress
you up. After a couple of weeks on Ike's or Mac's staff you'll have a
build-up like nobody's business. Then we make a killing. 'Bye!"

When the door closed behind General Forbes-Dutton I called for
Arthurjean.

"Honey," I told her, "get me a snort of brandy and accept my personal
apologies to the entire female sex for any time I have ever made use of
the word 'whore'."

"What's eating you, Winnie?" she asked.

"I've just been propositioned by two gentlemen who would be
complimented if you called them prostitutes," I told her. "The only
honest man I've met today was that first little guy. All he wanted me
to do was to help reorganize the Black Market. Who's left now?"

"There's only this one man who calls himself Charles G. Smith and has
been waiting some time. He looks like a crank. Shall I give him a
hand-out and tell him to go away?"

I shook my head. "I can't take much more of the current brand of
patriotism."

Charles G. Smith was a small, wispy man, with a protruding Adam's
apple, buck teeth and shabby clothes. He ignored my outstretched hand
and advanced on me, with a glittering eye.

"Mr. Tompkins," he announced, in a curiously deep, velvety voice, "you
have made millions of dollars that you must soon leave behind you.
You have invested years of your life in collecting and keeping those
dollars--little disks of metal, little slips of paper. What have you
invested in the only thing you will be permitted to take with you when
you leave?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I mean your immortal soul, Mr. Tompkins, your immortal soul," said Mr.
Charles G. Smith.

"Oh Lord! A religious crank!" I exclaimed.

"Naturally," he agreed proudly. "I'd rather be crazy about God than
nuts about money. Why not?"

I looked at him with growing respect. "Why not, indeed?" I thought.

"My case is out of your line, Mr. Smith," I told him.

"They all say that," he replied, "but God doesn't think so."

"My case _is_ different," I repeated. "You see, I have not one but two
immortal souls."

He nodded benignly. "I know," he said. "God told me that you were in
trouble."

"That sounds as though you and I were buddies, Mr. Smith," I observed.
"Where can I find Him? It will take God Himself to straighten out my
case."

Smith shrugged his shoulders. "You can't find Him," he said. "You've
got to wait until He finds you."




CHAPTER 29


"Nonsense!" Germaine said emphatically. Hers was the authoritative tone
of a mother assuring her child that the lightning cannot possibly hit
the house in a thunderstorm.

"I don't see how you can call it nonsense," I told her. "There he stood
in my office, a little man with a big Adam's apple, telling me that
God was on my track. I'm used to being followed by the F.B.I., but now
this!"

She stretched out in her chaise longue before the bedroom fire until I
thought of the Apostle who stated that the Lord delighteth not in any
man's legs. Obviously, he had never seen my wife's gams.

"He sounds like a religious maniac," she observed.

"He admitted it, Jimmie. He was even proud of it. When he was standing
there he seemed to make more sense than most things that happen in Wall
Street. He could be right."

Germaine giggled. "If God finds you, Winnie," she said, "I hope He
doesn't arrive when--I mean, it might be rather embarrassing?"

"Again the one-track mind," I remarked. "You don't suppose that sex is
any news to the Old Man, do you? He invented it, darling."

"You know, Winnie," she replied dreamily, "sometimes you are almost a
poet. Just the same, if He came after me I'd like to have Him find me
with a new hairdo."

"So far as I am concerned," I told her, "it's just as well the Old
Man didn't catch up with me on some recent occasions. He might have
received a false impression of my eligibility for the Club."

"Pooh!" Germaine remarked with great decision. "He'd better not try any
nonsense with you if I'm around. You're my Winnie and you're going to
Heaven right along with me if I have to cheat the Customs."

I yawned. "I hope Saint Peter will be suitably impressed and not like
those tough guys at the Port of New York. What I'd really like to get
at is all this business about Von Bieberstein. I'd never heard of him
till last week and now it's got me jittery. Who he is God only knows
and He hasn't tipped off the F.B.I."

"I'm not very religious, darling," my wife said, "but from what I
remember from Sunday School, God wasn't supposed to be a tattle-tale.
He'll take care of Von Bieberstein, if there is such a person."

I laughed. "If there isn't, the F.B.I.'s going to look awfully silly
when they come to write the history books. J. Edgar Hoover would turn
over in his job at the very thought."

"You know," she continued drowsily, "I think that Von Bieberstein is
just a name they've given to all the things they can't solve. Like
luck. You know the way people say, 'Bad Luck!' Well, the F.B.I. says
'Von Bieberstein' every time a ship sinks or a factory makes the wrong
kind of shell. You wait and see, Winnie, and you'll find out I am
right."

"Speaking of luck," I asked, "What's the news from the kennels? Has
Ponto met his fiancee yet or haven't the banns been published?"

"Dalrymple seemed to think that it would be very easy to equip him with
a suitable girl friend," she said demurely. "It appears that there's a
war-time shortage of sires or something, so I gather that there's no
particular problem in Ponto's love-life. Dalrymple said we could come
and get him the end of the week--Friday or Saturday. Poor dear. I think
we ought to put orange blossoms in his dog-biscuit when he gets home."

I laughed. "That's one load off my mind. I hope you're right and that
it will steady him down. They say that the responsibilities of marriage
do wonders for a young dog. It makes him respect property, maintain the
social order, and vote the straight Republican ticket."

"Idiot!"

"Yes, I'm thinking of running Ponto in the next election. He'd make a
mighty fine Governor and he'd be sure to leave his mark in the Senate.
Who knows, we might even elect him President."

Germaine stretched again, with considerable candor. "Darling," she
announced, "you're dithering. Let's go to bed."

"Not until we get this religious argument straightened out," I
objected. "I think I owe it to Mr. Smith to make some kind of move. The
politicians and the psychiatrists have failed me. There's only religion
left. And besides, I still have half of my drink to finish."

I put another birch-log on the fire and watched as the flames
brightened and cast a flickering glow on the canopy of my wife's bed.

"My idea's this," I told her. "It's very undignified to sit around
waiting for the Old Man to look me up, if He's really trying to find
me, as Smith says. I think I'd better start a search party of my
own. There are no doubt a lot of things He'll want to ask me about,
but there are some points on which, damn it! I'm entitled to an
explanation."

"You talk such rot, darling," she murmured. "Wise gods never explain
anything. It's take it or leave it. You just wait. You'll see."

"I'd like to know who Von Bieberstein is, just to get ahead of A. J.
Harcourt. If the Old Man won't tell me that, at least I'm entitled to
know who I am."

"You're my Winnie," she repeated half-asleep. "I'll see that you get
past the immigration authorities. I'll smuggle you in under my skirts,
like Helen of Troy. St. Peter's far too respectable a man to try to
see what I've got there."

"Now _you're_ maudlin," I told her. "From what I know of Greek
costumes, Helen of Troy couldn't have smuggled a Chihuahua into Troy
under what _she_ wore. Anyhow, these saints have X-ray eyes that can
spot a sin right through skirt, girdle and brassiere. Besides, I weigh
too much. I'm much more like the unforgivable sin. Suppose I just
pretend I lost my passport."

"It will be all right, darling," Germaine assured me. "And if they
won't let us into Heaven, God knows they'd be delighted to put us up
in Hell. It would raise the value of real estate overnight. I can just
hear the Devil arguing with prospective tenants. 'We have such nice
people in the next bed of coals. They're from Westchester and the
name's Tompkins'."

"Any time a real estate agent urges you to take a residence, that's
Heaven," I told her. "You dither delightfully, especially when you're
half asleep. But I don't want to get into Hell on false pretenses. It's
not fair to the management. What I propose to do is to go out, and see
if I can't find the Old Man before He finds me, and see if I can't
fix up my passport right now. As you say, it could be embarrassing
otherwise. Then I'll march straight up to Him, look Him in the eye and
ask Him what the Hell He means--"

She sat up and held out her glass. "More brandy," she ordered.

I fixed her drink and my own and looked at the coals of the log-fire.

"How are you going to set out?" Germaine asked. "No, don't laugh,
darling. It might be quite important. You see, if I--if we--Oh, if we
should have a child, it would be good to know--" she paused, at a loss
for words.

"It does sound crazy, doesn't it?" I said. "'Middle-aged Stock Broker
Cleans up in Wall Street, Looks for God.' Well, I suppose the best
thing to do is to consult the clergymen."

"Then you'd better not start in Westchester," she advised. "They're all
bleating celibates like poor old Ponto or broad-clothed men of affairs
who shoot a darn good game of golf and never offend the vestrymen.
I'd try New York City, if I were you, Winnie. They have the best
architects, the best food, the best doctors, the best actors, and the
best red-heads in the world. They might even have the best clergymen."

"That doesn't follow," I told her, "but I agree the chances are better
there than up here."

"I'm going to approach this thing scientifically," I continued. "I'm
going to pick a Protestant--probably a Presbyterian--"

"Yes," she agreed. "_Do_ pick a Presbyterian. They build such lovely
New England churches and they believe in infant damnation, or is that
the Mormons?"

"Shush!" I rebuked her. "As I was saying when you so rudely interrupted
me, a Presbyterian, and they believe in predestination with only
occasional leanings to infant damnation. And then I'll try a Jewish
Rabbi. I'm told that they are very highly educated men with a grasp
of spiritual fundamentals as well as a remarkable fund of practical
knowledge. And, of course, a Catholic priest."

"Not Father Aloysius Murphy!" Germaine besought me. "I couldn't bear it
if you consulted him. I don't know why and of course I'm not a Catholic
but every time I hear him on the radio I wish the Pope would send him
as a missionary to Russia. Please don't pick any of these fashionable
priests or rabbis, darling. Try to find simple, poor men who aren't
trying to advertise themselves or raise money."

I finished my drink and picked her up in my arms. "It's long past
bed-time," I told her. "Here, drink it down and I'll put you to bed.
I didn't know you gave a damn about religion and here you are talking
like a Joan of Arc or--"

She put her empty glass down on the bed-side table and slipped out of
her dressing-gown.

"You don't know me very well," she said quietly. "To you, I'm just your
wife, not a separate person at all, and it's rather nice, but--No, I'm
not religious and Heaven knows the saints would have hysterics if they
heard you call me Joan of Arc. It's just that--Well, I was brought up
on church and Sunday School and the Catechism and forgot it all as soon
as I graduated from Miss Spence's and had my coming-out party. But
they are all so proud and grand, these clergymen. They are so sure of
themselves. I once went to an Easter service in Washington, it was at
St. Thomas's, when the sermon was entirely devoted to a passionate plea
for money, money, money. I've never met a clergyman yet who didn't hint
that while the Lord loved my soul, the Church would settle for cash."

"I suppose the churches need money like everybody else," I suggested.
"At least they don't charge admission like the movies."

"Oh, I know they need money but they can't need money as much as people
need goodness or God or whatever it is they do need. I'd like to find
a single good simple man who wasn't too sure of himself. Well, I
can't explain. Get undressed and come to bed, darling. The sheets are
bitterly cold."

I chucked my clothes onto the chair by the fire.

"Hell!" I exclaimed. "That would be too awful!"

Germaine made a vague questioning noise.

"Suppose we are resurrected not as we'd like to be but as we are. You'd
be safe. You have the build of an angel and you'd be a knockout with
wings, but I'd look like a ringer even in the best of haloes and with
this weight I'd need a terrific wing-spread to get off the ground. Even
then, I'd have to have a run-way."

I fixed the fire so it would keep burning for a couple of hours and
adjusted the fire-screen so that there was no chance of a stray spark
landing on the carpet. Then I crossed to the window overlooking
the lawn and opened it on the cool spring night. The moon, now
suspiciously less virginal in figure but still shamelessly serene
in silver, rode in the western sky and the scents of spring drifted
in on the light breeze. There was no sound save the distant jingling
of the peepers and the near-by rustle of the dry vines outside the
window-frame.

"I wish to God I knew who I am," I muttered.




CHAPTER 30


"No doubt you'll be asking me to reconcile predestination and free
will," observed Dr. Angus McGregor, minister of the Tenth Presbyterian
Church of Manhattan.

"That wasn't quite my question, sir," I replied. "I asked you whether
you could justify the Lord's putting my soul into another man's body.
Am I to be responsible for the sins the other man committed?"

"Ah!" Dr. McGregor remarked, with relish, "It is the Lord's doing
and it is marvelous in our eyes. No doubt he kens what he's about.
It will all be made known on the great Day of Judgment. Now about
predestination and free will, you'll have marked that many grand
philosophers and divines have debated the point. 'Tis a nice point.
'Tis the theological _pons asinorum_."

"Yes," I interrupted, "but do you consider that I am bound by this body
or will I be returned to my own before I come to the Judgment? And is
my soul involved in another man's sins?"

Dr. McGregor drew a deep puff on his pipe. "Oh aye!" he declared.
"The principle of vicarious sacrifice has been observed ever since
that ne'er-do-weel Cain asked, 'Am I my brother's keeper?' Aye, Mr.
Tompkins, surely you are involved in the sins of others. Take your
own case now. I believe your tale. Fearful and wonderful things have
happened in this weary world, before now, by the will of the Lord.
It is written by the Roman historian Tacitus that the pagan emperor
Vespasian--that grand benefactor to whom the world owes the fine
invention of the public comfort station--performed miracles in Egypt,
making the blind to see, and healing the cripples. These miracles are
as well attested as any in Holy Scripture. If the Lord permitted to a
heathen potentate these gifts of spiritual healing, can I deny that
He might for His own good reasons permit your soul to inhabit another
man's body?"

"But what is my moral responsibility in this predicament, Dr. McGregor?
Where does my duty lie?"

"It is all related to yon matter of free will and predestination," he
insisted. "Your duty, man, is to fear the Lord and praise Him. You will
have taken this other man's wife, will you not? You will have taken his
money and his home, his name and his business. Aye, if you take these
likely you will take his sins as well. Dinna believe that the Lord has
no a reason for all this.

"Now," he continued, "'tis no great difficulty to reconcile free will
and predestination."

"I'm not a religious man, doctor," I cut him off, "but you have given
me help. Will you accept a check for your church--say a thousand
dollars?"

"Aye, Mr. Tompkins, I will that! I cannot help you but I can only tell
you to put your trust in the mercy and the justice of the Lord. 'Tis
all a man can do."

So I wrote out a check for a thousand dollars to the order of the Tenth
Presbyterian Church of Manhattan, and shook his hand.

He thanked me. "Now," he announced. "I must be on my way to comfort a
poor body that's dying o' the cancer. 'Tis an old lady and she takes
great comfort from her pain in the thought that she has been chosen by
the Lord to suffer for the sins of others. 'Tis no a sound theology,
mind you, but 'tis a mighty solace as her time comes nigh."

       *       *       *       *       *

My next stop was at the office of Rabbi Benjamin Da Silva of the Temple
Ben-David. Him I had located by consulting the classified telephone
directory and had made an appointment to meet him in his study in the
Synagogue. He was a slender, quietly dressed young man, with the eager
face of a scholar and the air of repose of a mystic. The walls of his
room were lined with books and as I noted Hebraic, Greek, Latin and
Arabic titles, as well as German, French and English, I realized that I
was dealing with a deeply cultured man. His voice was musical and low,
as he asked me to be seated.

"Rabbi Da Silva," I began, "before I begin I would like to ask you to
accept on behalf of your congregation a gift of a thousand dollars as
a token of my gratitude for consenting to hear my story. Perhaps you
can help me, perhaps not. As you realize, I am not of your faith but I
need your wisdom. I am trying to find my soul."

"So are we all, Mr. Tompkins," the Rabbi assured me. "What is your
problem?"

I recited the events which made it imperative for me to recollect the
events prior to April second; I told him of the reasons that convinced
me that I, Frank Jacklin, was living in Winfred Tompkins' body; I
outlined the moral and personal problems involved in this confusion of
personalities; I indicated the psychiatric and other tests that had
been made. Naturally, I did not mention the Alaska, the thorium bomb,
Z-2 or Von Bieberstein.

When I had completed my account, Rabbi Da Silva gazed abstractedly at
the small coal fire which smouldered in the grate of his study.

"Why did you come to me, Mr. Tompkins?" he asked.

"Because I hoped that in your studies of the human soul, you might have
found knowledge that would help me."

He sat silent for some minutes.

"For many centuries," he began at last, "there has been a curious
belief among you Christians that the Jewish rabbinate possesses mystic
knowledge of the occult. No doubt that belief derives from the early
Middle Ages when the Jews became in part the means by which the science
and culture of the Saracen East was brought to the ignorant barbarous
West. That service was turned against us by the superstitions and
prejudices of Christendom and we were regarded as akin to sorcerers and
witch-masters. Even today in Germany, we are paying for our crime of
having brought enlightenment to Europe in the Dark Ages."

"Then you can't help me?" I asked.

"I did not say so, Mr. Tompkins," the Rabbi replied. "Certainly I
cannot help you in any occult manner. I cannot pick a book from the
shelves, mutter a few words in Hebrew and resolve your spiritual
problems with a whiff of brimstone. The casting out of devils is not
included in Judaism. Indeed, it has gone out of fashion in Christendom."

"What can you suggest?" I inquired. "Many important events, including
the possible capture of a dangerous Nazi spy, depend on my recovering
my memory."

"Even with that inducement," the Rabbi remarked with an ironic smile,
"I am not in a position to urge any particular course on you. Assume,
for the sake of argument, that you are the victim of what is called
a demoniac possession, Mr. Tompkins. Are you sure that you would be
benefited by casting out the soul of Frank Jacklin and resuming command
of your own personality? Is not Winfred Tompkins a better and happier
man under the influence of Jacklin than he was as himself? In other
words, Mr. Tompkins, you may not be seeking to cast out a devil at all,
but an angel of the Lord. Of course, I am speaking in moral metaphor
and not as a scientist or a theologian. My advice to you would be to
ignore your loss of memory and live out your life as best you can and
be thankful that whatever it is that caused this change has been for
your betterment and has brought happiness to others."

I shook my head. "I know that I am foolish to insist, Rabbi Da Silva,"
I said. "What you say is just about what the psychiatrists advised. Yet
I must open that locked door and see what is hidden in the secret room."

Da Silva smiled gently. "Yes," he agreed, "I see that you must.
Bluebeard's wife felt much the same and the charm and universal meaning
of that great fable is that humanity must always open the closed doors,
even at the risk of destruction. All wisdom urges us to leave well
enough alone, yet our instinct is wiser than wisdom itself. God bless
you, Mr. Tompkins, and may you come to no harm if you find the key to
this locked room."

"Thank you, sir," I said. "Now there remain only the Catholics. Perhaps
a parish priest--"

"I shall be very much surprised if a priest advises you differently,
Mr. Tompkins," the Rabbi observed. "Drop in again some time and tell
me, will you?"

I gave him his check for the Temple Ben-David and went on to the
rectory of St. Patrick's-by-the-Gashouse, where I asked for the priest.

"Sure, Father Flanagan's celebrating Mass," the aged housekeeper
rebuked me.

"I'll wait," I told her. "I have a contribution for the church. I must
give it to him personally."

"Glory be!" she remarked, and withdrew, muttering.

Father Flanagan was a burly, well-built young Irish-American with a
friendly smile and a crushing handshake.

"Mrs. Casey tells me you have something for the church, Mr.--"

"My name's Tompkins, Father. I have a check for a thousand dollars.
I'll give it to you now. There are no strings to it but I'd like to ask
you to help me."

"Well, I'll be--You know, Mr. Tompkins," Father Flanagan told me, "just
this morning at breakfast Mrs. Casey said she was praying that we'd
finish raising the money for the new altar before the Bishop's visit,
and here it is. Isn't that wonderful, now?"

"There you are, Father," I told him, "and welcome to it."

"Thank you, Mr. Tompkins," the priest said simply. "I shall remember
you in my prayers and so, no doubt, will Mrs. Casey. You're not a
Catholic, of course?"

"No," I replied. "I don't seem to be anything that makes sense
medically, legally or morally. I need help."

So I told him the whole story from beginning to end, and added the
advice I had already received from Dr. McGregor and Rabbi Da Silva.

Father Flanagan heard me out and then considered carefully.

"I've heard some strange things in Confession," he stated at last, "but
they never taught us at Notre Dame how to deal with a problem like
yours. I'd rather like to consult the Bishop before I undertook to
advise you. Do you mind?"

"Yes, I do," I told the priest. "It's no disrespect for your bishop.
It's just that I feel that this problem must be solved on a low level
rather than by the higher echelons. In the Navy, we soon learned that
the best way to get a problem loused up was to refer it to CINCPAC.
What is your own reaction to my story?"

Father Flanagan pursed his lips and pondered for a moment. "Speaking
as a man," he said, "and not as a priest, it looks to me as though you
were sitting pretty, Mr. Tompkins. Naturally, I have no explanation for
it and the psychiatrists seem to have given you a clean bill of health,
so maybe you're not crazy. I have a vague idea that there's reference
to something like your experience in the Patristic writings which I
read when I was studying for the priesthood. It's all mixed up with the
Gnostics and necromancy but it's hard to tell how much you can accept
literally in that material. Pagan literature is full of it, such as
Apuleius' 'The Golden Ass', in which a witch turns a man into a donkey,
but that's admittedly fancy. As I say, you seem to be sitting pretty.
By your own account, Commander Jacklin's life was pretty much of a
failure and Tompkins was not exactly what you could call a huge moral
success. Yet you, as Jacklin, seem to be doing a pretty good job with
Tompkins' life. Why don't you let it go at that?"

"I can't, Father," I told him. "I've got to find out what Tompkins was
doing just before Easter. Even if it's only for that one week, I've got
to know."

"And you say that so far nobody has been able to help you?"

"Nobody," I replied. "The doctors call it trauma and say that my memory
may come back to me at any time, but I can't wait."

He smiled. "'Can't' is a big and human word. Have you tried hypnotism?
Or scopolamine? They aren't exactly liturgical and my Bishop would have
a fit if he heard me mention them--he considers them on a par with
mediums and spiritualism--but they have some value in restoring memory."

I slapped my knee. "Thanks, Father!" I exclaimed. "You've given me an
idea. I'll try a medium."

The priest looked grave. "I wouldn't do that, now, if I were you, Mr.
Tompkins," he told me. "That kind of thing is too close to Black Magic
and devil-worship for decent men to play with."

"I hope I don't shock you, Father Flanagan," I replied, "but if God
can't help me, I'll have to go to the Devil."

"I shall pray for you, Mr. Tompkins," the priest said.




CHAPTER 31


After I left St. Patrick's-by-the-Gashouse I went to a corner saloon
and telephoned the F.B.I. I asked for Harcourt but was told that he was
out to lunch, which reminded me that I was hungry. A private treaty
with the bartender brought me a steak sandwich, and no questions
asked. Apple pie and coffee followed, and were not too horrible. I
smoked a cigarette, drank a second cup of coffee, and called the F.B.I.
again.

This time Harcourt had returned from lunch and he talked as though he
had swallowed the Revised Statutes of the United States but that they
gave him indigestion.

"See here, Andy," I told him at last. "I'm not looking for legal
advice, I want to consult a medium. Any medium. If I picked one out of
the phone-book you'd have the headache of checking on her, as I suppose
you're checking on the clergymen I saw this morning. So this time just
save yourself the trouble, and tell me who I should see."

"The Bureau doesn't endorse spiritualists," he informed me, but the old
J. Edgar Hoover spirit was running thin and his heart wasn't in it.

"I'm not asking the Bureau to endorse anything, not even a candy
laxative," I replied. "Just you tell me the name and address of one
reasonably respectable medium and I'll take care of the rest. And don't
pretend that the Bureau has no record of mediums in New York City."

"Mr. Tompkins," he said--and I could fairly hear the hum of the
recording machine on the telephone--"The Bureau does not endorse any
so-called spiritualist mediums. Naturally, under the leadership of our
present Director, the New York office has made a close check on all
self-styled spiritualistic mediums in this city. One of these who has
established her bona fides for purposes of identification only is Madam
Claire la Lune, 1187 Lenox Avenue."

"Eleven eighty-seven Lenox," I repeated after him. "That's in Harlem.
Madam Claire la Lune sounds like the dark of the moon to me. Say, Andy,
hasn't she a friend named Pierrot?"

There was a pause at the other end of the wire. "No, sir, Mr.
Tompkins," came the F.B.I. official voice.

"Okay," I told him. "I suppose you'll have to check on her as on
everybody else but I wanted you to start calling the shots so as to
save trouble for all of us. I'm going to consult Madam Lune, so you can
tell your agents to rendezvous at 1187 Lenox Avenue. I'll be there in
about twenty minutes."

Eleven eighty-seven Lenox did not seem prepossessing from the spiritual
angle. Madam la Lune's apartment was on the third floor, walk-up, and
smelled of cabbage, diapers and African sweat. Madam la Lune herself
was a light mulatto with a superb figure and a face so deeply scarred
by smallpox that it looked like a map of Southern lynchings since 1921.

She seemed reluctant to deal with me on a professional basis, even
after I had offered her a twenty-dollar bill, until I told her that the
F.B.I. had recommended her and that I needed her help.

"Oh," she said. "Tha's differ'nt. Jest you wait till I turn down my
stove."

She ushered me into a close and smelly little room, with black velvet
curtains and a couch covered with black sateen. Madam la Lune lay down
on the couch and directed me to turn off the electric light from the
switch by the door. Although it was still early afternoon, the room
was so dark that I could barely make out the form of the medium or find
my way back to my chair.

For a time there was no sound except for the deep regular breathing of
the medium. Then suddenly came the shrill voice of a pickaninny.

"I'se here," the voice cried. "It's Silver-Bell, mammy, I'se here."

I smiled to myself in the Harlem dusk. It was so obviously the usual
racket. There was the medium in her ten cent trance--the voice of her
"control" was coming through. I had only to ask and I would receive a
vague and blotting paper reply to any question.

"I'se here, mammy," the child's voice repeated. "What you want, mammy?
Silver-Bell's here."

Madam la Lune snorted and snored on the couch. My eyes had become more
accustomed to the dim light and I noticed how she had loosened her
blouse so that her superb bust rose in twin-peaked Kilimanjaro against
the wall.

"Silver-Bell's here, mammy," the child's voice said again. "What you
want?"

"I want," I said, "to speak to Frank Jacklin. He died in the North
Pacific about three weeks ago."

There was a pause, during which the snorting breaths of the medium were
the only sound in the smelly little room. Then the child's voice rose,
shrill and petulant.

"You funning, mammy, you funning. They ain't no Jacklin over here.
Jacklin ain' dead. Jacklin sittin' right by yo' side, mammy. He police,
mammy, he police."

Madam la Lune stirred and I sensed her sightless eyes turning, turning
toward me in the dark.

"No, I'm not police, Silver-Bell," I said. "If you can't find Jacklin,
I want to speak to Winnie Tompkins."

For several minutes there was a long silence.

Then came an impish giggle.

"Here's Mr. Tompkins, mammy, but my! he do look funny. He don' look
like he used ter look."

Again silence.

"Here he is, mammy. Here he is. What do you want to know?"

"Ask him," I said, "whether he is well and happy."

The hair rose on the back of my neck and a slow shiver ran down my
spine as the answer came. The answer was the familiar barking of a
dog--deep, strong, savage.

"Is that you, Ponto?" I asked.

The answering bark came "Woof! Woof!"

"Where is Mr. Tompkins?"

More "woofs."

"Where is Commander Jacklin?"

Silence.

"Are you alive?"

"Woof! Woof!"

"Am I alive?"

Silence.

"Is your name Ponto?" I ventured again.

"Where is Von Bieberstein?" I demanded but my question was drowned in a
storm of barking.

"I's tired, mammy," came the child's voice. "Silver-Bell's tired."

The voice trailed off, leaving me in the stifling little Harlem parlor
with the mulatto woman snoring.

I sat, bemused, in the straight-back chair across the room from her.
My eyes had now got used to the thin light that filtered around the
heavy black curtain. I noticed a fleck of white about the corners of
her mouth and I made silent note of the way her body heaved with its
tortured breathing. After a while, she stirred.

"You theah, Mr. Tompkins?"

"Yes, I'm here."

"You fin' out what you wan'?" she inquired.

"I found out that you're a fraud," I told her. "You're welcome to my
money but I'm damned if I think you've earned it."

She sat up and adjusted her clothing calmly. "What for you say that,
Mr. Tompkins?" she demanded. "Spirits come, and spirits go. You ask
questions. Maybe they give you the answers. I don't know."

"Very clever, Madam la Lune," I observed. "Harcourt phones you I'm on
my way and tells you what to do. I'm supposed to come in and swallow it
all. Well, I'm not interested in that game. All I want to know is how
you managed to imitate my dog?"

Madam la Lune rose and peered at me in the dusk.

"White man," she said. "What dog you talkin' about? I ain't seen no
dog."

The words I had planned to fling at her died in my throat. Fraud or
not, she was superb. Her pock-marked face had a haughty dignity and her
bearing was that of a great queen.

"I'm sorry," I apologized, without knowing why. "I'm in trouble. I
hoped you could help me. All I got out of your trance was a child
laughing and a dog barking."

Her eyes glowed in the twilit room.

"What this dog?" she demanded. "You know this dog?"

"Yes," I told her. "It's my dog. His name is Ponto. He's a Great Dane
and he's at the kennels."

"You go, Mr. Tompkins," she ordered me. "You better go fast. That
dog--wha's his color now?"

"Black," I said.

"Yes, black," She rolled her eyes until I saw the whites.

"That black dog don' mean no good to you or yours. You keep away fum
that dog, Mr. Tompkins. No, suh, I don't want you money. There's no
luck with you, white man, with that black dog. I don' know how Ah
knows, but Ah does know."

As I walked out into the bright cool air of Lenox Avenue, I felt
relieved. Madame la Lune was an interesting enough type. She obviously
had the primitive sense of second sight, intuition, whatever it is,
that let her penetrate behind human appearances. The medium business
was just a trade trick. In Africa or Haiti she could have been a
witch-doctor with a pet snake. In New Orleans, even, she would be a
voodoo priestess. Here in Harlem, she had become a medium. Of course,
she was a fraud, but how had she imitated the barking of the Great Dane?

Then I laughed so loudly that a passing colored man sheered violently
away from me. Of course, that was it. I had been right all the time.
This was Harcourt's work. He had recommended Madame la Lune to me and
then told her how to behave. Damn his insolence!

I stopped dead and only stirred when the violent and prolonged sounding
of an automobile horn reminded me that I was standing in the middle of
a cross-street. How did Harcourt know about Ponto when he had never
seen him? And how could he tell the medium how to imitate Ponto's bark?

On the next corner was a dive--a saloon that advertised "Attractions"
and from whose doors welled the jungle thumping of Harlem jazz.

I slipped in and sat down at a corner table. A tall, colored girl,
whose scanty white silk blouse was not designed to conceal anything,
came over and leaned down to take my order.

"Wha' yo' want, honey-man?" she asked sullenly.

The band on the platform let loose with a blast of traps and trombone.

"Let's dance," I said.

She nodded with a curious dignity and I found myself parading, dipping
and swaying around a tiny dancefloor, while the black girl pressed her
body against me despairingly.

I pulled off to the side and led her back to my table.

"Why do you do this?" I asked.

She said nothing.

"You need money?" I asked.

She still said nothing.

"Here!" I said.

I pulled out my check-book and wrote out a check for a thousand dollars
payable to cash.

"This is for you," I told her. "Take it and do whatever you want to do.
The check's good."

The girl looked at me, took the check, studied it. Then she rose, in
complete silence, looked at me again and left me. She shrugged her
way through the dancers and the waiters to the rear of the room and
disappeared. I did not know her name and I never saw her again.

A high-ochre girl came over.

"Change yo' luck?" she asked, bending over so that I could see down the
front of her scant-cut dress.

"My luck's done changed," I told her. "Give me a drink and here's a
ten-spot for yourself. And I'll be on my way."

She tucked the bill down the front of her dress. "May you have good
luck, man," she said gravely.

As she said it, her eyes widened and her mouth hung open. "Gawd!" she
muttered. "The black dog's follering you!" and fled.

"I know," I said to the room at large, and left without waiting for my
drink.




CHAPTER 32


I walked down Lenox Avenue to the first cigar-store and telephoned the
office.

As soon as I was connected with Arthurjean I asked her to meet me at
her apartment as soon as she could make it. Then I hailed a cab and was
driven south through Central Park to the upper east Fifties' and my
secretary's apartment. She was waiting.

"Gee, honey," she exclaimed. "I just got here. What's cooking?"

I followed her in and went straight to the kitchenette. I poured myself
a stiff drink and downed it rapidly. I poured myself another and
turned to see her staring at me.

"You look terrible," she told me. "What's happened to you?"

"I can't tell you," I replied. "You'd think I'm crazy and you'd turn me
in."

"I will not!"

She came up close to me and looked me square in the eye. "I don't care
if you're crazy as a bed-bug," she announced. "Go on and 'pit it out in
momma's hand. I won't squeal."

"Sit down!" I ordered, "and get yourself a drink first. This is tough."

She sat and listened quietly as I outlined the latest developments.

"So you see," I concluded, "I _can't_ tell anyone. They'd have me
locked up for keeps."

She nodded. "Yeah," she agreed. "I can see that.... Maybe your wife--"

"I couldn't tell _her_," I contradicted. "It would be too damn cruel
just now when she's really happy."

Arthurjean sat and thought for a while. "Yep," she remarked, as though
she had just concluded a long argument. "You're right. You can't tell
nobody _that_. How about this nosey A. J. Harcourt? Won't he find out?
He's still having you tailed."

"I don't see how he could," I told her, "unless that Madame la Lune is
a complete phoney--which doesn't make sense. She and I were alone in
the room. If it was a plant, there's nothing to tell. If she's on the
level she won't remember what went on."

"That's no plant," Arthurjean Briggs announced. "It wouldn't make sense
for the F.B.I. to pull it. Harcourt sent you there in the first place
but he wouldn't put her up to a trick like that."

"He'll be hot on my trail then," I said. "All those clergymen I saw
will have to be checked--when all the time--"

"Do you know what I'd do if I was you," she said abruptly. "I'd get rid
of that damn dog--but fast."

"You mean sell it?" I asked.

"I mean kill it. It isn't natural, acting that way. It's been worrying
you nigh crazy, that's what it's been doing. You just take it to the
vet's and have it chloroformed. They do it all the time on account of
the rabbis--"

"Rabies," I corrected.

"That's right, but they do it, don't they? You don't have to get
permission. He's your property. You can tell the vet he bit you--"

I started up. "Hell!" I exclaimed. "I've got to get him away from the
kennels fast. It's--it's--"

Arthurjean put her large, strong hand on my shoulder.

"There, honey," she soothed me. "It's all right. It's going to be all
right."

I looked at her and realized that she hadn't believed a word of my
story.

"See here--" I began, when the door-bell rang.

"Two-to-one it's Harcourt," I remarked.

"I hope so," said Arthurjean coloring faintly.

"Well, what's all this about?" I demanded, as a slow blush gathered in
sunset fury upon her pleasant face. "Why, Arthurjean--"

"Lay off," she begged. "He's a nice guy and he hasn't got that
family in Brooklyn he kept talking about. You and me are washed
up--and--well, he's from the South, too, and he talks my language."

"Good luck," I told her. "But he's also on the doorstep, so take hold
of yourself."

He was. She did.

"'Evening, Miss Briggs," the Special Agent said politely. "Any luck,
Mr. Tompkins?"

I shook my head.

He looked reproachful. "Oh, come now," he pleaded. "_Something_ must
have happened. You got out of Harlem like a bat out of hell and almost
shook the agent who was tailing you. You don't look to me like nothing
happened. Have you filled in that gap? Started to remember anything?"

"On my word of honor, Andy," I swore, "I haven't remembered a thing.
The gap's still there."

He said nothing for a few minutes and exchanged a glance with
Arthurjean.

"Something must have happened," he requested. "You've changed. Come
clean, can't you? I'm only trying to help you."

"I can't tell you much of anything," I told him. "You wouldn't believe
me if I did. There's been a sort of locked door inside my mind for the
last three weeks. Now the door's unlocked and is beginning to swing
open. I haven't looked inside, but I think I know what I'll find. I
can't tell you more than that now."

"But you're going to look, aren't you?" he asked.

"I've got to look," I said.

He sighed. "Well, we'll just have to keep an eye on you so as to be
around when you do. See here, Mr. Tompkins, you know your own business
but this Von Bieberstein guy is nobody to monkey around with. He's
plenty tough and he'd as soon kill as sneeze. Can't you give me a hint?
I'm trained to take those risks and know how to take care of myself,
and anyhow the Bureau is back of me."

I leaned back in my chair and laughed and laughed and laughed until I
noticed that both Arthurjean and Harcourt were staring at me without
smiling.

"Sorry," I apologized. "It's just that something struck me as
rather funny. Well, Arthurjean, I'll be catching the train back to
Westchester. You and Andy blow yourself to a dinner at my expense. I'll
go down to the vet's first thing in the morning and follow your advice.
Good night, Andy. I'll be seeing you."

That night I locked myself in my bedroom and slept alone. Germaine was
worried but I put her aside with the explanation that I had a splitting
headache--too much to drink, probably, was my explanation. The truth
was that I didn't want to see or talk to my wife so that she could not
guess the perfectly appalling knowledge that had come to me.

This was insane, I repeated to myself. Even Arthurjean Briggs, who
had sworn never to turn me in, had not believed it. Yet no other
explanation was open to me. The dog's whole conduct since that fatal
afternoon of April second was consistent only with the utterly
irrational theory that the body of the Great Dane had been possessed
by the soul of Winnie Tompkins at the very moment when the latter's
body--now mine--had been possessed by the soul of Frank Jacklin.

Everybody had a fairly nice set of words for the latter
phenomenon--trauma, schizophrenia, neurasthenia, the Will of God--and
the best advice was uniform: forget about it; it will wear off in time;
take things easy, you've been working too hard; everybody's crazy.

Now just imagine trying to convince the F.B.I. or a psychiatrist that,
in addition to this delusion, you know for a fact that a Great Dane
is now inhabited by the soul that once resided in your own body. I
could hear the clanging of the gong on the private ambulance as it
raced me to the nearest asylum, I could feel my arms already in the
strait-jacket. No one must ever know; Arthurjean must never tell. If
she doubted me, she must never tell.

The way I figured it was this: Winnie had been asleep at the Pond Club.
He had been worried about Ponto and Ponto was desperately ill--dying
even--from distemper. Both of their--what was the word?--their _ids_ or
_psyches_ were relaxed, weakened, off-guard. Then the atomic explosion
in the Aleutians, by some freak, had hurled my soul half-way around
the world into the sleeping body of Winnie Tompkins. His soul had then
crowded into the body of Ponto. Ponto's soul--if dogs have them, which
I don't doubt--was out of luck. Permanently withdrawn.

Crazy? I'll say! I was the only person alive who knew that it was true
and nobody would ever believe me, if only for the reason that it would
always be much simpler to lock me up.

Quite obviously, Ponto knew that he was Winnie and resented my presence
in his home. He had shown the jealousy and ill-temper natural to a man,
instead of the friendliness of a dog. He had been humanly jealous of
Germaine.

Suddenly I chuckled. By George! this was rich. Winnie in turn
undoubtedly believed that I was Ponto. The Jacklin angle was outside
of his range. No wonder he was furious with me when he saw that his
household pet--a Great Dane--masquerading in his human body, had
usurped his place in the affections of his wife and in authority over
his home. Only hunger, which brings all things to terms, had broken his
rebellion against this monstrous confusion. It must be tough to find
yourself reduced to dog-biscuits and runs on the lawn.

I knew what I must do. Arthurjean had been right. The only way I could
make myself secure was to have Ponto killed. Would this be murder? I
wondered what Father Flanagan would make of it. Probably he would say,
"Yes, it is murder if you believe that Winfred Tompkins is Ponto."
Yet until Ponto was dead, there could be no security for me. At any
moment, if the psychiatrists were right, the change might come, with a
small shock, and Winnie Tompkins would resume lawful possession of his
body, his home, his wife, his money, while I--Commander Frank Jacklin,
U.S.N.R.--could count myself lucky to be allowed to sleep on a smelly
old blanket on the floor in the corner and eat dog-biscuits and be
offered as a thoroughbred sire.

There was still time to stop that nonsense. The strictly practical
thing to do was to go to the kennels first thing in the morning.
Then I'd take Ponto away from Dalrymple and drive down to White
Plains and find a vet to give him chloroform. Thus I would be safe
from the possibility of having Winnie reoccupy his body and drive me
into Ponto's or, worse still, into the stratosphere to join the mild
chemical mist that was all that remained of the body of Frank Jacklin.

All right, it was murder then. I would be murdering Winnie Tompkins,
but I would be the only one who would know it--the Perfect Crime. I
laughed to myself at the thought that now Harcourt would lose his last
chance to learn what Winnie had done in that fatal week before Chalmis'
thorium bomb had blown me and the Alaska into the Aurora Borealis.

Although it was a cool night, I was perspiring violently. My nerves
were shot to pieces. After this, I would need a rest. Winnie's business
was in good shape. I could afford to keep away from the office for
a time, until I grew a new face, as it were, after this shattering
discovery. Then Jimmie and I--perhaps we would have a child. I'd be
damned if I'd let my son be a stock-broker with a Great Dane--I might
even take the Ambassadorship to Canada. The Forbes-Dutton scheme
sounded too raw even for Washington--it would backfire into another
Teapot Dome.

I drew a deep breath and relaxed in my bed. My course was plain. First
of all, I'd attend to Ponto--burn my canine bridges behind me. Then
I'd take Dr. Folsom at his word and go to the Sanctuary for a couple
of weeks. My nerves _were_ shot to pieces and if I didn't tell him or
Pendergast Potter about this latest wrinkle in transmigration they
would have no reason for detaining me against my will. Oh, yes, I'd
have to see that Rutherford got his money. Merry Vail was still in
Hartford, damn him and his nurse! Well, the thing to do was to stop off
at Rutherford's office on the way to the kennels and give him a check.
Vail could fix up the papers later. Once Ponto was dead, I could relax.

_Was_ it murder? Well, that depended on how you look at it. Certainly,
I was doing a better job of managing Winnie's life than he had done or
could do. Look how I straightened out his mess with women and had made
Germaine happy for the first time in her life. Look at the killing I
had made in Wall Street, three million smackers just by using my head.
Look at the way I had sold myself to the authorities at Washington,
except for the State Department. The happiness and welfare of too many
people now depended on my staying in charge of operations instead of
Winnie Tompkins. Here, at least, was one case where the end justified
the means, and nobody could call it murder.

And anyhow, chloroform is an easy death. You choke and gag a bit at
first but then it's all easy, like falling off a log. You just go to
sleep and never wake up. It would be the kindest possible exit for a
man who had done no good in the world. I drifted off to sleep.

I awakened with a start, as though a voice had summoned me. The
moonlight was streaming through the bedroom window. I knew what I must
do. I got out of bed, crossed the room to the clothes-closet, felt over
in the corner until my fingers found the knot-hole in the smooth pine
lining. I pressed and there was a click. I reached down and lifted the
sloping shelf for shoes. There, underneath it, lay a small, neatly
docketed file.

There were many papers and the record went back for years. I switched
on the light and examined the contents of the envelope marked
"Thorium." It was all there--the ship--the names--the ports--the
mission. There was documentation on Jacklin. I ran through it. It
was accurate and included a specimen of my signature. There was a
cross-reference to Chalmis and a small file on someone named Kaplansky.
Irrelevantly included was a folder which contained three cards labeled
"Retreat--Holy Week." "St. Michael" and "Stations of X!"

I crossed to the fireplace and put the papers in the grate. For an hour
I sat there feeding the flames with the record of betrayal and infamy.
Names, places, dates--I glanced at them, forgot them and burned them
with rising exaltation. Thank God! that load was off my conscience.
I might have to answer for Winnie's sins but I was damned if I'd be
responsible for his crimes. And the killing of Ponto was no longer to
be murder, it was an execution. For Ponto was Tompkins and Tompkins was
Von Bieberstein.

Dawn was beginning to smudge the windows when the last paper had
been burned and the ashes crushed to fragments beyond the power of
reconstruction by forensic science. Without Winnie the organization of
his gulls and dupes would fall apart and the thing that had been Von
Bieberstein would cease to exist.

Another thing was clearer, too. Winnie Tompkins had had an obsession
about Jacklin. Finally, through some combination of fatigue and mental
shock, a Jacklin personality had taken control. Call it schizophrenia,
Jekyll-and-Hyde, or whatever, there was a fair chance that I was still
Winnie, but his better self. The dog had been another obsession. The
dog was to blame? Well, if I believed it, it might be true, like the
old scape-goat system. I was physically the same man who had been Von
Bieberstein and had blown up the Alaska, planting evidence that would
throw the blame on Jacklin. In my heart and spirit, it was as though I
had been recreated. All the evidence had been destroyed.

I switched off the light and returned to bed. I fell asleep almost at
once, for now I knew that I would be safe and that Germaine would be
safe. There was no record left and soon Ponto, too, would be gone.




CHAPTER 33


Wednesday, the twenty-fifth, dawned bright and fair. My mind was fully
made up and I was feeling fine. Germaine was still anxious about me
at breakfast but I soon convinced her that there was nothing serious
involved. I laughed secretly as I said it.

"You know," I told her, "I think I'll drive over to Hartford and have
those people at the Sanctuary look me over again. I think I need some
kind of rest--the reaction, you know."

My wife raised no objection. In fact, she seemed rather relieved as
though my aloof conduct of the previous night had been a shock to her
self-confidence.

"I'll stop off at the kennels on my way over," I added, "just to make
sure that Ponto is all right."

My plan was to remove the dog and drive to White Plains. Then, if there
was any issue raised as to my need for a rest-cure, it would appear
that I had inexplicably ordered my favorite dog chloroformed. That
would clinch it with Germaine as nothing else could.

She seemed rather subdued as she went upstairs and helped me pack my
things in a suitcase. She did not offer to kiss me good-bye as I drove
the Packard out of the garage and rolled around the graveled drive
toward my road to freedom.

First, of course, I stopped at Dr. Rutherford's office. It was early
in the morning and he hadn't finished breakfast. The maid admitted me
to the reception-room and while waiting for him, I made out a check
for fifteen thousand dollars to the order of Jeremiah Rutherford, and
marked across the back, "For Professional Services."

"Here you are, Jerry," I informed him when he finally appeared. "I
would have got it to you sooner except that my lawyer went off the deep
end with a girl in Hartford. He should have had the papers ready on
Monday and here it is Wednesday."

"Thanks," he said briefly. "Are you feeling okay?" he asked. "You look
a bit shaky."

I laughed. "Set it down to my liver," I told him. "I had a wet night
last night and am a little rocky this morning. As a matter of fact, I
think I'll run over the The Sanctuary and ask Folsom to put me up for a
few days. My nerves are shot to hell."

"Good idea," he murmured absently. "I'll go down to the bank and put
this in for collection. My Army papers came through yesterday and I'm
all set."

I climbed into my car and tooled along the roads until, after inquiring
at a couple of filling stations, I located Dalrymple's kennels.

"I've come for Ponto," I told the vet.

Dalrymple seemed rather embarrassed. "Are you sure you need him?"
he asked. "He's just served Buglebell III--that's the prize-winning
brindle bitch owned by one of the Fortune editors--and I was planning--"

"You can cancel your plans," I informed him. "And as for Buglebell's
pups, I'll buy the litter. What _were_ your other plans, anyhow?"

Dalrymple was quite abashed. "Not exactly anything, Mr. Tompkins,
sir," he said. "It was only that--"

I nodded majestically. "Once is enough," I said, "and you can be
thankful I don't report you to the Kennel Club for bootlegging
thoroughbred puppies. Ponto comes with me--now."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Tompkins," the vet agreed humbly.

Dalrymple was a broken man but Ponto was not a broken dog. However,
marriage coming so soon after distemper had curbed his spirit and he
slouched into the Packard.

As soon as I was out on the main road again, I stepped on the
accelerator, heading the car southward in the general direction of
White Plains.

Ponto sat panting on the seat beside me, but in his weary eye I saw
all the Westchester stock-brokers who had ever annoyed me. I also saw
Winnie, and Winnie was to die.

I admit that I was day-dreaming a bit as I rounded the turn. In any
case, I was driving fast and had not fully accustomed myself to
handling the Packard. The other automobile backed violently out of the
driveway on the right, the dope of a driver not looking to see if there
was any traffic coming. I slapped my foot down on the brake, missed
and hit the accelerator. The Packard gave a wild leap ahead. The other
car--a battered old Chevrolet--completely blocked the road. I jammed on
the hand-brake and twisted the steering gear so that the Packard ran up
the bank of an elderly apple-tree. My head snapped forward, there was a
blinding flash and then complete blackness.

       *       *       *       *       *

Seconds or centuries later I opened my eyes. The old Chevy seemed to
have pulled away and was now parked ahead of us along the righthand
side of the road. My wind-shield had not shattered and, so far as I
could see, no major damage had been done to my car though I hated to
think of the fenders. I ached in every limb.

My neck itched intolerably so I scratched it with my left leg. I shook
myself. "Well, I'll be damned!" I exclaimed, only to hear a deep growl
that seemed to originate from within my hairy chest.

I glanced over my shoulder. There, in the seat beside me, hunched
forward over the steering-wheel, sat a heavy-built man, a thin trickle
of blood sliding down his cheek, his eyes closed and his lips open,
while he snorted with concussion.

Instinctively, I called for help. My reward was a series of loud,
angry barks. Again my ear itched and I scratched it again with my left
leg. It seemed that I had become a dog. The man beside me stirred and
moaned. Then he opened his eyes.

"Ponto," he said dreamily. "Good dog!"

The driver of the other car walked back and was standing by the window.

"You all right, mister?" he asked. "You was doing fifty easy. Lucky for
you I see you coming."

The man in the driver's seat gave a feeble smile. "My fault," he
admitted. "I was day-dreaming. Lucky this heap has good brakes. Are you
all right? Any damage, I mean?"

The other man laughed. "Sure," he said. "I'll go on now, just so
you're all right. Want a doc?"

"Uh-uh!" the man on the seat beside me shook his head. "My name's
Tompkins and I live in Bedford Hills. If there's any damage, it's my
fault and I'll pay for it. Sure you're okay?"

"Yep!" agreed the owner of the Chevrolet. "You got a cut or something.
Reckon you'd ought to see a doc."

"I will," said the man beside me. "Don't worry. I'll be all right. Just
bumped my head a bit."

We waited until the Chevrolet had rattled itself around the turn of the
road. Then the man cautiously tried the gears and disinfiltrated the
Packard from the apple-tree. He got out and inspected the car carefully
for damage and then climbed back behind the steering-wheel. I started
to ask him a question. It was a whine.

"Why Ponto!" he exclaimed. "You old black devil. How are you, hound?
Long time no see."

"Hot damn!" he exclaimed, after a pause. "Have I been on a _drunk_! You
know, Ponto, I dreamed that I was you and if there's anything in dreams
I bet I'm the only Republican in Westchester County that ever married a
brindle bitch named Buglebell.

"Let's see," he continued. "Where were we? Earlier today I went to the
Pond Club and had a couple of drinks. How in hell do I find myself
here? I must have drawn one hell of a blank, Ponto, the damndest blank
I've ever drawn in my life."

His eyes looked down on the seat beside us, where I had left a copy of
the morning New York Times.

"Hullo!" he exclaimed. "That's funny. Here it is. Good Lord! the
twenty-fifth of April! So I've been out for three weeks. That is a
blank to end all blanks."

He whistled tunelessly between his teeth. Then he cast a glance toward
the back seat, where my suitcase rested.

"What gives," he inquired. "I'm not leaving home, for God's sake?
Ponto, old boy, you just stick by me and we'll go back to the house and
see what this is all about."

"Yes," I barked at him.

"That's a good dog," he said affably. "That's a good Ponto."

He backed the Packard into the driveway that had been my nemesis and
turned the car around.

As we approached the house he slowed the car to a dead stop.

"Ponto," he told me. "Here's where you and I go into a committee of the
whole. What's been going on around here? There's been one hell of a
mix-up if you ask me. I had a dream--"

The sooner I got his mind off this subject the safer I would be. I laid
my ears back and woofed.

"Attaboy!" he agreed. "Now let's take a look at this paper.... What?
Roosevelt's dead? Why doesn't anybody tell me these things? And
Germany's about to flop? Whew! Who would have dreamed it? You know,
hound, I feel like Rip Van Winkle coming back after twenty years sleep."

I tried to look ingratiating and let my tongue loll fetchingly out of
the side of my mouth.

"Say!" he exclaimed harshly. "Now it's beginning to come back. You
took my place while I was--God! have _you_ ever been introduced to
a great big dog and told she's your wife? Well, damn it! you and
Jimmie--Oh, hell, this is one godawful mess! What's been happening
around here, anyhow? Am I going nuts?"

I pricked up my ears and gave a false, loving whine. I licked his
stinking hands.

"Okay, okay," Winnie agreed. "It's not your fault. But what the hell
happened is beyond me. I hate to think of those prime asses, Phil and
Graham, in this market. And what happened to Virginia? That's one gal
you didn't know about, Ponto. She's for me, and how!"

He took another look at the paper.

"Oh, the hell with it!" he growled. "If Jimmie doesn't like it, she
knows what she can do about it. Let's go on home, Ponto, and just tell
her man-to-man where she gets off."

I barked.

He put his foot on the accelerator and whirled up the drive to come to
a stop in front of Pook's Hill.

Before he had switched off the engine, the front door opened and
Germaine appeared.

"Heavens!" she exclaimed, "you're back early. Have you changed your
mind again?"

"Yep," Winnie said. "I decided to come back home, after all."

She smiled. "I'm glad," she told him. "I couldn't make out why you were
so keen to go back to Hartford so soon after you got out. You come on
in, darling, and Myrtle and I will take care of you. Gracious! There's
blood on your cheek. Did you hurt yourself?"

Her voice was warm and loving and made my hair rise slightly. If he
tried any monkey-business with her, I'd rip his throat out. I growled.

"Oh, good!" she laughed. "You got Ponto. Did he have a nice honeymoon,
poor darling? Is Dalrymple satisfied? Would you like to put in for one
of the pups?"

I growled again.

She laughed. "Oh, Winnie, he looks so shattered. He--what _did_ happen
to your head, darling?"

He grinned. "We almost had an accident. I was headed towards the
Parkway when a car backed out. We bumped into an apple-tree. No harm
done but I was knocked out for a few minutes and I guess it must have
shaken me up."

She lifted her face to his and kissed him until I could feel thick, hot
rage mount inside my throat and force itself out in a deep rumbling
growl.

"Look," she said, "he's jealous. Poor Ponto!"

And she kneeled beside me, put her arm around my neck and pressed my
head affectionately.

"There!" she said briskly. "You're a good dog. You're my Ponto and I'll
take care of you."

Tompkins glowered at me and her.

"Stop driveling over that damn dog," he said, "and come on into the
house."

Germaine gave me a farewell pat on the head.

"He's such a good dog," she announced, "and now that he's been properly
married he'll settle down, I hope. I've been quite worried over the way
he's been acting. But it's all right now, Ponto, isn't it? Was your
girl-friend nice, old boy? Huh? Are you happy?"

I tried to explain things but all that came to my lips was a series of
whines and growls.

"Come along, Jimmie," Tompkins insisted. "I'm cold. Damn it all! I've
had a shock and all you can think of doing is to slobber over a dog.
Let him have a run."

So she got off her knees and followed him obediently into the house.

I sat for a moment, pondering my predicament.

This was Fate. Three seconds would have made all the difference but
here I was, a dog. Conditions were reversed and I might as well be
philosophical about it. Winnie never dreamed that conditions were not
as they had been before the second of April, just as though Frank
Jacklin had never existed. The chances were that he would continue to
believe that it was all a dream, an hallucination. As for the F.B.I.
and Von Bieberstein, putting first things first, that was no longer
any of my business. Dogs were not expected to develop patriotism: that
luxury was reserved for human beings. All I could do now was to wait
my chance. Perhaps the time would come when I could repossess Winnie
Tompkins' body. Then, by George! I would not waste one minute but would
have him chloroformed at once. In the meantime, my cue was to be a good
dog.

There was a shrill whistle from the house.

"Ponto!" Winnie's voice called. "Come here, Ponto. That's a good dog!
Come on, Ponto! That's a good dog!"

I ran, wagging my tail, to the open door and on all fours entered the
house I had left only two hours before as its proud master.




CHAPTER 34


I was lying down in the kitchen, near the stove, on an old rug which
Mary-Myrtle had spread for me. She was really a nice girl. My educated
nose informed me that she was kind, young and affectionate. When
she entered the room I used to rear up and place my forepaws on her
shoulders and lick her ears. She liked me. She used to put her arms
around my neck and press against me and give me a smack on the back and
a "Go on with you, can't you see I'm busy?"

I was lying by the stove when Winnie Tompkins entered the kitchen.
Mary-Myrtle was bending over the stove, fussing with a saucepan of
vegetables. I was quietly sniffing with interest the combination of
cooking-smells and the scents from the warm spring afternoon. Winnie
strolled across the kitchen, took his thumb and forefinger and gave her
a hard pinch on her buttock.

"Oh! God!" she shrieked and turned to confront him. "Oh, you!" she
observed. "I thought you'd got over all that!"

He whistled between his teeth, put one tweed-clad arm around her
shoulders and pressed her to him.

"Go on!" she said, in a half-whisper. "I'll call Mrs. Tompkins."

Still whistling, with his free hand he tilted her chin up to his face,
stooped over and kissed her. I could see her hands flutter and press
against his chest for a moment, then relax, then clutch him fiercely,
as her lips thrust against his mouth. I rose and growled.

"Hello!" Winnie exclaimed. "Why if it isn't Ponto? You jealous again,
old boy? We can't have a moralist around here, can we, Myrtle?"

He turned and kissed her again.

I stalked over and stood, rumbling a bit, beside her, ready to attack
if he carried his dalliance beyond decorum.

"Let me go, sir," Myrtle begged in a hoarse whisper.

"Tonight?" he asked, holding her close.

"Yes," she sighed. "I'll come down, sir. Tonight, when the dishes are
done and the house asleep."

He snapped his fingers at me, with an air of assured authority. "Come
on, Ponto," he commanded.

I followed him with murder in my heart, my toe-nails clicking on the
parquet floor, my tail wagging with slow servility. He led the way
upstairs to my wife's bedroom. He tapped on the door.

"Come in," Germaine called. "And here's Ponto!"

I padded across the room to the chaise longue and lay down beside her.
I gave her silk-clad leg a poke with my nose. She smelled lovely.

"Thank you, Ponto," she said courteously.

I rested my head on my paws and looked at Winnie. He absent-mindedly
pulled a cigar out of his pocket, bit off the tip and lighted it,
after spitting the shreds of tobacco in the general direction of the
fireplace. I could feel Germaine go tense.

"I'm so glad you decided not to go to Hartford after all," she remarked
quietly. "It's much nicer for you here. Myrtle and I can take care of
you and see that you have a good rest. Poor darling, you must need one."

Winnie blew a heavy puff of smoke toward her bed-canopy. I could tell
by the way he answered her that he was feeling his way.

"Yeah," he agreed. "I might as well get a sample of this far-famed
suburban home-life you read about."

She jumped up and put her arms around his neck.

"It's not so bad, is it, Winnie?" she asked gently. "You know--I
suppose it's silly to tell such things--but last night I dreamed we
were going to have a baby."

"Good Lord, Jimmie!" he drawled. "I hope not. You know as well as I do
that we aren't the kind of people who have kids. If you think there's
any danger of it, there's a doctor I know in New York who'll put a good
stop to it."

Germaine's hand fluttered helplessly at her breast and her face went
white and peaked. A sharp whiff of the acrid sense of human anger and
fear came from her body. I rose and eyed Winnie steadily. I was careful
not to growl.

"Why, I thought--" she began. "The other night, I mean, it was all
so--What's the matter? What has changed?"

He gave a sort of neighing laugh. "Oh nuts, Jimmie! We aren't the
type. Say it's spring or what-have-you? Just for that are you going to
go through hell just to have a little animal that will go 'Aah-Aah-Aah'
at you?"

Germaine stood up. "Yes," she said. "I am. If that's the way these
things happen, that's what I want. If it doesn't happen I never want
to see you again so long as I live. But if it does, it will be _my_
business, not yours. I want this baby. You loved me the other night.
You needed me. We needed each other. I can't throw that away, like
a--like a dead cigar butt."

He thrust his cigar into the corner of his mouth, a la Churchill. "So
that's the way it is, is it?" he demanded. "Okay, but how am I expected
to know that it wasn't Jerry Rutherford--"

"Oh!" Germaine looked at him in utter, white-lipped silence. "You know
that can't be true."

After a minute she spoke to him quite gently.

"Winnie," she told him, "you know, I think you really ought to go to
the Sanctuary, as you planned. You do need a rest, dear, and it would
be better if you took it there where they have trained attendants and
good doctors. I'll be waiting here till you come back. Do go, darling.
It will do you a world of good. Everything will work out for us all
right now."

"So you want to railroad me to an asylum, eh?" he snarled. "Well, nuts
to that! As far as I'm concerned, we're back on the old basis. You go
your way and I go mine. And no brats, mind you! or I'll call the whole
thing off. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Winnie," Germaine replied, in a small, frightened voice. "You
make yourself perfectly clear."

"Okay," he told her. "Come on, Ponto!"

He had the nerve to snap his fingers at me. Not even when I had him
in the Packard, headed for White Plains and chloroform, had he stood
nearer death, but Germaine's hand--cold and little--rested briefly on
my ears and I mastered my rage.

I followed him into his bedroom and he slammed the door behind me.

"See here, you black son of a bitch," he truthfully addressed me. "You
seem to have made one hell of a mess of my affairs. Oh, I don't suppose
you can understand me now that you're a dog again, but just the same,
for two cents I'd send you to the boneyard. I've still to find out how
much hell you've been raising with my business, but damn it all!!!
Couldn't you _tell_ that it didn't suit my plans to be clubby with
Jimmie?"

I padded loyally across the bedroom and laid my head on his lap. He
milked my ears automatically and I rejoiced, because the more he
thought of me as Ponto the less likely he was to discover my human
personality. I had not yet decided when to kill him.

"Yes, damn it! hound," Winnie continued. "This is one thing the
experts will never know about. It's out of this world. Three weeks as
an involuntary Great Dane, ending up in a shot-gun marriage with a
big brindle bitch named Buglebell III! If you want to know my idea of
shooting ducks in a rain-barrel, that is it. No privacy at all. Just
an old boy writing things down in the stud-book. Jimmie may think I'm
mean but after that experience who wants off-spring, cannon-fodder or
kennel-fodder? I don't. Neither would you, Ponto. I suppose," he added,
"that legally speaking you are the putative father, not me. Gosh! what
an experience!"

He reached over to the night-table and pulled the brandy-bottle out
from the little cupboard, which was neatly fitted out with glasses,
bottle-openers, a syphon and a decanter. He glared accusingly at the
bottle.

"Damn you!" he exclaimed, "It's almost gone. My best brandy! Whoever
told you you could touch my liquor? Oh, well, can't say that I blame
you. Here, I'll let you smell the cork."

He held it out at me and I sniffed it dutifully. I jumped back,
sneezing.

"Not so keen about it, eh?" he demanded gruffly. "Well, just to even up
the score I'll make you drink some."

He grabbed my lower jaw with his free hand and forced my tender lips
against my sharp teeth until I opened my mouth. Then he poured some of
it down my throat. I choked, but got it down.

"Atta dog!" he praised me. "Now you just stick around and you'll see
some fun."

He went out and closed the door, leaving me alone in the darkened room.

An hour or so later, the door reopened and Winnie swaggered in. He
looked slightly more bloated than before and his eyes were glazed with
liquor. He tossed off his clothes, went to the bathroom and took a hot
shower. Then he lighted a cigar and lay on his bed, in his dressing
gown, waiting--

After a while there was a quiet step in the hall and the click of
the door-handle. It was Mary-Myrtle. She was wearing a red flannel
dressing-gown and her hair was done up in a pigtail. She closed the
door behind her and cast an anxious glance over her shoulder in the
direction of the hall.

Tompkins guffawed. "Who? Jimmie?" he demanded. "Not her! She knows
better than to interfere."

Myrtle cast strange little embarrassed glances to right and left and
I noted that her hands were trembling as they fumbled at the buttons
of her dressing-gown. I strolled across to her and sniffed the sharp
perfume of desire on her limbs.

She gave a little squeak. "Oh, Ponto! You gave me such a start." She
turned to Winnie. "Take him away," she said. "It doesn't seem decent
with him watching."

He gave a loose lipped smile and rolled off the bed.

"Ponto," he ordered. "You're de trop. Get the hell out of here!"

He opened the door to the hall and I slunk out into the darkness of
the landing. My toes clicked their way across to the door of my wife's
bedroom. I lay down, on guard, my ear cocked to catch the desperate
stifled sobs of the woman inside.

It was then that I decided that Tompkins must die.




CHAPTER 35


My opportunity to settle the account did not present itself for more
than twenty-four hours. Early the following morning, Myrtle was kicked
out and crept upstairs. Winnie slammed the door and snored like a hog
until ten o'clock--at which time he stamped downstairs and roared for
breakfast.

After he had eaten, he went to his room again, shutting me outside,
and dressed himself carefully in the manly tweeds he had been wearing
on that first day in the Pond Club. He drove to the station--I
assumed--leaving me behind at Pook's Hill with two unhappy women.
He did not return that evening at all and it wasn't until late the
following morning--that would be Saturday I figured, although I was
already losing my human preoccupation with time--that I recognized the
crunch of the Packard's tires on the graveled drive. I was standing
just inside the door as I heard his key fumbling in the lock.

It was Winnie and he was drunk.

"Oh, hullo, Ponto," he remarked thickly. "So you're the welcoming
committee. Come on up with me, boy, and hear the dirt."

I followed his uncertain steps upstairs and into the bedroom. It would
not be long now.

"Ponto!" he announced. "Good old Ponto, Ponto! I'm going to tell you a
great secret. You won't tell anybody about it, will you? You can't."

I lay on the rug and panted at him.

"Yes, Ponto, if you're going to play ball with me you got to be one
tough dog. Took a run into New York today and is that one mad-house?
Saw Virginia. You know, red-head. She knows her stuff. Had me right
back on my five-yard line before I rallied and scored that touchdown.
It was terrific. Called my office. We're rich, boy, rich as hell."

"Thissa tough game, dog. That Briggs gal says the F.B.I.'s still
worrying about me. Is that a laugh, hey, Ponto? Is that a laugh! She
says they wanna know do I remember the week before Easter. Hell! could
I forget it? Maybe it's lucky for me I drew that blank. Might of had
tough job ducking the G-men.

"Aw, they're nuts! I agree, Ponto, I must respectfully agree with you.
Didja hear me contradict anybody? It's a lead-pipe cinch, fooling those
babies. Where was I the week before Easter? And sure I was tucked away
in a Catholic Retreat at the Seminary of the Sacred Heart, doing the
Stations of the Cross in St. Michael's Church. Great institution--the
Stations of the Cross. Wonderful institution. You can meet anyone and
no questions asked. I gave the instructions that sent the Alaska to
the bottom of the North Pacific and slipped the black spot to that sap
Jacklin between the Scourging and the Crown of Thorns. Lucky thing I
knew all about him. Helped. It was easy, Ponto, easy. Who's to question
a man doing Stations of the Cross if somebody else does 'em at the same
time?"

He paused and poured a brandy.

"Tha' red-head's a wonder, Ponto," he told me. "She deals 'em straight
and plays 'em close to her chest. For three weeks she followed my
lead without a peep. I was out like a light. Can't remember a thing
but she never let on. I always said the way to _act_ innocent was to
_be_ innocent. Not that she knows what it is all about. She thinks
I'm playing the Black Market. She's a racketeer at heart, she is, the
tramp. That North Pacific job was no cinch, Ponto. All I had to do was
to kidnap that guy Chalmis and substitute a ringer. Old Chalmis? We
dropped him in the High Rockies on the flight to Seattle. The Navy was
a bunch of saps, letting my men take that plane. Sure, we dropped the
Navy boys too, along with Chalmis."

I sat, ears pricked up, watching him. I could see the throb of the
artery in his throat that marked the place for my teeth to meet.

"Virginia told me the G-men are looking for Von Bieberstein," Tompkins
said. "Hell, Ponto, even she doesn't know what happened back in '35.
Sure I was broke. Sure fifty thousand would bail me out. Sure Hitler
put up the fifty thousand. He saved my hide. I made a killing all
right. So I'm Von Bieberstein? So what, Ponto, so what! Want to make
anything of it? Sure I lived up to my end of the bargain. Roosevelt
had ruined me. What did I owe Roosevelt? Sure I took the job. And was
_that_ a laugh! The F.B.I. chasing all over the place for Kurt Von
Bieberstein, and all the time it's little old Winnie Tompkins, Harvard
1920 and good old one thousand per cent American stock. The poor boobs
think they've licked Hitler, Ponto, but he's really licked them. You
wait'n see. I'll still be Gauleiter of Westchester County, so help me!"

The moment had come. He was lolling back on his bed, his arms behind
his head, his neck exposed. I gathered my muscles and leaped for his
throat.


THE END