street right now--this is anewspaper, not a morgue!"
It wasn't on the street, the editor knew. Perhaps he wanted to throw ascare into Morgan, perhaps--But Morgan!
Morgan gasped, "Oh, my God!" and hung up with a bang.
The editor flipped a mental coin. His circulation was not what itshould be, the boss had been riding him lately, his job might be wherea beat would tilt the balance up or down. The national safety thatMorgan had shouted about--well, if we had the perfect weapon and theperfect defense, what was there to fear? And this _was_ a newspaper,not a morgue! They replated, and the first extras hit the street towake up half the city. The wire services had the story and extras wererolling throughout the country, or the world, about the time I waswatching the sun over Lake Ste. Clair.
Neither the State Department nor the FBI were on their toes that day.Instead of denying everything, or instead of laughing heartily at thepipedream of an editor trying to sell an extra edition or two, whoeverwas pulling the strings behind the scenes demanded flatly that allwire services kill and disregard all references to Colquhoun. No oneever made a newspaperman do what he really didn't want to do. The veryfact that the government was so eager to kill the story made everynewsman worthy of his salt all the more eager to break the paper-thinshell around the meaty yolk. By noon, the time we landed for fuel,every Washington correspondent for every news service had a littledifferent story for his boss, the White House was practically besiegedat the mere rumor that the President was to issue a statement, and theState Department was going quietly mad.
"Not so quietly, at that," the Old Man said sourly. "One hour straightI stayed on that telephone. One hour straight I talked to one bunch ofraving maniacs, and all the common sense I heard would go into yourleft eye."
By that time his temper had cooled below melting, and we were again onreasonably good terms. I was curious to know just who the Old Man hadtalked to.
He grunted. "Just about everyone in Washington with any authority atall. No one with any intelligence."
I could appreciate that. I have a very low opinion of anyone who staysin Washington any longer than necessary.
I asked him, "We're apparently heading back there. Why? Where were wegoing when they stopped us?"
He wasn't sure. "I wanted to keep on going," he said, "and get you outof the country. I still think that would have been best. There was tobe a cruiser waiting at Bremerton for a shakedown cruise. But whoeveris running all this--and I don't think that the President has thoughttoo much about it--wants us to get back to Washington for anotherconference."
* * * * *
"Another meeting?" I was disgusted. Washington political rashesmanifest themselves most often by the consistent eruption ofconferences in which nothing is said, nothing decided, nothing done."What does who think what?"
He blinked, and then smiled. "I couldn't say. I've been in this gameonly twenty years. At any rate, you can see who's worried."
I didn't see, exactly.
"No?" He was amused. "Don't you remember the discussion we had aboutwho was going to watch the watchers? Now that there's been a leak, theArmy is going to blame the Navy, the Navy is going to blame the FBI,and I take punishment from all three." He sighed. "My departmentseems, invariably, to be in the middle."
I let it go at that. I didn't have the heart to remind him that a goodportion of the trouble and friction this country has had in itshistory has been because the State Department has been sitting on thewater bucket when it should have been playing deep centerfield. No useworrying about things until the fuse is burnt half its length, Ithought. That might be, for me and all of us, a good policy to adopt,for the time being. Let the boys at the top fret and worry; let themwrack their brains and beat their heads against the wall. I'd do whatthey told me, if I could. The man that pays the salary worries aboutthe unemployment tax.
"Stein," I said, "are there any more of those sandwiches?"
The Old Man settled back in his seat and began to read the Kansas City_Sentinel_ all over again. He was still worried when we landed inWashington.
He left in a waiting black sedan, and Stein and I stayed in the shipuntil it was yanked into a dark hangar by a tiny tractor with greatrubber tires. We slid out the back of the hangar when the wary Steinthought it was safe, and a taxi rolled us to the Mayflower. There weregistered, I was told, as James Robertson and William Wakefield,Wisconsin Dells.
"Milwaukee," I suggested, "has better beer."
He took the hint, and when the waiter brought our late dinner, the icebucket had eight frosty bottles. They practically sizzled when theywent down. Bob Stein, at times, had some earmarks of genius, even ifyou had to lay them bare with an axe.
The first day wasn't bad; we sat around, drank beer and ate huge thicksirloins on the swindle sheet, and told all the stories we knew. Theradio was blurting either soap operas, hill-billy music, orlentil-mouthed commentators. The story broken in the _Sentinel_ wasgathering momentum, by what we read and heard, and that was too closeto home. So we made a pact to turn off the radio and keep it that way.We never missed it.
The second day the beer tasted as good as ever. The steaks were justas thick and just as tender, the hotel service just as unobtrusive.Stein was just as cheerful and as pleasant company. But I spent a lotof time looking out the window.
"You know, Bob," I said thoughtfully, "how would you like a big plateof spaghetti? Or ravioli? Maybe some pizza?"
He came out of the bathroom wiping his face with a towel, his hair wetand frizzled.
"Am I going to have trouble with you?" He was pessimistic. "Aren'tyou ever satisfied?"
I turned away from the window and let the curtain flap in the breeze."Who wants to be satisfied? How about some sub-gum war mein, orchicken cacciatora?"
He tossed the towel back through the open door. "Now, look here," heprotested.
I laughed at him. "Okay, but you get the point."
He did, but he didn't know what he could do about it. "We weresupposed to wait here until--"
That one I'd heard before. "Until the hotel freezes over, sure. But Idon't want to freeze. Do you?"
No, nor to rust. You could see that he liked his job of body-guard andfactotum, and yet....
I pushed him over the edge. "Tell you what to do," I said. "You callup and say that I'm getting restless. Say that you're afraid I'll easeout of here when your back is turned. Say anything you like, as longas you lay it on thick, and I'll back you up. Okay?"
He weighed it awhile. He liked inaction, no matter how sybaritic asmuch as I. Then, "Okay," and he reached for the telephone.
The number he gave answered the first ring.
"I'm calling for Mr. Robertson," he said. "This is Mr. WilliamWakefield. W. W. Wakefield." He paused. Then, "Ordinarily, I wouldn't,but Mr. Robertson felt that I should get in touch with you at once."
The other end squawked, nervously, I thought.
Stein thought so, too. "That's quite possible. However, Mr. Robertsonfeels that his time here in Washington is valuable. So valuable thathe thinks that his business is soon going to call him back toWisconsin Dells, if the merger referred to is delayed any longer. Ibeg your pardon?"
* * * * *
He twisted to throw me a wink over his shoulder as the telephonechattered frantically.
"That's exactly what I told Mr. Robertson.... Yes, he knows ofthat.... Yes, I have assured him that, in these days of businessuncertainty and production difficulties, mergers are not as easilyarranged as--" That Stein had a sense of humor when he wanted to useit.
"Is that right? I'm glad to hear it. One moment, while I check withMr. Robertson." He held his hand over the mouthpiece and grinned atme. "They are ready to have a stroke. This man I'm talking to has nomore authority than a jackrabbit, and he knows it. He wants to checkwith his boss, and call us back later. All right with you, Mr.Robertson?"
I laughed out loud, and he clamped the mouthpiece tighter. "I thinkso, Mr. W. W. Wakef
ield. As long as he puts the heat on that merger."
He went back on the telephone. "Mr. Robertson thinks he might be ableto wait a trifle longer. He asked me to warn you, that as he is a verybusy man, every minute of his time can cost a considerable amount ofmoney and goods.... Yes, I'll tell him that.... I'll be waiting foryour call.... Yes, I will. Thank you, and good-bye." He hung up thetelephone with a flourish.
"Satisfied, Mr. Robertson?"
I was satisfied. "Quite, Mr. W. W. Wakefield. Wouldst care for einbier?"
Ein bier haben. He would.
The telephone rang about an hour later, and I answered it. It was theOld