Man's voice.
"Mr. Robertson?" he said cautiously.
"Mr. Robertson speaking," I said. "Yes?"
"I'm calling," he told me in a voice that said he was annoyed, butdidn't want to show it, "in reference to the Wisconsin Dells merger."
"Yes?" I gave him no help.
"You understand, Mr. Robertson, that such an important merger canhardly be arranged at a moment's notice."
Yes, I understood that. "But two days notice is more than sufficient,even allowing for an enormous amount of red tape." I put real regretinto my voice. "It is not that I wouldn't like to let nature take itscourse, but other things must be taken into consideration." I hoped Isounded like the busy executive. "I believe that Mr. Wakefield, Mr. W.W. Wakefield, has explained that I am a very busy man, and that I canhardly be expected to wait indefinitely in even such a pleasantatmosphere."
The Old Man forced a cheery--and false--heartiness. "There are, orthere might be, Mr. Robertson, other things that might induce you tostay. Many other things."
Threaten me, would he? "That, I doubt very much. I'm afraid I mustinsist--it's now two-twenty. If a merger, or at least a meeting cannotbe arranged by tomorrow at the very latest, the reason for having ameeting will, for all practical purposes, have ceased to exist. Do Imake myself clear?"
I certainly did. With a short-tempered bang, Smith hung up, aftersaying that he would call back later. I relayed the conversation toBob Stein, and we sent down for lunch.
The Old Man called back about seven, when I was washing up, and Bobanswered the telephone. By the time I came out he had all theinformation we needed, and was calling room service to clear thedishes.
"Meeting tonight," he said when he was finished. He was pleased withhimself.
"Good." It was getting a little tiresome being cramped up. "When?Where?"
He shrugged. "Where? I couldn't say. Someone will call for us,somewhere between nine and ten. And," he added slowly, "it might be agood idea to wear the best bib and tucker, with Sunday Schoolmanners."
"Oh?" I said, "that kind of a party? Fine. I'm all ready now. Betterget your hat."
At ten-thirty, the telephone rang. I answered it.
"This is the desk," it said. "Mr. Wakefield?"
"He's here," I said. "Wait a minute," and I passed the phone to Stein.
"Wakefield," he said. "Yes?"
The receiver chattered briefly.
"All right," and he waved at me. "Be right down." He turned. "Carwaiting." It didn't take us long to get downstairs.
It was a sedan with a neat little drive-yourself tab on the right-handdoor. Before we got near the car, Stein was careful to see who was thedriver. He evidently was someone he knew, so Bob nodded curtly, and wegot in and pulled away from the curb.
* * * * *
I don't know Washington at all, so I can't say where we made port. Nottoo far a drive, I imagine, if we had gone there directly. It was agood forty-five minutes before we ended our erratic turning of cornersand sped up a long tree-bordered driveway.
"Nice place," I said to Stein as we braked to a stop in front of along white-columned Southern portico. "Who lives here?"
He smiled and shook his head. "That's something I don't know. Does itmatter?"
It didn't.
As we strode up the steps the Drive-Yourself pulled away, tirescrackling on the white gravel. We both reached for the knocker at thesame time, but before we had it, the door swung open. Stein recognizedthe young fellow who opened it and took our hats. A message passedbetween their eyes, and the young man almost imperceptibly shook hishead in negation.
"Will you come this way, please?" and he led us down the hall.
The house was smaller than the outside had led me to expect. Thebuilder had gone whole hog on the giant Greek columns and the widesweep of the porch, and the inside of the house showed the results ofthe skimping. Not that it wasn't a far bigger and a far more expensivehouse than any average man would hope to have, but the limited spaceinside didn't go with those sweeping curves of the drive. I wonderedwho lived there.
The room where the doorman left us went with the inside of the house.So small it reminded me of the times when I tried to sell brushesduring the depression, in Grosse Pointe, I expected every moment tohave an underpaid maid, laundress, and butler come in to tell me thatthe lady of the house was out. In keeping with the faded appointmentsof the tiny room, a Chinese table held, for those who wait and read,an ancient collection of "Spur" and "Town and Country." As we sat andsmoked, far off through the thin walls we could hear the soft rumbleof voices. Occasionally a bass would rise above the sound, and abaritone would slide softly and soothingly across the pained roar. Thefront door opened and closed twice during the fifteen minutes or so wewaited, and the footsteps that came in went past our room and patteredfurther down the hall. Each time, when the steps were out of reach ofhearing, another door would open, and the distant voices would becomealmost distinguishable until the door again was shut. I lookedcuriously around the walls. Decorated with prints and pictures theywere, yes, but with that faded permanency that to me spells thefurnished house. The rugs were worn, worn to the shredding point, wornuntil the spurious Oriental design seemed an eerie Dali drawing. Allit needed was the faroff smell of secondhand ham and cabbage.
The doorman slipped in and beckoned to us, a grim conspirator if everI saw one. We followed him back to the entrance hall, back, back, towhere the voices grew louder at every step. A double door--golden oak,or I don't know wood--barred the end of the hall, and the young fellowpreceded us to throw it open with a semi-flourish. We walked in.
The place was blue with smoke. That was the first thing we saw. Lightsthere were in plenty, hanging around, hanging over the great ovaltable in the center of the room in a fiery glitter of glassybrilliants. The room was enormous, and I began to realize why thishouse was still in existence. Who cares about rugs if there is justone single room in the house where a ball or a party could becomfortably accommodated. Or a conference. I didn't know whose nameappeared on the tax bills, but I would bet that it would be any othername besides the United States Government.
No group of men or women could produce that much smoke in a shorttime. That meeting had been going on for hours. As we stepped inthrough the double doors I tried to pick out anyone I knew, but theglare flickered in my eyes and I saw no face as more than just a paleblur against a background of tenuous blue. Tentatively I got insidethe doors and they shut behind me with an abrupt finality. Two stepsforward, three, four, five, and Stein drifted away from my side, awayfrom the eyes that grew in size as I got closer to the table rim,toward the vacant chairs I saw slightly pulled away and ready foroccupants. I stumbled over nothing and a reassuring hand touched mine.I felt callow, self-conscious, awkward. I never thought I'd be so gladto see Old Man Smith.
He stood alongside me as I sank gratefully into my ready chair."Gentlemen," he announced quietly, "Mr. Peter A. Miller."
I half-bowed automatically, the proper thing to do, and the Old Mangave me his moral support by sitting next to me. He leaned over tosay, "I won't introduce you formally. Point out who you want to knowand I'll tell you who he is."
"Okay," I muttered, and felt in my pockets for cigarettes. I had to dosomething with my hands. I blew a cloud into the air and felt better.Settled back into the chair, I sent my glance around the table. Did Iknow anyone there?
* * * * *
At my right, the Old Man. His suit was wrinkled and his eyes werered-rimmed and tired. The large paper pad in front of him was coveredwith crisscross lines. On his right, a quite old man, bald andbeetle-browed. His collar was open and wrinkled, his vest twistedunder the lapel of his coat. I leaned toward Smith, and indicated hiscompanion with my eyes.
"Morgan, Undersecretary of State," he said softly.
Morgan heard his name spoken, and shot a questioning glance my way. Herealized what had been said and the beetlebrows slid upwards in amovement meant to b
e conciliatory. He bobbed his head with a cursoryjerk and went back to staring across the table. I followed his glance.
The object of his affections seemed to be--yes, it was. Five-StarGeneral Oliver P. Legree, not so affectionately called Simon by themen who served under him. I had been one of them. Trim and rigid andoh, so military he was, the very figure of a modern five-star general.His poker-stiff back thrust the tiers of ribbons to a sparklingglitter under the tinkling glare of the massive chandelier overhead.His face--well, it's been in enough rotogravures worldwide. The cigarwas there, the big black cigar he never lit and never lost. Histrademark was that cigar; his trademark was that and his jutting