Cue for Quiet

pressure eased a trifle.His voice was reasonably unexcited, but to my present taste, ominous.

  "All right. Someone go get him some pants." To me, "Your name Miller?Peter Ambrose Miller? Get that woman off the floor."

  Yes, I was Peter Ambrose Miller. I agreed to that. My mouth was dry aspopcorn, but I managed to ask him what this was all about.

  Hoover looked at me and scratched his nose. "This is about yourfingerprints being all over an anonymous letter received in Aberdeen,Maryland."

  I gulped. "Oh, that. Why, I can explain--"

  Hoover looked at me with the fond expression of a man who has crackedopen a bad egg. "That," he said, "I doubt," and he turned on hismilitary heel and walked out the back door. When they got me my pantsI followed him. I had to.

  I ended up at the Federal Building, which is a cavernous morgue, evenduring business hours. They gave me what might have been a comfortablechair if I hadn't had to sit in it. A young fellow was sittingopposite me with a stenographer's notebook, and I knew that any storyof mine had better not be repeated two different ways. Hoover came inwith a nondescript man with a hat pulled down over his eyes, whoinspected me from all angles and then shook his head, a littleresentfully, I thought. The hat-over-the-eyes left and I shiftednervously under those grim eyes staring at me.

  "All right," said Hoover; "now we'll hear that explanation. Talk!"

  So I talked.

  * * * * *

  When I finished my throat was dry and he was nodding as though hebelieved every word. He didn't. I asked for a cigarette and for newsof my wife, and they gave me a cigarette. They told me my wife was allright, or would be, if I behaved.

  "Don't worry," I said. "I'll behave." They just laughed when I saidthat.

  "Quite likely," said Hoover. "Now, let's hear that once more. Beginat the beginning."

  They gave me a room all to myself, finally. For three days, maybemore, I had that room all for myself and the various people thatwalked in at all hours of the day and night to ask me some of thesilliest questions you ever heard just as though they expectedsensible answers. After that first night I didn't see J. Edgar Hooverat all, which is just as well, because I don't think he liked me onelittle bit. They brought me a suit with the lining in the sleeveripped and a shirt with the cuffs turned. When I got those I began toworry all over again about Helen, because I knew she had no part inpicking out the clothes they brought me. I didn't feel too chipperwhen they came after me in force again.

  * * * * *

  The same room, this time more crowded. Older men this time, and a fewof the usual high school boys. Again we went through the same routine,and once again my voice cracked dusty dry. They were all desperatelysorry for such an incurable psychopathic liar. I hadn't felt sohelpless, so caught-in-a-quicksand since my days in the army.

  "I'm telling you the truth, the truth. Don't you see that I've got totell you the truth to get out of here? Don't you believe me?"

  Never such disbelief outside of a courtmartial. In desperation my eyesjerked around looking for escape. They slid over, and back to, theventilation fan purring on the wall. I sucked in a loud gasp. Theblades of the fan slowed to where you could see them as individuals,and the motor housing began to smoke.

  "See?" I yelled at them. "Believe me now?"

  The blades came to a standstill and the black smoke oozed toward theceiling.

  "See?" I yelled again. "Look at that fan!"

  Their eyes showed their astonishment. The smoke began to disappear inthe stillness. "What about that? Now do you believe me?"

  Maybe they did. No one said anything. They took me back to my room.About an hour or so later they came after me again. The chair felt nomore comfortable than it ever had, though it was beginning to shapeitself to my seat. The same faces were there, but the air was a littledifferent this time. On the desk, where I had seen sit no one but J.Edgar Hoover were a half dozen fans, plugged to an extension cord thatsnaked away and lost itself in a dark corner. My ears twitchedhopefully. Maybe this was going to get me out of here. One of theyounger men spoke up.

  "Mr. Miller," he said briskly, "can you stop these fans as you did,apparently, the other?"

  I started to tell him that "apparently" wasn't the right word. One ofthe older men broke in.

  "One moment," he said. "Can you stop any one of these fans, or all ofthem? Any particular one, and leave the rest alone?"

  I thought I could. "Which one?" There were five fans whirring silentlyaway.

  "Well ... the one in the center."

  * * * * *

  The one in the center. One out of five. Hold your breath, PeterAmbrose, hold it now or you can hold your breath the rest of yournatural life and no one will ever know, nor ever care. The fan in thecenter began to smoke and the blades choked off abruptly.

  I said, "The one on the far left ... the one next to it ... the farright ... and four makes five." I watched the last blade make its lastswing. "Has anybody got a cigarette?"

  I got a full package. While I tore off the cellophane someone held alight. I filled my lungs so full they creaked and sat back defiantly.

  "So now what?"

  No one knew just what. Two men slipped out and the others drewtogether their chairs for a whispered conference full of dark looks inmy direction. I sat quietly and smoked until even that got on mynerves. Finally I broke it up with a yell.

  "Can't you fatheads make up your minds? Don't you know what you want?Do you think I'm going to sit here all night?"

  That was a stupid question; I knew I was going to sit there until theytold me to get up. But at the time I wanted to say it, and I did, andI said a few other things that were neither polite nor sensible. I wasa little upset, I think. It didn't matter. They paid no attention tome, so I lit another cigarette and waited. The outer door opened andone of the two that had left came back in. He came directly to me,waving the others out as he came. They filed out and he stood in frontof me.

  * * * * *

  "Mr. Miller. This is rather an awkward situation for all of us,particularly for you, obviously. I want to say this, Mr. Miller;I--that is, we here in the Bureau are extremely sorry for the turn ofevents that brought both of us here. We--"

  At the first decent word I'd heard in days I blew up. "Sorry? What'sbeing sorry going to do for me? What's being sorry going to do for mywife? Where is she? What's happened to her? Where is she, and what areyou doing to her? And when am I going to get out of here?"

  He was a polite old man, come to think about it. He let me blow offall the steam I'd been saving, let me rant and rage, and clucked andnodded in just the right places. At last I ran down, and he moved achair to where he could be confidential. He started like this:

  "Mr. Miller, I, speaking personally, know exactly how you must feel.Close custody is as unpleasant for the jailor as it is for the jailee,if there is such a word, sir."

  * * * * *

  I snorted at that one. A jail is a jail, and the turnkey can walk outif he chooses.

  "You must remember that you are and have been dealing with an officialagency of the Government of the United States of America, of which youare a citizen; an agency that, officially or otherwise, can never betoo careful of any factor that affects, however remotely, the securityor safety of that Government. You understand that quite well, don'tyou, Mr. Miller?" He didn't wait to find out if I did. "For thatreason, and for no other, you were brought here with the utmost speedand secrecy, and kept here."

  "Oh, sure," I said. "I'm going to blow up a tax collector, orsomething like that."

  He nodded. "You might."

  "Blah. So you made a mistake. So you're sorry, so my wife is probablycompletely out of her head by now, I'm crazy myself, and you want totalk politics. All I want to know is this--when do I get out of here?"

  He looked at me with an odd, queer smile. "This, Mr. Miller, is wherethe shock lies. I
think, diametrically opposite to the opinions and, Imight add, to the direct pleadings of some of my colleagues involvedin this rather inexplicable affair, that you are the adaptableTeutonic type that likes to know exactly the odds against him, thetype of man who likes to know where and when he stands."

  "I know exactly where I stand," I told him. "I want to know just onething; when do I get out of this rat trap?"

  He mulled that over, his forehead wrinkled as he searched for theright words. "I'm afraid, Mr. Miller, very much afraid that you'regoing to get out of here very soon. But never out of any place else."And with that he walked out the door before I could lift a