They were strolling through Potomac Park with the two bodyguards a short distance behind, weary and hoping that the rubberneck tour would end soon.
“Mr. Conklin, do you remember the subject we talked about on the train? The one I didn’t mention in the diner?”
Conklin said, “What? Oh yes, the—”
“Yes, that new thing.” Paul hesitated. “Well, I know what it is now.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, sir. Do you want me to tell you?”
They walked a short distance in silence, Conklin thinking furiously of the weapon called an atomic bomb. Did he want to know of it or not? He had known several sleepless hours worrying about that term, worrying about what it could mean. He had not had scientific training, but he was reasonably well versed in scientific matters; the knowledge was sometimes necessary to the job, and the spectre conjured up by those two words was frightening.
“No,” he told Paul slowly, “I don’t think I want you to tell me.”
“All right. I don’t know for certain, but I think you’ll read about it in the papers in a month or so.”
Conklin closed his eyes with pain. “The practical way; I was afraid of that.”
“Yes, sir.” They continued walking, each involved with his thoughts. “That sergeant who was going to New York,” Paul said suddenly as though they had been discussing the man, “he didn’t. Your New York office didn’t find him.”
“That will certainly make things more difficult.”
Paul nodded and then glanced away as a pair of attractive girls approached. He watched them as they came abreast and then cast a quick glance over his shoulder as they passed. Conklin noticed it.
“Interested?” he asked.
Paul stared at him, knowing his mind. “Mr. Conklin, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me—I honestly do. But I’ll get my own girl when I want one.”
“I’m sorry. Forgive me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And please stop using sir with me. It isn’t at all necessary.”
“Habit,” Paul smiled. “I’ll try not to.”
“I should imagine you will find great variety,” the agent said, harking back to the previous subject. “Washington is overcrowded with women of all ages.” He locked eyes with Paul and grinned. “I do very well.”
Paul returned the grin. “I’ve got my eyes open. I hope you don’t spoil things.”
Conklin sighed and the grin faded. “I hope not. As usual I will have to inquire, but I certainly hope I won’t be standing in your way.” They reached the waiting car and climbed into the rear seat, while behind them the two shadows stepped briskly forward to sink contentedly onto the seat cushions.
“Back to the hotel?” the agent inquired. One of his two superior officers had made a quick phone call and a suite at the Mayflower Hotel magically appeared for Paul and his retinue of three. It was only a temporary stopping place while another and more tightly shielded retreat was being prepared for them.
Paul nodded. “All that walking tired me out.”
Concerted sighs of relief came from the front seat and the car moved out into traffic.
“There’s a girl in your building,” Paul suggested almost bashfully. “Working the swicthboard. Do you know her?”
“Which shift?”
“She was there this morning when we left.”
“Oh, yes. Martha Merrill.”
“Martha . . .” Paul seemed satisfied with the name. “Is she married?”
“You don’t know?” Conklin asked with mild surprise. “Of course not. I didn’t—”
“I must ask you to forgive me once again. I leap to conclusions. No, she isn’t married.”
“Going steady with anybody?”
“I don’t know.” Conklin considered that a moment and leaned forward to tap the shoulder of one of the men in the front seat. “Is she?”
“No,” the bodyguard replied. “She dates first one guy and then another.” He looked around at Paul and then at Conklin. “I couldn’t get to first base with her.”
“No personality appeal,” Conklin laughed.
“No something,” the other man agreed. “I wish you luck.”
“I have a suggestion,” Conklin continued. “When we return to the hotel I will make a phone call. The usual inquiry, you know. If the answer is in the affirmative, I rather think something can be arranged for this evening if you like. Surely there is someone in Washington who will drink with us!”
“Swell,” Paul agreed. “I’m willing.”
Paul unpacked the remainder of the clothes that had arrived while they were out and hung them away. He bathed, shaved again although it really wasn’t necessary, and put on still another suit that had been paid for with Conklin’s never-ending supply of money. Conklin had made one thing quite clear to Paul when the clothing was being selected, when the bills silently began climbing. He guessed what was in Paul’s mind and sought to alleviate it.
“An expense account has been placed at your disposal,” he explained. “You need only to name it and you can probably have it. I feel quite certain in my own mind that you will not make fantastic demands, but”—and he faced Paul squarely—’“should you make them, I believe they would be met. Now, stop worrying about the clothing bills.”
And so Paul had picked out three suits and a dozen shirts; a few minutes later and a few blocks down the street he discovered a bookstore and asked for five or six titles which appealed to him on sight and inspection, having everything sent to the hotel. He bought a jar of pipe tobacco of Conklin’s brand and gave it to him and then cigarettes for the two bodyguards when he found them eying the tobacco. Gently then he inquired into Conklin’s mind and found that the extent of his purchases were far below the figure that had been expected. Satisfied, he stopped buying and they had continued their tour of Washington.
Conklin returned as he was standing before a mirror, tying his tie.
“Well, Paul, good news and bad. The answer is yes, we may have visitors within reason. But as for Miss Merrill, no. She flew home on emergency leave this afternoon. Someone ill, I understand.”
Paul’s disappointment was on his face.
“Shall we go on with it anyway?” Conklin asked. “I can find two charming young ladies who are willing to drink our liquor. And by the way—what do you drink?”
“Bourbon and beer,” Paul told him, feeling regret at the missed opportunity of meeting the girl. “Sure, go ahead. See if you can get me a blonde.”
“Bourbon and beer!” Conklin repeated. “Together?”
“Yes—why?”
“Nothing at all, nothing at all,” the agent assured him. “But you have just risen a notch in my estimation. Very well, a blonde it will be.” He made as if to leave.
Paul stopped him, not turning but watching him in the mirror. “Mr. Conklin, do you know anyone named Willis?”
“Willis?” A studious pause. “No, I don’t believe I do. Shall I inquire?”
“No, let it go.”
Still Conklin waited. “Paul. Is this another atomic bomb?”
Paul laughed and turned from the mirror. “No, I was just being nosy.”
“Sorry I couldn’t help. I’m going to order dinner, and then we will investigate the ladies.”
VII.
She was a blonde, natural blonde of a rather dark shade and not at all the glossy canescence that is so painfully artificial; she wore a magnificent bronzed tan which complemented the coloring of her hair and eyes, a tan that made her the instant target of admiring male and critical feminine eyes, She said her name was Karen and that she did not mind in the least his awkward dancing or frequent missteps. Paul liked that much of her.
Paul learned more of Karen very early in the evening as she was teaching him some of the simpler, introductory dance steps; his bashfulness and his inability to dance had kept him from suggesting the entertainment, so she had asked him, holding out long beautiful arms to him. Someone, some lost girl i
n bygone years had once attempted to teach him to dance and they had progressed only as far as the box step when the impatient girl gave him up as hopeless. It had not been a happy experience for either of them. Paul stammered an embarrassed explanation of this to Karen, but she only laughed and pulled him away from the chair.
He took her in his arms with reluctance.
After the first few moments Paul admitted to himself that it was fun; holding a beautiful girl so close to him, the sensation of her hair against his cheek and her perfume in his nostrils could hardly be otherwise, but still there remained the awkward quandary of listening to her careful instructions, of being led, and then of making mistakes that were painful to them both. Karen did not once display the least distress when he trod on her toes or moved in the wrong direction, unexpectedly separating them; instead, with a patient and smiling manner she pointed out the error and then directed him to the proper movement. After some time Paul had the brilliant idea of anticipating her, realizing that in her mind Karen was going through the mental motions of teaching him and he had only to look to see what was expected of him next—a formula not far removed from those early training sergeants who barked their orders.
Slowly, as though he were opening the door into a dark room, he inquired into her thoughts, seeking only to find the directions expected of him.
He fumbled, nearly stepped on her feet again, and stopped.
“I’m sorry—I really am. Are you sure you want to go on?”
Karen lifted her face. “I’m not complaining. Now let’s try that last one again. Use the pressure of your hand on my back to guide me. Ready?”
Karen was an agent and had been planted on him.
Her orders had been briefly noted on an interoffice memo and were signed only with a pair of initials that were foreign to him. She had been asked to attend the party, to be as friendly as possible and to determine if he could keep his mouth shut. No more than that was written out in words, but the implications would have filled several pages of the memo, and she had been expected to understand all that was implied. In that one brief sweep of her mind he saw too that she had known such work before; she had been used to bait military officers and government employees for similar information and purposes.
Paul continued moving, watching the surface of her mind and gradually improving his dancing by careful prognostication. But aside and to himself he speculated on her presence in the hotel suite. Slater had sent her—there was nothing overt to indicate that, but he was certain of it. Slater had probably passed the verbal order on to someone else, someone who owned the pair of initials at the bottom of the memo sheet, and that anonymous someone had issued the actual order. But Slater had originated the idea, and, remembering the false entries he once attempted to slip into the list of stolen war materials, had arranged matters so that the order could not be traced back to him. Or so he had supposed. Carnell would be as anxious as anyone to know if he could hold his silence, but Carnell’s mentality would devise some other method for a test, if he felt a test was needed.
No, Slater was the chap who would turn loose a dazzling woman on him, a woman experienced in such matters.
As yet, Karen had done or said nothing to invite confidences, to draw him out. He supposed that she would be careful about it, would take her time until the place and the moment suggested it. Briefly Paul wondered just how much was implied in that part of the order asking her to be “as friendly as possible.” And just as briefly he held a notion to tempt her.
They danced, she drank highballs while he chased bourbon with beer, they stopped beside the windows to look at the lights of Washington, they talked with Peter and the other girl who had been introduced as Emily. No one seemed to possess family names.
“Where do you come from, Paul?”
“Illinois.”
“Really? I have an aunt in East Saint Louis. Have you ever been there?”
“Not in that direction, no. I mean, I never stopped there. Went through it on the train.”
“What do you do?”
“I was a movie projectionist.”
“Oh, I should imagine that would be fun. Do you like pictures?” They paused beside a tray of food.
“Some of them; there are an awful lot of stinkers.”
“How I agree with that! Were you in the army?”
“I put in a hitch.”
“Did you like it?” And then she answered her own question. “No, I don’t suppose you did—few people do.” Karen had made a small sandwich and handed it to him. “What did you do in the army?”
“Do?”
“You know—what kind of service?”
“Infantry.”
She started a sandwich for herself. “I don’t suppose you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Not even your war experiences? Were you ever in great danger?”
“A corporal once threatened to bloody my nose.”
Karen laughed delightedly. “I guess I don’t understand men. Some of them never seem to stop talking about how they are winning the war and others won’t speak a word.”
“The same with women,” Paul told her, biting into the sandwich. “Some think much but say little.”
“Do you prefer that kind?”
“I don’t like women who chatter all the time. The quiet ones are more comfortable.”
She arched her brows. “Is that a hint?”
“Too early to tell; the evening is young.”
“But I like to talk to new men; they are fascinating.” Karen led the way to chairs and sat down. “Tell me all about yourself.”
“Nope.”
“No? But why not?”
“I don’t trust that opening.”
“Ah!” She assumed an all-wise expression. “You’ve been bitten before.”
“My grandfather said that was pulled on him, ninety years ago.”
“Your grandfather was a wise old man! Just between you and me, that has been used for nine hundred years. What kind of a man was he?”
“Grandfather? A hell-raiser, I guess.” Paul put his tongue in his cheek and began the manufacture of a story. “When he was young he lived in the Ohio Valley, trapping game, rustling a few head of cattle, anything to make a living. But he got mad one day when a new family moved in about twenty miles away—he claimed the neighborhood was getting too blamed crowded. And besides, a girl in that family fell into the habit of coming over to visit him every Sunday and he swore no female was going to tie him to apron strings, so he pulled out. Went West.”
“That is fascinating! What else?”
“Oh, he knocked around out West for quite a while; always getting into one scrape after another. Rustling cattle on a big scale, cheating at cards, selling liquor to the Indians—things like that. Some dance-hall woman made a play for him once and he shot the high heels off her shoes; he didn’t trust women. Later on he teamed up with a man named Bowie from New Orleans and I understand they made quite a fortune. No one ever found it though; he and Bowie both died at the Alamo.”
“Why, Paul, that’s . . . that’s . . .”
“That’s what?” he asked innocently.
“That’s rather hard to believe. What a magnificent old man. Where did he meet your grandmother?”
“He didn’t. I told you he had no use for the women. He never did get married.”
“Now, Paul!”
“Want another drink?” Paul asked her.
He closed his eyes, relaxing, but a part of him would not rest. His mind wandered.
Captain Evans was sitting on a bed removing his shoes; Evans had evidently forgotten him for the moment, for now he was only looking forward to an hour’s pleasure. The bedroom was an ordinary one with the usual lotions and combs on the dresser, a bit of discarded clothing cast over a chair and a pair of pink mules waiting beside the bathroom door. Evans dropped the second shoe to the floor and glanced again at the dresser. Through the man’s eyes Paul followed the glance and saw the backsi
de of a picture frame which had been turned to the wall; through his ears he heard the sound of the distant shower being shut off and then Evans turned to the bathroom door. A woman emerged. Paul thought he recognized her as someone he had seen on the post and withdrew his attention.
There was a moment of aimlessness and then a mental picture of himself captured his attention. Palmer, the F.B. I. man. Palmer lay abed nursing a painful knee and idly thinking of Breen. Palmer thought of many things as he alternately rubbed and cursed the arthritis in his knee: his obnoxious son-in-law, his wife’s chiding because he had not worn clean socks that day, the possibility that one of the girls was pregnant again, the skepticism and then the rough going-over he had received on his report of the loss of Breen to the C.I.C., the lack of a new assignment in the past few days, the reminder to lay in next winter’s coal supply now while summer prices were in effect, the coming rain that the knee never failed to prophesy, a mild wonder if Breen could predict the weather.
. . . Paul pulled away.
A young woman in a mountain cabin. She was quite drunk, as was her companion. Paul watched her for only a long second, staring in utter fascination at what she was doing, and then twisted his percipience elsewhere.
The former sergeant who had sat in the dining car now sat in a nondescript window above the street, looking down on moving traffic and walking people, on the neon lights blinking to either side of him. An opened bottle of beer was near at hand, but the man was thirsty for more than what the bottle offered, craved more than could be had from the dark room in which he sat and the window from which he peered. He wanted freedom, he wanted to go down on the street and mix with the people he saw there, wanted to run into the nearest bar and have one hell of a good time! He wanted women, lots of women and all the rye whiskey his money would buy—he had plenty of money. Alex and Dave had taken good care of him, had made good their promises. But now Alex and Dave wouldn’t let him go out on the street. Too risky. What the hell! He didn’t intend to spend the rest of his life cooped up in this damned room. If Alex didn’t like it, he could shove it! The former sergeant reached for the bottle of beer and took another swallow.
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