The Devil's Advocate

by Taylor Caldwell

  Durant’s face became inscrutable. He remained silent though Zimmer waited for his comment. Then Zimmer said impatiently: “To boil it down, as you say, Major, it is essential to the well-being of the MASTS and important Government officials everywhere, and also in this Section, that domestic labor be let alone. But Mr. Woolcott emphatically insists on conscripting it for assignment to the Coal Mine Brigades, since recent mine explosions in this Section have depleted the labor camps in this vicinity.”

  Durant’s heart began to beat with rage. He remembered that only a month ago a coal mine explosion had killed two hundred mine workers, men, women and children, and had crippled several hundreds more. It had been a frightful explosion, and had been attributed to “saboteurs.” Of course, no one had questioned inferior equipment and the brutal disregard of the mine owners for their wretched slaves.

  “If this heretofore unavailable labor is conscripted, the well-being of the persons mentioned in the Manual will be seriously imperiled,” went on Zimmer.

  Durant could not control himself at all. “In other words, the wives of the MASTS and bureaucrats will have to do their own scrubbing, cooking, washing and baby-tending. This will destroy the ‘well-being’ of the husbands who will be compelled to witness this heart-breaking sight.”

  A look of livid menace fixed itself on the big face opposite Durant, and there was a cunning flash behind the thick glasses.

  Durant sat up suddenly in his chair and pointed a finger at Zimmer. “And you disagree with Mr. Woolcott, do you?” he shouted. “You believe that the welfare of The Democracy should be subordinated to the welfare of a few individuals? The safety of The Democracy is less than the comfort of a handful of minor and privileged groups? Is that your idea of patriotism, Zimmer?”

  The man, attacked in this terrible fashion, began to tremble, and the menacing expression on his face changed to one of awful fear. He stammered: “Major! I—I didn’t say that at—all! I merely quoted from the Manual, and the customary procedure. I—I haven’t anything to do with it! It comes from Washington—”

  Durant moved in more rapidly. “Yet, you’ve said, yourself, that the Section Directors of the Bureau of Mobilized Labor have full authority to conscript any and all labor! Mr. Woolcott appears to me to be a very patriotic man, completely aware of his duty. Yet you come to me and report what you consider deviations on his part. I think you are the deviationist, Zimmer!”

  Utter terror seized the bureaucrat. He jumped to his feet. “Major! I—I’m afraid you don’t understand! If—if domestic labor is taken away from what you call the privileged groups there’ll be serious dissatisfaction, and we can’t afford it during this new war effort. It—it could be dangerous—”

  “You mean that this minor group would dare to rebel against the authority of The Democracy, that they might embarrass The Democracy, that they might even plot the overthrow of The Democracy?”

  Panic overcame all Zimmer’s caution and training. “I didn’t imply that, sir!”

  “You did! In fact, I shall so report to your superior.”

  Zimmer screamed, clasping his fat hands together in an attitude of desperate appeal. “You can’t do that, Major! I work closely with the Military. Mr. Woolcott isn’t to know about that at all. If you’ll read your papers about me—”

  Durant sat back to enjoy the full spectacle of the man’s rout, fright and disorder. He watched Zimmer’s shaking body with intense satisfaction, and with even more satisfaction he studied the other as he mopped his forehead with a dirty handkerchief.

  Zimmer leaned over the desk. “Major,” he pleaded. “You do understand, don’t you? I had to make my report to you, in accordance with instructions from Washington. I’ve quoted nothing but what is in the Manual.”

  “It seems to me,” said Durant threateningly, “that some measures will have to be taken in this Section to maintain discipline. I’m referring to those who employ domestic labor. They’ve got to be put in their places. Who is running this country, the Military or the MASTS and the bureaucrats? I think we must have a definite show-down. The Military is becoming lax in some respects.”

  “But Washington has already laid down the rules and regulations,” begged Zimmer.

  “Those rules and regulations were laid down by bureaucrats, and bureaucracy is subservient to the Military. Or have you forgotten, Zimmer?”

  Overcome, shaken from his lofty position, Zimmer could only stare and tremble, the glasses glimmering with frustrated hatred.

  “How many domestic servants do you employ, Zimmer?”

  “Three, sir.” The voice was craven, now. “I’ve got two children, Major, and my wife isn’t—isn’t very strong. We have to have a nursemaid, a housekeeper and a laundress.”

  “I’m afraid,” said Durant, smiling, “that your wife will have to recover her health in two weeks. All for The Democracy, Zimmer. All for the War Effort and Essential Industry, Zimmer. Or are you going to inform me that your wife is more important than defeating the Enemy?”

  He picked up the telephone receiver, and asked that Mr. Woolcott, of the Bureau of Labor Mobilization be called. Zimmer leaned weakly against the desk, his pouting lips quivering. Durant continued to smile with pleasure.

  Then a voice answered him, impatiently: “Woolcott speaking. I understand Major Curtiss is calling. Is this Major Curtiss?”

  Durant’s hand closed convulsively on the telephone, and his breath stopped. For the voice purporting to be that of Mr. Woolcott was the voice of Durant’s best friend, Benjamin Colburn, leader, a year ago, of Durant’s division of the Minute Men in New York. Colburn had been captured, a year ago, and reportedly killed by Arthur Carlson, Chief Magistrate of Section 7. His body, in a sealed box, had been sent to his family for private burial. Durant had loved him devotedly, not only as a dear friend, but as the most able man he had ever known, a dedicated and fearless young man. It was incredible that it was his voice which had come to him at this time. It was the voice of the dead.

  “Who is this?” the voice was demanding. “Major Curtiss? Is anybody there?”

  It was indeed the voice of Ben Colburn, short, sharp and impatient. A long shaking ran over Durant’s body and his eyes misted. Ben! Ben Colburn. Durant began to breathe slowly and with deliberate evenness.

  “Yes, this is Major Curtiss. Major—Andrew—Curtiss. Mr. Woolcott,” he answered, spacing his words. “Major Curtiss of the Army of The Democracy, just appointed as Military Officer to Section 7, in Philadelphia, and just arrived from—New York, under the direction of Chief Magistrate Arthur Carlson.”

  He glanced up at Zimmer, who was listening only with apprehension, concerned only with his own affairs, and his own coming loss of domestics.

  There was a silence on the line.

  The voice came again, slower, full of meaning. “Good morning, Major Curtiss. We haven’t met. But I hope to see you very soon. I’d like you to meet my assistant, Major. Mr. Andreas Zimmer. I believe he is in his offices, now, Major. Or he was, only a few moments ago. A very able man, Major. Very efficient and painstaking. He never misses anything, Major. Very able. Is there something I can do for you, Major?”

  Durant’s hand involutarily loosened from the telephone, and he caught the receiver just as it was about to fall. He stared at it incredulously. Tapped. By whom? Of course, it was tapped by the Federal Bureau of Home Security. Even the Military was not exempt from the surveillance of the FBHS spies, who spied upon each other, also. However, Durant had thought that the Military had the complete trust of the Government. He began to sweat.

  “I’d like to talk over a little matter with you, Mr. Woolcott.” His voice shook in spite of himself. “A little matter of no particular importance. But I’d like to meet you. Shall we say for lunch?”

  “That will be splendid, Major. Let me see: it is almost one o’clock. Suppose I pick you up at one-fifteen at your office. We can meet downstairs.” Colburn paused. “And in the meantime, Major, I want to assure you that this office wishes
, as in the past, to—”

  “Work closely,” said Durant, with solemnity, “with the Military.” Again, he glanced at Zimmer, who was replacing his papers in his briefcase and who had apparently lost interest in the conversation. “And one of these days, soon, I’d like to meet your assistant, who, I understand, often is of assistance to the Armed Forces.”

  “We do what we can,” replied Colburn, and Durant, from the tone of his voice, knew that he was smiling. “After all, we are under Military supervision. By the way, Major, I’ve just glanced at my watch, and I see it is slow. Time’s running out, I’m afraid. I have only a few minutes—”

  Durant hung up, and his joy at hearing the voice of his friend disappeared. For Colburn had communicated to him the fact that he was in deadly danger and that he might be exposed at any time and that in that event, for the sake of all Minute Men, he must commit suicide. Durant turned to Zimmer. “Your superior officer sounds like a very cordial man. I suppose you have no difficulty with him?”

  Zimmer hesitated and peered at. Durant, who waited, artlessly, for his answer. Then Zimmer coughed. “As secret advisor to the Military, Major, I’m forced to confess that I am, indeed, having difficulty with him. For reasons of security, and because I don’t have full information as yet, I can’t even suggest my suspicions to you. When the time arrives, I will tell you everything.”

  He became important again, though he was still shaken. “And, Major, I don’t suppose you would change your mind about agreeing with Mr. Woolcott on the issue we have discussed?”

  So, even spies were sometimes indiscreet, thought Durant, understanding at once that this wretch was not only a bureaucrat, a spy for the Military, but also a member of the deadly, invisible and omnipresent FBHS. Here was Colburn’s danger. Zimmer had come upon something. Durant’s spirits rose a little. He would discover what Zimmer knew, when the time came, and some way would be found not only to save Colburn but to eliminate this man. So he hesitated, as if considering. Then, with a bluff and hearty manner, he slapped his desk.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Zimmer. I’ll talk it over with Mr. Woolcott. At any rate, I don’t think anyone should be too hasty in this matter.”

  “Good! Thank you, Major!” crowed Zimmer, thrusting out his hand in delight. “I’ve been worrying about my poor little wife. And I’m sure, sir, that after you give the matter your full consideration, you’ll prefer to abide by the law.”

  Durant controlled his sudden anger at this insolence. He made himself smile. He stood up and shook the other’s hand, and winked. “I’m new to all this, and perhaps zeal carried me away a little. Something tells me you and I are going to work very closely with each other, very, very closely.”

  Highly elated, and freed from all panic now, and believing that his logical and superior arguments had swayed this stupid military man, Zimmer was completely disarmed. He parted from Durant in a state of affable exultation, and the officers waiting outside, eagerly expectant, were extremely disappointed. They trooped in sluggishly.

  “Well, boys,” said Durant, grinning. “Feeling dejected? Let me tell you an old proverb: it’s sometimes better to send a fox after his own scent.”

  They were puzzled, and waited for an explanation. But Durant announced he was going out for lunch with Mr. Woolcott, and the officers became more cheerful. Keiser solicitously assisted Durant with his coat, and Durant left them.

  The stench of the streets of Philadelphia was not quite so bad as in the streets in New York. Even though laboring under despair and degradation, the people of Philadelphia still retained some faint pride in cleanliness. The pavements and the roads might be as broken and as full of craters as they were in New York, but there was little rubbish though the gutters were thick with mud. Here, too, there was a faint smell of spring and the light shone clearer. Durant, having emerged from his hotel, began to wonder at the wisdom of Arthur Carlson who had sent him from the black terror of New York to a city which might, even in the smallest way, contain some hope for the future. Was it possible that the smaller cities suffered less from the claustrophobia of New York and so might dream of freedom and the wideness of liberty? His father and grandfather had told him that it was the very hysteria of the packed masses of Manhattan, their very insularism and lack of a sense of national obligation, which had permitted them to become the victims of criminals, gangsters, murderers, evil politicians and madmen for the past fifty years. Long before the final calamity of the present military dictatorship New Yorkers had easily assimilated the doctrines of slavery and had swayed like grass in the winds of every demented “ism” blown from the noxious swamps of Washington. Thrust cheek-by-jowl with their fellowmen in New York, they had not learned to “understand” their neighbors. They had only learned to hate and fear them, and to absorb their mania.

  The street outside the hotel was crowded with soldiers and officers and a few members of the Picked Guard. Here were his men, thought Durant. Young men. But militarism had inevitably degraded them, had brutalized their faces so that one man resembled another so closely as to be barely distinguishable from each other. Some of them must once have had the light of intelligence in their eyes. The light had gone. The uniforms had debased not only their bodies but their minds, and the authority they had acquired over the subject proletarian masses had given them an air of bestial arrogance and cruelty. They stood solidly on the walks, and the people, men and women and children, crept meekly by them in the gutters, heads bent, lips moistening humbly, eyes averted. It was necessary only to look into the eyes of any soldier, thought Durant bitterly, to see the corrupting and maddening effects of power.

  The officers and men came to attention upon seeing Durant, but he hardly noticed them. A long, sleek black car was drawing to the curb, marked with the insignia of the Bureau of Mobilized Labor. The soldiers stared at it stolidly, and with the contempt of the all-powerful for a lesser tribe. Durant said to himself: Careful. Careful. A door swung open and a uniformed chauffeur emerged, saluting. He was followed by a man with fine gray hair and a quiet face. Durant, about to approach this man, halted, his heart beating with dismay. This man, tall, slight, apparently middle-aged, with a white tense face and a very slight smile and with tired and sunken eyes, could not possibly be Dr. Benjamin Colburn who was only thirty-five and who, when Durant had seen him last a year ago, had been full of humor and gaiety and confidence. This man limped perceptibly and moved like an old man.

  “Major Curtiss?” asked the stranger, holding out his hand. Durant stood like stone and his heart sickened. He recognized the voice. And now, looking into those faded eyes, he knew that this was, indeed, Dr. Benjamin Colburn. He could not speak.

  Colburn took the cold and flaccid hand of Durant. “I’m Woolcott,” he said. And then he smiled reassuringly, and warningly, and it was the smile of a friend. He looked at Durant’s broken arm and a faint crinkle appeared between his eyebrows.

  “I’m Curtiss,” Durant mumbled. My God, my God, he thought. He let Colburn’s hand drop and followed his host to the car. The door closed after them and the car moved on smoothly, skirting the craters. Durant leaned back in his seat and shut his eyes. I’m too emotional, he thought. This is no job for me.

  Colburn was saying casually: “This is a great pleasure. I thought it might be a good idea to get acquainted like this. I might be able to tell you something about the city and the work we do here. Have you ever been in Philadelphia before, Major?”

  “No,” said Durant. He kept his eyes closed. Colburn went on, but now Durant felt a hard pressure against his ankle. “I think you’ll like this city. I’ve lived in this region all my life, and know all the territory hereabouts. I thought you might like to have lunch out in the country; the weather’s fine, and there is an inn especially reserved for us about ten miles out. Have you the time?”

  The hard pressure became insistent. Durant opened his eyes. “Yes. I’ve cleared up most of my work for the day. Besides, I’ve had an accident recently, and must be
careful.” He stared emptily before him.

  “Good,” said Colburn. “Then we needn’t hurry.” He said to his chauffeur: “Joe, under the circumstances I think we’d better drop you off at the office. I believe Mr. Zimmer wants you to drive him somewhere this afternoon in the other car. I’ll take this one.”

  The chauffeur saluted indifferently. He glanced in the rear mirror and Durant caught the shaft of pure hatred sent in his direction. He knew that look by now, and he was dimly pleased. Apparently the Military was much more hated in this city than in New York.

  Colburn said pleasantly: “Are you a New Yorker, Major? I thought so. Been in the Army long? Ten years! Well, I was in for four years, and then I was appointed to various positions in Section 7. I was glad to return to Philadelphia, and I hope you’ll find the city as comfortable as I’ve found it. We have some nice parties, and know a number of agreeable people in town, and after a week or two you’ll make friends. Have you a family, Major? No? Neither have I.”

  There was no change in his pleasant voice. Durant thought of Colburn’s wife and his two young daughters, and his uninjured hand clenched. He regarded Colburn’s profile briefly. It was non-committal and friendly and very calm.

  The car stopped before a large and well-kept building which had once been the Philadelphia Chamber of Commerce. The chauffeur stepped out, and asked Colburn solicitiously: “Are you sure you’re well enough to drive by yourself, Mr. Woolcott?”

  “Quite sure. Thank you, Joe.” Colburn turned to Durant and laughed. “My old leg wound still bothers me some, and I had to have a slight operation on it about a month ago. Suppose we go up front, Major?”

  Colburn took the wheel, nodded at his doubtful chauffeur, and he and Durant drove on by themselves, in silence.

  Then Colburn said: “I’ve heard a rumor that in spite of the new war there’ll be some money to mend the streets. I hope so. We broke two springs last week, and that’s expensive for the Government. We can’t afford extra expense with the new war effort. It’s a terrible thing. Why does The Democracy have to be attacked every few years? Why can’t the rest of this damned world leave us in peace? Who would have thought that those goddamned South American countries would have blown up the Panama Canal on us without a warning?”