Delicate Ape

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  Piers was patient, slowly patient. “I had it made for me at the Lake of the Crocodiles. That’s in Africa, in case you aren’t familiar with it. It was a good briefcase, the best. I’ll admit it didn’t have manuscripts in it. I wouldn’t be at liberty to tell you what was in it. As for giving you the name Henderson, we of the Peace Commission must be careful not to receive publicity”—he waited long enough—“when on secret mission.”

  Devlin looked at Cassidy. Cassidy’s lip stuck out. He said, “Could be.”

  “Could be, yes,” Piers smiled. “Who put you on my tail, Cassidy?”

  Cassidy rolled the words. “That I am not at liberty to dee-vulge, Mr. Hunt. Like you and your secret mission, maybe?”

  “You prove different,” Piers suggested. He turned on Devlin. “And now am I and my pet bulldog allowed to depart? De Witt Gordon is waiting for me at the Peace offices.”

  Devlin said, “What do you know of John Smith?”

  “To which John Smith do you refer? The English adventurer or the—”

  “You know damn well which John Smith I’m asking about.” The man’s face was discolored. “The guy that got bumped off by a taxicab when you lost your briefcase.”

  Piers didn’t hesitate. “He was a little rat-toothed individual who traveled in the chair car up from Washington night before last. He was following me. He was following me to get his hands on a briefcase, made to order of the best alligator skin from the Lake of the Crocodiles. He thought it was Secretary Anstruther’s case.” He could go into truth now. “I presented the Secretary with one some years ago. I don’t think you need ask why that Smith wanted the Secretary’s briefcase. He was, as you doubtless know, a German.”

  If he told the whole truth, that his loss was but an invention to facilitate inquiries about John Smith—better this way. Better that he was on record as losing a case which no one, not even these cops, believed was his. It might call off the dogs long enough for David to come to him.

  “Why would you be having Secretary Anstruther’s case?” Cassidy asked.

  Piers laughed a little. “The Secretary never parts with his. Evidently John Smith didn’t know that. He must have believed that I, as the Foreign Undersecretary, carried it.”

  Devlin asked, “How did you know this guy was a German?”

  Piers met his eye. “I didn’t until I came here that day to report my loss. The officer outside mentioned John Smith might well have been Johann Schmidt. The uncle’s accent.” He leaned to the captain. “Do you have the uncle’s name and address?”

  Devlin put a tooth over the corner of his lip. “Phonies. We’re looking for him.” He asked gruffly but his voice begged reassurance, “We aren’t going to have trouble with Germany again, are we? Some of the newspapers seem to think so. I was in the Last War. I don’t ever want—”

  “We are not going to have war again,” Piers said somberly. He came to his feet. “May I go now? And must Cassidy come with me?”

  Cassidy put his feet on the floor, pushed up heavily. “I got my orders, Hunt. I told you they weren’t from Captain Devlin.” But he wasn’t unfriendly now. He didn’t want war.

  “And you can’t tell me who or why?”

  “I don’t know, Hunt.” He rubbed his cheek. “I don’t know nothing about this case. You’re to be followed. Maybe it’s to be sure you don’t get hurt. All I know is my orders come straight from the Commissioner himself. Follow you. That’s all.”

  “And you’re looking for the briefcase, too.”

  Cassidy said, “I already told you that.”

  Piers moved slowly. He said aloud, “I wonder what the Commissioner of Police would want with Anstruther’s briefcase.”

  There had been traitors in the Last War, in high places, men who played the enemy’s game. This was peace. And how many without fear of stigma in time of peace, how many other than Evanhurst, were playing the German hand?

  “Maybe he’s wondering what you’d want with it,” Cassidy said slowly.

  Piers said, “That’s the part I don’t understand.”

  2.

  The girl at the desk had hair by Gauguin and the manners of royalty. Her black satin was Chatin-Roux. She said, “You wish to see Secretary Gordon?” Her nose implied his inaccessibility.

  “If you don’t mind.” Piers gave her equal hauteur. He could tell it didn’t go over. “The name is Piers Hunt.” His name wasn’t known to her.

  She spoke into a box on her desk. He walked away to a chair twisted of aluminum and cafe-au-lait leather. It was more comfortable than it appeared. The elegant young woman raised her voice one cultured notch. “His secretary will be out at once, Mr. Hunt.” She seemed a little proud and not a little surprised at her prowess in obtaining the secretary. He didn’t protest. He might as well go through Gordon’s hoops as long as he was here.

  The first secretary was a rarer edition of the girl at the desk save that her hair was cobalt and her mouth a deeper crimson. She sat in a chair beside Piers. “Mr. Hunt?” She held an envelope. “Mr. Gordon had to leave for Washington. The President summoned him. We tried to locate you but you’d left the hotel. Mr. Gordon asked me to give you this note.” She offered the envelope.

  He broke it open and read,

  “My dear Piers—

  The President sent for me this morning. He also wants to see you. Will you get down here as soon as possible? I’ve asked Miss Maybrick to see about a plane for you. Sorry not to wait but he was urgent and the hotel didn’t know what time you’d return.”

  The President must have got on to something. And Gordon was there first. Piers’ eye met Miss Maybrick’s. She might have been reading the note over his shoulder. She said, “I’ve already ordered the plane to stand ready. One of our cars is waiting to take you to the port. Is that satisfactory?”

  He put the note back into her hand. “Orders are orders.” He didn’t like flying with an unknown pilot, entering a prepared car, but there was nothing else to do. Gordon had had the head start.

  “What time did Mr. Gordon take off?”

  “About ten. It was nine-thirty when the President phoned. We called your hotel but your room didn’t answer.”

  It was nearing one now. It would be mid-afternoon before he could reach Washington. By then it might be too late. If Gordon had known he was breakfasting with Evanhurst—he didn’t know. He’d left the suite last night before the engagement was made. Cursing fate didn’t change her megrims.

  “I’m ready.”

  Miss Maybrick said, “Beulah, will you ring the car, please?” Beulah was the creation at the desk. She was frankly puzzled now. “Mr. Hunt will be down at once.”

  It couldn’t be that the phony von Eynar letters had been discovered, that this was a plan to get him out of the way; not with Miss Maybrick and Beulah and all the New York branch of the Peace office in on it. He was the only one in the elevator. He asked, “What time does Nick Pulaski come on duty?”

  “Six o’clock.” The boy asked after two floors, “Nick a friend of yours?”

  They reached the first floor lobby. “I am a friend of his,” Piers said. He paused at the cigar counter, bought two bars of chocolate and a pack of cigarettes, the early editions of the afternoon papers. It would be better not to think on the two-hour run to Washington; certainly it would be discretion to refrain from unnecessary speech with Gordon’s man. It didn’t look as if he’d get any lunch. Lord Evanhurst’s breakfast had fortunately been British-hearty.

  The car thrummed at the curb, the International Peace insignia on the door, a small identifying round. Piers asked, “Airport?”

  “Yes, sir.” The chauffeur hadn’t a face, only a chauffeur’s mask, but he drove neatly and without time waste to LaGuardia Field. Not until the car stopped did Piers realize how tightly he’d held himself on the drive and how foolish were his fears at this time. Nothing was going to happen to him when he’d been summoned by the President of the United States. The Germans wouldn’t be that hapless.

>   The pilot of the small cabin plane was American as Cape Cod. Piers settled himself with the papers, peeled a chocolate bar, and was lifted into the sky. The newssheets were on to Fabian at last. There was a photo of him from the first Conclave, dressed in his scarlet robes of state, the towering headgear reducing his face to a small dark blob. The great Fabian, the lines ran, man of mystery, leader of Equatorial Africa, has arrived by private plane from his homeland. There was no mention of where he was putting up.

  There was no mention anywhere at all of Anstruther. That in itself was a warning. The State Department and the President must have learned something to substantiate rumor. The men who gave out Peace information to the papers had been muted. There was a bland interview with Brecklein quoting statistical figures of Germany’s production, and the Fatherland’s hope for increased productivity in the “golden era of the coming years.” A Ward and Dunley photo went with the interview. Brecklein’s pictured face was solid, prosperous, safe. No one would take notice of the thin lips, no one who had not faced the stone eyes above that mouth.

  Piers put away the papers and ate his second chocolate bar. He remembered Cassidy all at once, half glanced over his shoulder amusedly for sight of a plane pursuing. Certainly Cassidy wouldn’t be expected to follow to the White House doors. An interview with the President of the United States couldn’t be suspect.

  Piers didn’t know the President. He’d seen the face and gestures in an occasional newsreel, heard the voice on screen and radio. The man was somewhat younger than Anstruther and Evanhurst’s generation; he’d been coming up in politics during the Last War, too old to be caught in it, he’d done nothing controversial either then or in the peace decade. He was considered a good president, neither too precious nor too common for the people at large, some kind of farm background, westerly; he liked golf, fried chicken, fishing as a matter of course, and piloting his own plane. He’d strictly kept his hands off Anstruther and the Peace policies.

  The pilot in his separate cubicle had had nothing to say on the flight. Realizing it suddenly, the cold sledge of suspicion struck at Piers’ stomach. This could have been a ruse. He looked out the window; green country lay quilted below. He lifted the communication, asked, “About there?”

  “Yeah.”

  Piers waited but the pilot had nothing more to say. Piers replaced the phone. It was ridiculous to fear. The Germans couldn’t have infiltrated the Peace office. Gordon wasn’t a traitor, no matter what his commitments. He had no reason to do away with Piers; he was an Anstruther man even as was Piers. And the President waited. One misadventure by plane could be swallowed but two would indubitably stick in the gullet. Whatever the President was not, he was more intelligent than that.

  The communication sounded and he lifted it. “We’re coming in now,” the pilot said. “Look out and you’ll see Washington monument. Looks like a lead pencil from here.”

  “Thanks.” He looked out. They were circling Washington’s marble whiteness and rich green. The plane landed quietly at the airport. There were two secret service men waiting. “Piers Hunt? The car’s over this way.”

  “How did you know me without the carnation?” Piers asked.

  The one on his right said, “You came down in Gordon’s plane, didn’t you?” It was Gordon who was known, the personalizing of the department.

  The car was reassuring with its White House markings. There wasn’t anything off color about this appointment then; the President had summoned him. And Gordon. Gordon who had got here first. Piers scowled a little and he lit a cigarette.

  The secret service passed him into the White House by way of the porte-cochere. “The President is waiting for you in his private office.” He followed them along the passageway to an unmarked door. One man entered; the other waited outside with him. Piers said, “Hot, isn’t it?” The words were inane but less so than standing here silent like a political criminal.

  The man wiped his neck.

  The other returned. He held the door open. “Go right in, Mr. Hunt.” Piers was inside then, without his escort, in the comfortable, historic study of the President of the United States. The President was standing behind his desk, his hand outstretched. “Delighted you could make it, Mr. Hunt.” His handclasp was practicedly strong. “Draw up a chair. They’re more comfortable than they look. We haven’t streamlined the White House yet. Somehow one grows attached to the old things.”

  Piers felt as if he’d known the man for years, he was that like his newsreel and radio self. Gordon had risen from another of the chairs of old leather. Gordon, handsome, smiling, his dark suit fresh from a tailor’s, his shoes glossy, his pores untouched by human sweat. Piers’ summer-weight grays were more than crumpled; they smelled of Cassidy and the precinct house. His face needed a sponge.

  Gordon said, “Thank God, you received the message, Piers. I tried to reach you early—”

  “So your secretary told me.” He was easy. “I was breakfasting with Lord Evanhurst.”

  Gordon wondered and the President said, “I understand you’re an old friend of my friend, Lord Evanhurst. Cigarette?” But his social grace went from him when they were seated again. He said, “You know, of course, that Secretary Anstruther is missing?”

  “Yes.” Piers nodded. “Gordon told me Tuesday that he was overdue.”

  The President’s face was sober. “I’m still too shocked over the news to know what to do. I only learned last night—”

  Gordon spoke quickly. “I didn’t want to tell you, sir. You have so many problems. I wanted to withhold it until we knew something definite, but—”

  “I understand.” His smile and Gordon’s met, accepted each other. The President continued, “It’s hard to have it happen at this time. So much depends on our present Conclave.”

  “Yes,” Piers agreed.

  “I’ve named Gordon Secretary pro tem.” He said it as casually, with as little import as if he had named a village postmaster.

  Because of the casualness it was a moment before Piers realized what had been said. His eyes leaped to Gordon and he gripped the arms of the chair to keep himself from rising. Gordon had the right expression, an acceptance of condition, enough humbleness, the will to do his best. The licking tongues of triumph were sublimated beneath that well-bred, well-barbered face. And Piers was silenced. He could not protest. He couldn’t demand that he be named. Gordon was the logical man to succeed in so far as the President Ape knew. Certainly the sweating, soiled fellow who called himself Piers Hunt couldn’t be selected to preside over the most important conclave of the decade.

  Gordon had won this set. And Piers, knowing the smugness, certain of the decision beneath the superb facade, was forced to express “Congratulations” as if the word were not lye on his tongue. He knew then that had Gordon communicated with him this morning, he would have created delay for Piers in New York. He would have made certain that Piers did not accompany him to Washington. He had planned this well, informing the President last night, stepping into the wanted shoes this morning. Gordon said with that disarming smile, “I’m still hoping that I won’t have a chance to accept the position, Mr. President.” And he included Piers in the smile. “I’ll hope until Sunday afternoon that Anstruther will return.”

  “You understand,” the President’s voice was troubled, “we are not releasing the fact that Secretary Anstruther is missing until after the Conclave.” He frowned. “Some of the newspapermen will speculate—they have already—but we will say nothing until the opening on Sunday. At that time a small notice that due to illness—illness, you understand—Secretary Anstruther cannot as yet be present, that Secretary Gordon will preside pro tem in his place.”

  Piers said, “I won’t divulge any further information.”

  The President nodded his approval. Gordon caught the undertone. It was in the faint drawing together of his brows.

  “I understand the importance of secrecy.” Piers’ voice was a silken thread. That Gordon knew there was to be enmity
was good. There was no other way to play it. Piers couldn’t stab in the back.

  The President’s eyes gleamed. “Gordon tells me you were the last man to see Anstruther.”

  No stab in the back, not even if the other man had no such compunctions. “I saw him off in Alexandria, sir.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  He could have told it the same under scopolamin. But he welcomed the opportunity to put on high official record what must be recorded. The President was not accessible normally to such as he. He had learned that in Washington on Thursday when he had no congressman or senator or Gordon to act as inductor. He said simply, “I phoned the secretary in Berne. There had been another touch of border trouble—you’ve heard of the so-called incidents?”

  The President nodded. Gordon opened his mouth but Piers didn’t allow him sound. “They aren’t important although certain nations for their own benefits and to the detriment of Equatorial Africa have tried to blow them up as such.” He smiled at Gordon, imitating the man’s open, winning facial contortion. It was a poor imitation but Gordon was uneasy. “I knew that if Anstruther could go over my reports, talk with the Africans whom I had, he would know this.”

  “You talked with Fabian?” Gordon suggested.

  “No.” It had been a deliberate attempt to discredit. Piers turned to the desk. “You may know, Mr. President, that it is difficult to have audience with Fabian, more so than with you for instance.”

  The President said, “I am always available at any time.”

  “I tried to see you Tuesday.” He dropped it in passing. “It isn’t that Fabian remains closeted in dignity; he is among his people except for state occasions. He believes this to be the wiser way of governing. He is leader of Equatorial Africa as well as Secretary of Peace, you know.”

  “A benevolent dictator,” Gordon stated.

  “No.” Piers was sharp. That phrase had been in the Hugo letters, a dictator, although benevolent. “He decrees no law. All laws are made by the people.” There must not be open conflict in this room. He turned back to the President. “Fabian, however, was available at any time to Anstruther. If Anstruther had felt the need of seeing Fabian, he could have done so. Anstruther is one of the few men in the world who actually has spoken with Fabian.”