The Devil's Advocate: The Epic Novel of One Man's Fight to Save America From Tyranny

by Taylor Caldwell

  “Look at this uniform,” said Durant. “You helped put this on me, didn’t you? You put this gun in my hand. By your silence, by your weak acquiescence, by your docile belief that I was only a violent and passing phenomenon! After all, you said to yourselves, mind is greater and more powerful than force. The mind always conquers, you said. Even when death, and repeated death, and death ten thousand times over, walked in the streets and marched in the streets and drummed in the streets, you refused to believe it. After all, there had been a Dark Age before, you told yourselves. Did you ever remember that Dark Ages last for centuries, and nations perish in them?”

  The circle of faces became even graver. One man swiftly raised his hand and touched his eyes; then he turned aside his head. But this was the only gesture from any of them.

  “Yes,” said Durant, bitterly, “mind is very strong. Especially evil minds. You gave them their power, for you betrayed your young men and your young women and made them powerless before wickedness. They had no arms, no armor, for you had stripped these from the young with your skeptical laughter, your learned jokes, your intellectual sneers. There was nothing worth fighting for, living for, dying for, you taught. There was no virtue in the world, no banners to respect, no God to worship and obey, no trumpets of honor and nobility. The deepest instinct of a man’s soul was only superstition, an inheritance from the childhood of man. That is what you taught. And that is why you were condemned to death.”

  His face was on fire; he looked at them with abhorrence. He moved backward toward the door, and they followed him with their eyes. Then Dr. Dodge held out his hand.

  “Your car keys,” he said softly.

  Durant stopped abruptly, held by those calm and smiling eyes. Then Dr. Dodge fumbled inside his ragged shirt and brought out a broad-bladed knife which flashed its own light. He threw the knife beside the man he had called George, and the man seized it. “Your keys, please,” said Dr. Dodge again, still holding out his hand.

  Durant began to smile. He said: “Zimmer?”

  The other men rose slowly, and looked at him. Then he reached in his pocket and brought out his keys. He tossed them on a cot. George closed his hand over them. Durant regarded them keenly. Then, with irony, he lifted his hand and saluted. He turned off his flashlight and walked out into the dark of the corridor. There was no sound at all in the barracks, not a movement, not a whisper.

  He crept back to the house, and up the stairway to his room. He extinguished the lights, then moved to the window, watching the garage. He waited a long time, trembling. He began to have desperate doubts. He saw the shadow of trees against the stars. Coldness ran over his body. What if the car were detected in the city? What if one of the men, tortured beyond endurance, betrayed him? A thousand things could go wrong. The streets were always patrolled by soldiers. Would these wretches be cautious enough, strong enough? They had shown no manliness before, no courage, no strength or power. They had talked of killing, but scholars invariably talked and rarely acted.

  Two shadows appeared at the door of the garage, and Durant saw the door lift. He waited, and his shirt was wet on his flesh. He saw his car backing out, as Grace Lincoln’s car backed; the vehicle rolled silently on its velvet wheels. Someone was assisting it on the downgrade. Now it was in the driveway, rolling faster. Durant heard the engine catch, but no lights went on. The car was swallowed up in the darkness.

  He began to pray incoherently. If the men were caught, what would happen to him? To his friends? How would they seek out Zimmer? How would they gain access to him? What if they were only running away, in his Army vehicle, to be apprehended within a few hours when daylight came? He cursed himself silently for his rashness. His legs became weak, and he sat down on the floor near the window and closed his eyes. His head roared with confused noises. Then, involuntarily, it dropped on his chest and he plunged into exhausted sleep.

  When he awoke, it was to find the sun striking on his face, and all the birds were singing. And on the floor beside him were the keys to his car.

  It was difficult for Durant to get to his feet. His broken arm had stiffened during the night, and his body ached with weariness. He held the keys of his car in his hand, bouncing them a little so that they jingled. Was Zimmer dead? Was another enemy of the American people silent and impotent now? With the logical part of his mind he hoped so, fervently; with another side, he felt a bitter sadness. A foe extinguished was one foe the less. But a man, soldier though he may be, could never forget that he had caused the death of another man.

  There were Zimmers born in every generation, he reflected, with angry depression. Wise, true and honorable men refrained from creating an environment wherein the Zimmers could become oppressive and powerful. But for decades America had not been wise, true and honorable. Her governments had been composed of creatures who had striven for the extinction of individual personality, in order to perpetuate their own mighty positions. They had replaced the Republic with the law of mass-rule, which had led, inevitably, to mass-barbarism, and this, in turn, had led to mass-deterioration, crowd-slavery, and herd-death. And, the rise of the ever-born Zimmers.

  Durant rang the bell for Dr. Dodge, and his somber thoughts beset him more and more. He tried to remember that the Minute Men never recruited their membership from among faceless men, but from the fast-diminishing ranks of intelligent individuals who had the potentialities for rescuing mankind from mass-barbarism. The Minute Men knew that the deliverance of a people from objective tyranny depended upon fearless and thoughtful individuals, only. They also knew that deliverance could be merely temporary if the people could not be awakened to a spiritual rebirth, for liberty had died in the Republic because her people had first decayed morally and ethically. Were there enough mature and reverent men even among the Minute Men to insure that the Republic would have a spiritual renaissance?

  Dr. Dodge came in, silent and shuffling, his head bent, his eyes glazed and blind as usual. It was almost impossible to believe that this beaten wretch was the same man who had stood among his fellow-slaves last night with fervor and understanding blazing on his haggard face. Durant looked at him speechlessly, and displayed the keys in his hand. Dr. Dodge merely stared at them as a baby might stare. Unaccountably irritable, Durant pulled a piece of paper toward him on the table and wrote awkwardly: “All fingerprints wiped from car? Zimmer?”

  Dr. Dodge peered at the writing without any change of expression. Then he smiled faintly. Very carefully, he tore up the stiff paper into small pieces and put them in his mouth. He chewed them with difficulty, and Durant smiled. Durant then said: “Where is that damn girl? I woke up this morning and found her gone?”

  Dr. Dodge said in his lifeless voice: “I don’t know, Major. She isn’t about the house. Shall I shave you, and then bring your breakfast?”

  Durant was shaved and washed by the old doctor, who assisted him into a fresh uniform, and then brought him his breakfast. This was done in silence, under the crushing chaperonage of the sinister thing behind the landscape on the wall. There were moments when Durant wanted to run and tear it from its wires and throw it upon the floor and trample it. He understood the fury of old Major Burnes. He made himself listen to the sounds of the farm, and it was with relief that he heard the snorting of the motorcycle of the young soldier who was to drive him into the city.

  He went downstairs, which gave off an empty echo. Neither Lincoln nor his wife nor any other member of the family was to be seen. Durant guessed that they were having their own mean and secret triumph at his “discomfiture,” no matter how fearful they felt after reading Grace’s note about her impending “flight” from her frustrated “seducer.” The thought that they were probably chuckling about it in corners together made Durant boil.

  He was driven into the city by the healthy young robot of a soldier and deposited at his headquarters. He saw the excitement of his soldiers on the street near the hotel, and in the lobby, itself. He had also seen that the streets had been unusually full for th
at early in the day, and that many bright cars flashed about filled with grim-faced and well-fed men. The farmers, gathering for a conference with Morrow. Satisfaction returned to Durant, and it was with joviality that he greeted his staff in his offices. Grandon did not reply to the greetings; his young face was white and he appeared ill.

  Edwards asked, with a wink: “How was Grace, Major?”

  Durant frowned angrily. “I went to sleep before she arrived, and I found out this morning that she had run away.” He threw his cap on his desk with violence.

  “No!” exlcaimed Keiser, Bishop and Edwards. But Grandon began to smile, then looked frightened. Durant saw this, and said carelessly: “Who cares? Let her run. I’m not going to send out an alarm for the wench. She probably hasn’t much money with her and will have to end up in some war factory, somewhere. That’s all to the good. She won’t dare to return home as long as we’re there.”

  Grandon, as if relieved from some misery, bustled about with alacrity, placing papers on Durant’s desk, explaining them. He lit a cigaret for Durant, with a flourish. He smiled and joked incessantly, but once or twice Durant caught that knife-edge flash on his youthful face. Grandon, too, was enjoying a triumph at Durant’s expense, and this Durant had to endure with patience.

  “Morrow’s meeting with all the farmers today at the Grange headquarters,” Grandon informed him. “At eleven o’clock. They’ve probably communicated with Washington by now. Hope the whole damn thing doesn’t blow up in your face, Major.”

  “It won’t,” said Durant, with much more confidence than he felt. “By the way, we’ll attend that meeting, too, at eleven. With a squad as escort; Any visitors this morning?”

  “No,” said Grandon. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And that, Major, is queer. Always a mob of them waiting for the commanding officer. But the waiting room’s empty today. Something’s going on; the whole city is seething. Better increase your bodyguard, Major.” And he laughed, and the others with him, all in a mood of happy fellowship.

  Durant studied a paper. “I thought Zimmer would be around,” he remarked. “There was some unfinished business.”

  “No,” said Edwards, “he isn’t here.”

  Durant wrinkled his forehead. Was Zimmer dead, or not? Surely, if he were dead the news would be about the city by now. He directed Grandon to call Zimmer at his office. Grandon did so, then remarked: “Zimmer isn’t there. Would you want to talk with Mr. Woolcott, Major?”

  Durant nodded, and Grandon handed him the receiver.

  “Woolcott speaking,” said Ben Colburn’s grave voice.

  “Curtiss,” replied Durant, keeping his voice as indifferent as possible. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Woolcott, but I thought Zimmer might be around to see me this morning. Perhaps I’m wrong, but I was under the impression that we were to discuss some unfinished business. Apparently I was wrong, for he isn’t here.”

  There was the slightest of pauses, then Colburn said, with even more gravity: “I thought perhaps you knew, Major. Mr. Zimmer was murdered sometime during the night, by some unknown assassins. The alarm has just been sent out for them. Mrs. Zimmer,” continued the concerned voice, “is in a state of collapse. It seems that about four this morning her husband was called to the telephone. Mrs. Zimmer went back to sleep, and it is believed that Mr. Zimmer admitted the murderer, or murderers, himself. At any rate, when Mrs. Zimmer woke up about two hours ago she heard her maid screaming, and she ran into the living room. She found her husband lying on the floor with his throat cut, and his face smashed to a pulp.”

  Durant cried out, with horror: “Impossible! Isn’t there any clue at all, Mr. Woolcott?”

  “Investigators are on the premises, I understand,” said Colburn. “I am keeping in touch with them. It’s very important to me, as you know. I’ve just received the last report. A woman in the same building thought she heard some scuffling in Mr. Zimmer’s apartment, about half-past four. She lives in the apartment below. But she heard no body drop, and only that brief scuffling. She was curious. Women are always curious,” added Colburn slowly. “She watched for anyone in the main hall, but it’s evident that the murderer, or murderers, escaped by way of the fire escape in the rear.”

  “No other witnesses? No fingerprints? No other clues?” Durant kept the fearful anxiety out of his voice by a great effort. “Is it known if the murderers—or murderer—walked, or came in a car? Surely the military police must have seen someone at that hour. The streets are well patrolled against such contingencies. A car would have been noticed, or civilians out at that time—”

  “No other witnesses,” said Colburn, sorrowfully. “No fingerprints. No other clues. Every official car on the street has been accounted for, at that hour. No civilian cars. If the murderers came by car, they must have hidden it somewhere, outside the city. No one has reported any car whatsoever from the suburbs or fringes of the city, itself. The patrols have reported, just half an hour ago, that they saw nobody on the streets, except the Military.”

  Durant let out his breath slowly. “A neighbor?” he suggested. “Someone from the same building?”

  Colburn coughed very delicately. “We have had the same idea, Major. Every neighbor in the apartment house has been interviewed. We have no reason to believe that their stories are untrue. Mrs. Zimmer is under some slight suspicion, for a neighbor or two has reported that there was a somewhat violent argument between husband and wife at about ten o’clock. Contents of argument unknown. Mrs. Zimmer is being closely questioned, but now she has collapsed.” He cleared his throat again. “We have one other lead, Major. It is understood that Mr. Zimmer was on rather bad terms with the head of the FBHS. This may be only a rumor, for I doubt if Mr. Zimmer ever came into intimate contact with that bureau, or knew anyone there very well. Bureaus keep well separated, as you know, Major.”

  “Who is the official?” demanded Durant eagerly.

  “It’s very distressing,” replied Colburn, with anxiety. “But Mr. Sheridan is somewhat vague about his whereabouts early this morning. He claims that he attended a small party given by three of his subordinates in a distant tavern about twenty miles from the city. We’ve questioned those officials. Two of them deny that Mr. Sheridan was with them at all; the other official says he was. The owner of the tavern said he was not, and that only the three other men were there.”

  Colburn stopped talking, and the wire between the two men hummed significantly. Durant was stunned. Alex Sheridan was infamous for his crimes as head of the local FBHS. But—and this was portentous—why did two of his own men deny that he was with them, and why did the owner of the tavern affirm their statement?

  Durant almost stammered: “Did Mrs. Zimmer say if her husband mentioned who his visitor, or visitors, were to be? After all, he certainly wouldn’t have admitted anyone about whom he had any doubts, at that hour.”

  There was a prolonged silence, then Colburn said with elaborate reluctance: “Mrs. Zimmer, before her collapse, and while she was in a state of hysteria, said that her husband had told her that Mr. Sheridan was coming to see him on a very urgent matter which could not wait until morning. She said she was very surprised at this, at the time, for she was not aware that Mr. Sheridan and her husband were on any terms at all, except somewhat bad ones, They have never had any real contact with each other. As why should they? They had no business with each other at any time.”

  Two birds with one stone! thought Durant exultantly. He made his voice sound very shocked. “Mr. Zimmer may have been deceived. As you say, he probably didn’t know Mr. Sheridan very well, or his voice, if at all. Or, if he did—and this seems remote—someone imitated Mr. Sheridan’s voice, someone who knew Mr. Sheridan very well.”

  “An enemy of both of them,” agreed Colburn.

  “What were the bad feelings you mentioned as existing between them, Mr. Woolcott?”

  “It’s rumored that they met casually, once or twice, in public places, such as restaurants, and had been overheard to remark to
friends that they had no good opinion of each other. It seemed a matter of mutual antipathy, on slight acquaintance.”

  So, that was how these two evil men had contrived to keep down any suspicion on the part of anyone that they plotted together, and that Zimmer was a secret member of the FBHS.

  “Is Mr. Sheridan in custody?” asked Durant.

  Colburn sounded pained as he answered. “Unofficially, Major, unofficially. I’d rather say that he is being politely questioned in his own home. Ah, here is another report.” A paper crackled over the wire. “Two of the subordinates are now sober, and they swear, vehemently, that Mr. Sheridan was not with them this morning. They have made official statements to that effect. And we now have the full statement of the tavern owner. Mr. Sheridan, he has sworn, was not with his men this morning; he also states that Mr. Sheridan was last in his tavern two weeks ago.”

  “It’s very mysterious,” suggested Durant.

  “His throat cut. Apparently with a very sharp weapon,” said Colburn. “It’s been suggested by my investigators that it was an Army knife.” Was that anxiety in the other man’s voice? Durant smiled a little.

  “I’m never where there’s any excitement,” he said, with irritation. “But my broken arm keeps me tied down. As a soldier, I could probably tell, approximately, how the thing was done, and with what weapon.”

  Colburn sighed. You idiot, thought Durant, with affection. Colburn said: “We’ve had an Army expert on the job. The weapon wasn’t found, of course. But soldiers often lose their knives, in spite of the severe penalties. It’s very possible that the enemy, or enemies, of both these men, had found a lost knife. Unless, of course, Mr. Sheridan is guilty.”

  “You’ll keep me informed?” Durant said briskly. “The Military wants to render you any assistance whatsoever.”

  “I’ll keep you informed of all developments, Major.”

  Durant turned to his assistants, who had been listening avidly. “Zimmer’s been murdered, and there’s some suspicion about Mr. Sheridan of the FBHS,” Durant informed them unnecessarily. He gave them some details. “I hope you boys all have an alibi,” he said, with a laugh. “Everybody see all of you at your party?”