They laughed with him. Grandon said: “Zimmer is—was—a swine. But it’s too bad about Mr. Sheridan. Of course, he isn’t guilty. What could he have had against Zimmer?” Grandon looked pleased, and the others, interested.
Bishop said: “Probably his wife after all. She’s a mean bitch, from what I’ve heard, and Zimmer chases other women. But why should she name Sheridan? And how about his own men, two of them, saying he wasn’t at their party? And the owner of the tavern, too?”
The danger wasn’t over, thought Durant. He marveled at the skill and intelligence the enslaved scholars had displayed. Who, among them, had known Sheridan well enough to imitate his voice and to convince the FBHS spy that he was Sheridan, himself? Zimmer had been a wary and suspicious scoundrel, and he must have known that his life was in constant danger. He would have taken all precautions, and would never have admitted anyone to his home if he had had any doubts. Something stirred vaguely in Durant’s memory. Dr. Dodge had been personally prosecuted by Sheridan in a widely publicized trial! It was Dodge, then, who had imitated the voice of the man he had known so well and so tragically. Dodge, too, must have known of the secret connection between Sheridan and Zimmer. But it had been one of Dodge’s companions who had murdered Zimmer. All this had not been done on impulsive plotting, at a moment’s notice. The plot had been well laid. There had been only the obstacle of getting into the city at the right hour. If any civilian had been abroad, in the suburbs or in the fringes of the suburb, he would have seen only an official car and the matter would have passed out of his mind. Durant breathed easier.
He said: “Almost eleven, boys. Call the squad. We’re calling on Walter Morrow, and his farmers.”
The offices of the Grange of Section 7 were housed in a magnificent modern building, all gray stone and immense glass windows and glass doors. It stood in the center of a row of high business buildings which were all decrepit and sifting, and the contrast was significant. Almost all the buildings were only a third occupied, and quite a number of their windows, having lost their panes, were boarded up. The streets around the Grange building glittered with scores of brilliant cars, lashed with precious chrome, sparkling with scarce polished steel, blazing with expanses of glass. The members of the Grange met every month, and this display of luxury was no new thing on the streets. Nevertheless, it always gathered a shabby and starveling crowd who admired in humble silence. Occasionally, a bolder man than the rest would even stretch out a timid finger and touch the gleaming fenders or run a slave’s meek hand over the chromium. Most of the cars boasted chauffeurs, who would snarl behind the glass or would stare with haughty contempt at the bedazzled mob.
The Grange had met only a week ago, and there was a faint simmering of excitement in the furtive crowds on the broken sidewalks. They whispered together that something must be going on, for the cars were more numerous than usual, and unexpected.
The excitement grew greater as Durant’s car, followed by a squad car, roared up to the Grange. It grew intense as Durant, getting out, became visibly infuriated at discovering that every available spot was occupied by farmer’s cars. He ordered Bishop and Edwards and Keiser and Grandon to “clear a place for the Military.” Fascinated and eager, in spite of their terror of the Army, the mobs huddled together, one collective ear and eye. The officers, delighting in their work, told several chauffeurs to “get their damned dragonflies away from the entrance.” The chauffeurs, bewildered and astounded, drove their cars off in silence, with long backward stares at the officers. Then the Army cars swung into position.
Durant studied the crowd carefully out of the corner of his eye. A few men and women were smiling secretly, and with intelligent pleasure. Durant, apparently unaware of the people, shouted: “Who do the bastard farmers think they are, anyway? Do they think they run this country, besides starving it to death? We’ll show the fat-bellies with their cars who had the upper hand around here!”
Even the dullest in the mob was pleased and intent. The intelligent faces became thoughtful.
Durant, followed by his officers and his tramping squad, pounded into the building. The first floor was one huge square of blocks of shining marble, black and white. Along the walls stood comfortable red and green leather chairs and sofas, and broad oak tables holding severe lamps of copper and leather and big crystal ashtrays. At the other end of the square was a row of bronze elevator doors, highly polished. Durant looked about him. “They do themselves well, don’t they?” he remarked. “This is going to give me more good solid satisfaction than I’d anticipated.”
The elevator men, in dark-green uniforms, regarded the invasion of the Army with vacant curiosity. One of them informed Durant, with apologetic hesitation, that the Grange was now in session, on the third floor, with Mr. Morrow, and it was doubtful of “Mr. Morrow could see anyone right way, sir.”
“Mr. Morrow,” said Durant, entering the elevator, “will see me at once. With the Grange.”
Two of the elevators carried officers and men to the third floor, where they trooped out into a wide corridor paved with marble. They found themselves faced with a wide door on which gold letters announced that this was the meeting hall of the Grange. Grandon, smiling happily, threw open the door at a gesture from Durant, and Durant stood on the threshold, looking about him.
He saw a vast and well-decorated hall alight with broad sheets of glass. The hall, with its green leather chairs studded with brass nails, could seat over two hundred. All seats were occupied by ruddy-faced farmers in fine tweeds and polished boots, smoking excellent cigars and pipes. The smoke floated in blue streamers over their heads and flowed through half-opened windows. On a platform sat Morrow before a desk of oak and leather. The entrance of Durant had interrupted him. He looked up, frowning, then his face changed. Now every other face in the hall turned abruptly and stared at Durant and his companions, and a mutter broke out involuntarily. Each eye sparkled with sullen rage at this intrusion, and a few men half rose in indignation from their chairs.
Then every man sat in petrified silence as Durant and his officers marched to the platform, and mounted it, and the squad, rifles in hands, disposed themselves strategically, under the direction of Sergeant Keiser, around the walls. The silence was so deep that the boots of the men rang loud on the marble floor.
“Chairs!” barked Grandon to Morrow.
Morrow’s hard brown eyes became flat and cold, but his broad face smoothed itself into an expression of complete and polite calm. He got up, without speaking, and courteously pulled forward four comfortable chairs from their position against the wall for Durant, Grandon, Bishop and Edwards. He waited until the officers had seated themselves noisily, then inclined his head with a slight smile at Durant. “Glad to have you with us, Major,” he said. “It’s probably a good thing that you decided to be present at our discussion.”
The four officers faced the many farmers seated below them, and they studied the jowled countenances, the contemptuous and outraged eyes. Durant searched for Lincoln among them. He found him at the rear, but Lincoln did not look at him.
“How far have you proceeded?” asked Durant, turning to Morrow.
“Not far at all, Major,” replied Morrow. He regarded Durant without hostility, and with an odd reflectiveness. Now his eyes glinted a little as if with suppressed amusement. “In fact, I had just called the meeting to order.”
He let his eyes wander slowly over the stiff soldiers along the wall, whom the farmers were ostensibly ignoring. Morrow’s mouth twisted swiftly, then relaxed. He ran his hand over the stiff gray bristles of his hair, and coughed. Durant was puzzled, and became alert. Morrow showed no signs of anxiety or of intimidation. There was assurance about him, and his broad and portly body sat at ease in his chair. Has something happened? Durant asked himself. Has Carlson countermanded my orders as too radical? Has he gone back on his word that he would never interfere with me? In short, have I been a damn fool to move this fast? He jerked his head at Grandon, who rose and, with
elaborate slow ceremony, put a cigaret in his superior officer’s mouth and lit it.
“I suppose your—men—know my orders?” said Durant casually.
“Yes, Major, they do.” Morrow’s voice was thoughtful. “In fact, the Army has already ‘moved in on them,’ as you directed. Every man here, and others who are not here, have soldiers quartered in their homes.” He stared at Durant with a peculiar frankness. “And they know your directive: the gold to be exchanged at Government banks for paper legal tender.”
“Do they also know,” said Durant, on inspiration, “that they must report their full crops to me, and that I am empowered to pay them what I decide is a fair price?”
“I thought that would come next,” replied Morrow politely. But the farmers evidently had not thought so, for again that menacing growl of rage rose from them like a swarm of buzzing wasps. Again, several started from their seats, and this time they did not fall back into them. Morrow tranquilly struck his desk a blow with his wooden hammer. “Quiet, gentlemen, please. And please remain seated. We must be orderly.”
The scoundrel is too assured, too complacent, thought Durant, with increasing uneasiness. He stole a glance at Morrow’s desk. It had two sheets of paper on it, and it was evident they were official telegrams. Durant felt dampness steal about his collar. Morrow turned to him.
“Then,” said Durant, with what he hoped was supreme confidence and briskness, “there’s no need to say anything else.”
Morrow tapped his desk with his blunt fingers. “I sent a telegram to the Chief Magistrate after my last talk with you, Major.”
Here it comes, thought Durant, and his dark face flushed. In a moment or two he would be publicly humiliated before these farmers and his own men. But Morrow was not looking at him; he was regarding the farmers. In turn, they regarded their leader tensely, and every face bulged and reddened with angry impatience. It was as if they were commanding him: Throw out the military fool and show him our power!
“I’ll read you a copy of my telegram,” said Morrow. He picked up a paper, carefully adjusted the pair of glasses he withdrew from a case on his desk, and scrutinized the paper in his hand. “Yes. Here it is, addressed to the Chief Magistrate, Arthur Carlson, in New York City: ‘I, as president of the Grange of Section 7, have been directed by Major Andrew Curtiss—’” he paused, and said to Durant courteously: “It is ‘Andrew,’ isn’t it, Major?” He peered at Durant and waited for his answer.
“Yes,” said Durant grimly. The dampness around his neck became water.
“‘—by Major Andrew Curtiss, Military officer in charge of this Section, to accept paper legal tender for the gold in the Grange Bank of Philadelphia. Major Curtiss has also issued orders for the Army to be quartered upon the farmers of this Section, orders to take effect immediately. I respectfully call the attention of your honor to previous decisions specifically exempting farmers from these directives, signed by the President of The Democracy. Are the directives of Major Curtiss to take precedence over laws now in operation? The farmers of this Section, through me, their representative, anxiously wish to know if these unprecedented directives have your authority and approval. We assure Your honor of our fervent patriotism and our desire to serve our country in this new emergency with all our strength and devotion. Signed,’” added Morrow, “‘Walter Morrow, president of the Grange, Philadelphia, Section 7.’”
It was more with a desire to hold off the ultimate and inexorable mortification than with real rage that Durant shouted: “You dared send that telegram without my approval or the approval of my office?”
The farmers began to grin broadly until the hall was full of florid smiles. Eyes flashed to eyes knowingly and with fatty satisfaction.
“Major Curtiss,” said Morrow coldly, “you are apparently not aware that the farmers, as well as the heads of the various bureaus, have direct and private access to the Chief Magistrate, without censorship.” He continued abstractedly: “And can communicate with the Chief Magistrate without first clearing through the local Military Administration Officer.”
Some of the farmers chuckled; some laughed out loud. Durant, without turning, could feel the fury of his officers. He could only gaze at Morrow’s placid face savagely, and wait.
Morrow directed his attention to his farmers: “Through all the wars and the national emergencies, the farmers of The Democracy have served their country well and patriotically. There’s never been a time when they were found wanting. Isn’t that so?” he asked the men.
They exclaimed in one voice, which was a roar: “Yes! Yes!”
“They have given full measure of their work and have obeyed all laws exactly. No one has ever supported the President more heartily. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes! Yes!” The voices rose in hoarse and excited thunder. Now the farmers stood up, eagerly, and with triumph. They stared at Durant in exultation.
“Like Cincinnatus, and Paul Revere, they have been ready to serve their country at a moment’s notice. Isn’t that so?”
Now the farmers surged toward the platform, yelling: “Yes! Yes! By God, yes!”
Paul Revere! thought Durant, with awful bitterness. He studied the swollen bodies, the massive faces of the vehement farmers, and he thought of the Minute Men whom Revere had represented, and now his blood rushed to his face with hopeless violence.
“That is what I told the Chief Magistrate a month ago, and he agreed,” said Morrow.
The farmers in their joy and their hate and victory, were about to storm the platform like an irresistible force directed at Durant. He heard the abrupt scraping of the chair behind him, and knew that his officers were rising and drawing their guns. The soldiers around the walls held their rifles ready and Durant could see the lustful desire to kill shimmering on their young faces. It was this, more than the farmers themselves, that sickened him; it was this, more than his humiliation, his drop from power, that turned his heart over. I’ll never get used to it, he thought dazedly, and looked at Sergeant Keiser.
Morrow held up an unperturbed hand. “Gentlemen, please,” he urged. “Go back to your seats. Let’s have no—confusion.”
Durant could feel the quivering lust behind him, which reflected the lust of the soldiers. His men were ready for murder. Involuntarily, he said: “Sit down, Grandon, Bishop, Edwards. And you, Keiser, at ease.”
The farmers directed one annihilating and contemptuous look at Durant, and, grinning, returned noisly to their seats and fell into them. They had shown him! They, the farmers, all powerful, had brought the hated Military down to where it belonged! No one would dare interfere with them now; they had demonstrated their might and their invulnerability. The soldiers against their walls were their servants and would be thrown out of their houses.
Morrow took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. Then he rubbed his mouth with the back of his right hand. He ignored Durant and studied his farmers.
He said, quietly: “Therefore, I was astounded at the Chief Magistrate’s answer, in his telegram.”
The sudden silence in the hall had the weight of iron. Durant sat up in his chair. The farmers’ mouths opened and their jaws sagged.
“I’ll read you the reply of the Chief Magistrate,” Morrow continued, in a voice almost of indifference, so abstracted was it. “‘It is directed that all the commands of Major Andrew Curtiss be obeyed at once, without further discussion. Major Curtiss has full and complete authority in all matters in Section 7. Signed, Arthur Carlson, Chief Magistrate.”
The silence prolonged itself to an unbearable point. The farmers had turned sickly white. They sat, stunned, in their chairs. They could only gaze at Morrow, stupefied, incredulous; and their bulk diminished as though they were melting.
Durant’s mouth opened slackly, also, to draw in a long breath of air. His relief made his whole body shake. He was no less stupefied and incredulous than the farmers.
The farmers were suddenly released from their terrible spell. A voice cried out, high and frantic: “W
hy, I don’t believe it! It ain’t true—!”
“It is,” said Morrow, very sadly. “That’s how it is, gentlemen.”
“We won’t stand for it!” another voice squealed. “Why, they can’t do this to us! We’re good citizens of The Democracy. Ain’t we done all we could, every time, when the President asked us—?”
“We won’t stand for it,” faltered other voices.
“No! No!” exclaimed still others, in panic and disbelief.
“Can’t be. Can’t be,” stammered some farmers at the end of the hall. “Putting the soldiers on us. Taking our gold. Taking our crops. Can’t be. Something’s wrong.”
“The President,” suggested one farmer, hopefully.
“The President!” His fellows took up the cry.
Morrow stood up. “The President, gentlemen, does not interfere with the directives issued locally in the various Sections. Any message you’d send him would be sent to the Chief Magistrate.”
He said, to Durant, with a complete lack of interest: “You might want to speak to us, Major?”
Durant rose, and his wrath turned his eyes to bits of fire. “Yes,” he answered harshly. “I do. And I want as many of you as possible to come to the windows, and I want you to look down on the street.”
The farmers did not move, in their crushed paralysis, until Morrow accompanied Durant to the window and beckoned to his men. Then, about fifty lumbered uncertainly to their feet and followed. Their fellows stood up in the hall, and waited and listened, some fumbling at their chins, some blinking their eyes stupidly as if they had just received a staggering blow, some of them biting furiously on their cigars and pipes.
“Look down there!” said Durant, in a loud, slow and bitter voice. “See those people scurrying to their jobs. Look at their clothing, their faces. Are they well fed, like you? Look at their bodies: have they bellies, or fat on their legs or on their arms, like most of you? Look at their flesh, the color of onion skins, and think of your own faces, red and greasy from good food and clean, honest sun. Their clothes are patched and ragged, and their shoes are broken. Look at your wonderful clothes and your polished boots and the rings on your fingers and the jewels in your cuff-links, and your silk ties! Show me a car down there that doesn’t belong to you! Show me a single man, down there, who walks like you, a free man. Tell me of a house in this city without a leaking roof or with heat in it, except the houses of the MASTS and the bureaucrats. And think, then, of your own big homes, your barns heaped with food, the fires in your rooms, your good, soft beds, the carpets on your floors.”
The Devil's Advocate: The Epic Novel of One Man's Fight to Save America From Tyranny Page 20
