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

by Taylor Caldwell

  Durant waited, his eyes fixed on the other man.

  Dr. Dodge smiled sadly. “God asked Jonah if he had pity on the plant, and God remarked on his pity, with understanding, though the plant had come up in a night and had perished the next night. And God said: ‘And should I not spare Nineveh, that great city, wherein are more than sixscore thousand persons that cannot discern between their right hand and their left hand—?’”

  Durant did not move, but only listened, and it seemed to him that everything about him—the landscape, the clouds, the distant figures of men and beasts, the very ghostly moon and the fiery sun—listened, too.

  “There is a legend,” said Dr. Dodge, and his voice was full of sorrow. “When Moses and his people had escaped over the dry bed of the Red Sea, the following Egyptians were drowned in the waves of the ocean. It’s said that the angels wished to sing a song of triumph, and God said to them: ‘My children lie under the sea, and you would sing?’”

  He looked down at Durant. “There is no record in history that any nation was ever just and good and lived by the laws of God. Yet, God has had mercy on them all, and will continue to have mercy, and will deliver us from our own evil.”

  Dr. Dodge gently took the glass from his hand, shook his head, and walked away like an automaton, a tall figure tottering over the grass. Durant was alone again. Then, all at once, he felt he was no longer alone, and the distortion he had seen left the landscape and the sun poured down its rivers of light on a world not yet dead.

  He lay back in the cool grass under the poplars and fell into a deep sleep.

  When Durant arrived at his offices the next morning, there was a message awaiting him. One of his staff stenographers, a little beetle of a man, told him of the message with an air of great if subdued excitement. Chief Magistrate Arthur Carlson was now in the city. At ten o’clock, “precisely,” an escort of the Picked Guards would call for Major Andrew Curtiss and conduct him to the “Philadelphia residence” of the Chief Magistrate.

  Durant’s junior officers appeared apprehensive, though when Durant asked them why they could give nothing but confused answers. Bishop and Edwards and Keiser murmured that a similar summons had arrived just before “old Major Burnes” had disappeared. Durant glanced for confirmation at Grandon and caught the young lieutenant indulging himself in a secret and unpleasant smile. Durant shrugged. “Nonsense,” he said. “We all know that the Chief Magistrate is coming to conduct the trial of Alex Sheridan, himself, because of the importance of it.”

  Grandon smiled again. “The old Major always conducted all trials, and there was one, two years ago, which was equally important.”

  “The Picked Guards,” said Bishop. “I hate the bastards. Why shouldn’t they be part of the Military? Why are they a separate organization? They look like ape-men.”

  “Old Major Burnes never allowed himself to be escorted by them,” added Edwards. “It was tried once, and he kicked them out of his office, and went with us. That’s the last time we ever saw him.”

  Durant smiled. “Much as I’d like to gratify your curiosity, boys, and take you along, I’m going with the Picked Guards.”

  At ten o’clock, “precisely,” an escort of four Picked Guards arrived at the hotel. Durant knew they had come by the very vague and disturbed sounds about him seconds before Edwards announced that the Guards were in the corridor. Durant saluted his junior officers with an unconcerned smile, and joined the Guards, all huge men with meaty and brutal faces. They saluted him indifferently, arranged themselves about him, and walked off with him. It reminded him disagreeably of the night of his arrest; their boots clanged, they kept their hands on their guns and did not even glance at the awed and hating soldiers and officers who were standing in the lobby of the hotel. It was their mission to intimidate, and even the Military could be intimidated by the very presence of the Guard.

  The Guard car, painted the dark-green official color of their organization, was waiting below. In utter silence, Durant entered the car, and the Guards settled around him. He maintained an air of amiable indifference, attempted no conversation, made himself yawn once or twice, and tested his newly healed arm. He put a cigaret to his mouth, and one of the Guards lighted it for him with scrupulous politeness. If he felt himself oppressed by them, he did not show it. His mind was busy.

  They drove down cratered Broad Street, then out beyond the suburbs. Finally, they were rolling in the country where the late August sun gilded fields and mountains and houses with hot gold. Durant could smell the sweet fragrances of drying hay and clover; all the countryside murmured with bees. Clouds of yellow dust followed them on the empty highway. The Guards sat heavily and stiffly beside Durant, and stared ahead and looked nowhere. Once or twice, large groups of men working the fields looked up at the sound of the car, but recognizing it, they hurriedly went back to work. Durant smoked contentedly, but his throat felt sick and his heart was beating with unreasonable speed. He had nothing to fear, he told himself. The sending of the Guards was a courtesy. However, he could not keep down his senseless apprehension.

  The car swung and turned off onto a country road, rutted and narrow. It swung between the green arches of trees, and the air, cool and fresh, struck on Durant’s face. Then there was a gravel road, broader, now, and suddenly an expanse of green parklike land, dotted here and there with a great oak or isolated elm. In the distance stood a large brick house with a red roof and ancient chimneys and windows, diamond-paned, glittering in the sun. Durant noticed that no trees were very near the house. He had never seen this place before; he had never known that Carlson possessed a “Philadelphia residence.” No one stirred about the grounds; no one appeared at the windows. But he knew, instinctively, that almost every window was a watchtower, and that every watcher was armed with a machine-gun. He knew that he and his escort were being scrutinized by unseen and coldblooded eyes, and that the men in the car were being counted and that the way they had come was being studied for any possible follower.

  Durant had become accustomed to the silence of the countryside by now, yet it seemed to him, as he alighted from the car, that the silence of this place was too profound and had a quality of terror about it. Durant and his Guards walked up the brick walk to the front door. The door opened without a sound, and revealed at least two squads of Guards in the cool dusk of the hall.

  Evidently this was a confiscated mansion, for the floor was of dark marble, old and gleaming, and the walls were of paneled mahogany. A monster chandelier, splintering the sun which shot through the door into a thousand prisms of light, hung from an immense beamed ceiling. A great wooden staircase, polished and curving, rose from the hall. Durant stood uncertainly, then felt a slight pressure against his thigh and discovered that his gun had been deftly removed. He started, uttered a profane exclamation. One of the Guards informed him, politely, that this was “customary” whenever the Chief Magistrate interviewed “anybody.” Durant was about to protest when he saw a very disconcerting sight. He caught the wolflike and ominously silent shadows of tremendous dogs ranged along the walls in the dimness of the hall.

  Durant knew all about watch-dogs, and knew that they always set up a wild barking at the approach of anybody, stranger or friend. The fact that these dogs were so quiet informed him that they needed only a gesture, or the slightest known word, to spring at his throat and tear him apart. In truth, his exclamation had brought them to the alert, ears cocked, teeth soundlessly bared. They were even more formidable than the Guards, and even more deadly. They were trained and intelligent murderers.

  Durant was careful not to utter another word, to make the smallest untoward movement, as he mounted the stairway with his Guards. It was ludicrous, even to him, that he kept well and cautiously in the very center of his escort, for protection. He could feel the savage eyes of the animals following him, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from running. Now he was really frightened, and he confusedly thought of Carlson, not as a secret Minute Man but as a sinister
enemy.

  They walked down an empty wooden corridor, lined with doors. Then at one door a Guard knocked, three short blows, followed by two spaced ones. The door opened and a blaze of sunlight momentarily blinded Durant. It was some seconds before he could see a large and splendidly furnished room with wide windows standing slightly ajar. And then it was a few seconds longer before he could see the two men waiting for him—one, Arthur Carlson, the other, a stranger.

  Carlson and the stranger sat and looked indifferently at Durant. He heard the door close behind him, and by the thick dullness of its movement he knew it was sound-proofed. He stood there and waited. Carlson did not smile at him. He was, as before, the cool aristocrat with his pale hair and slender, ascetic face, delicately at ease and detached. “Sit down, Major,” he said, at last, and there was no inflection of friendliness or interest in his quiet voice, no secret undertone.

  Durant sat down. Then Carlson rose, and carefully closed the windows and locked them. Instantly, the room was a tomb from which no voice could emerge. Durant felt the oppressive closeness, and his old, mysterious claustrophobia clutched at his throat and weighted down his chest. To hide his discomfort, he looked at the stranger, and recognized him at once from newspaper photographs he had seen. He was the Director General for the frightful Federal Bureau of Home Security, Hugo F. Reynolds, whose office was in Washington, and who controlled all the directors of the FBHS in the various Sections.

  Hugo Reynolds was a very tall, very thin man in his middle fifties. Everything about him was gray, from his sleek thin hair to his clothing. He was the very personification of anonymous evil, intelligent, lethal and omnipresent. His eyes were gray, his skin had a grayish cast, his motionless hands were ashen, his lips had no color. Nothing about him shone or caught the light except his brilliantly polished and narrow boots. Beside him, the patrician Arthur Carlson was vivid in his green uniform of the Picked Guards.

  Carlson sat down, and still unsmiling, said: “Mr. Reynolds, the Military Officer in Charge of Section 7, Major Andrew Curtiss.”

  “Good morning, Major,” said Reynolds, and Durant thought that his voice was gray also, with an intonation like fine grit.

  Now Durant really felt panic. His naïve imaginings that he and Carlson were to have a friendly hushed talk with each other disappeared. Something was wrong here. He swallowed deliberately, to calm his fear and desperation, then involuntarily he braced himself. He had faced death before. Death sat opposite him, scrutinizing him with those pallid and unblinking eyes, and he thought: If it’s come, then it’s come. He did not glance at Carlson for reassurance. Carlson had become a stranger, also.

  “Mr. Reynolds, Major,” said Carlson, very coldly, “has come here to defend Alex Sheridan. The circumstances are very grave. His office had conducted a private investigation of the conditions surrounding the murder of Andreas Zimmer, and Mr. Reynolds thought the results of the investigation merited his own presence.”

  Then Durant knew something terrible had gone wrong, and that Carlson could not, would not, help him. “You will stand alone,” Carlson had told him months ago. “For the safety of all of us, you can’t expect any assistance if you betray yourself in any way. If you fail, or are stupid, you will find yourself abandoned, surrounded by the silence of friends or associates.”

  Arthur Carlson was powerful beyond the power of the loathsome Director General of the FBHS. Yet, for the sake of the work he was doing he would desert Durant immediately, if the necessity arose, and would deliver him up to the FBHS. He dared do nothing else. He sat there in his chair, looking at Durant with cold expectancy. Out of the corner of his eye, however, Durant saw that the aristocratic hands were just slightly tensed. Durant gave his attention to Reynolds.

  “I should like to ask you a few questions, Major,” said Reynolds.

  If I’ve failed, and something has gone wrong to imperil all of us, then I’ll just have to die, thought Durant. His panic left him; all his muscles became taut and ready. He regarded Reynolds with the proper expression of interest. “I’m ready to answer all questions, Mr. Reyonlds,” he said.

  Reynolds picked up a sheaf of papers on the table beside him, and he studied them closely. He withdrew a silver pencil from his pocket, and impaled one item on the papers. Without looking up, he said: “I have here, Major, the report of your own investigation of the death of Andreas Zimmer. A very good and detailed report.” He waited. Durant did not answer. “I see that you’ve carefully interrogated two assistants of Mr. Sheridan, who claim Mr. Sheridan was not with them on the night of the murder. You have also interrogated the third assistant, who swears that Mr. Sheridan was with the three of them. I see that you held the tavern owner in custody for three days, and that your questioning was very adroit and exhaustive but could not break down the statement of the man to the effect that Mr. Sheridan had not been in the tavern for two weeks. Yes,” continued Reynolds musingly, “a very complete and rounded report. I congratulate you, Major. You are not only a military man, but have a skilled lawyer’s ability for interrogation. Did you ever study law, Major?”

  Durant said: “I never studied law, Mr. Reynolds. But thank you for the compliment.” He felt the sweat running down his back.

  Reynolds lifted those dreadful pale eyes of his. “You never studied law, Major?”

  “I never studied law, Mr. Reynolds.”

  Reynolds glanced at Carlson. “You’ve known Major Curtiss for a number of years, Arthur. It’s strange that you never guessed that he had the makings of an exceptional criminal lawyer.” He smiled slightly.

  Carlson smiled in return. “Major Curtiss and I discussed the possibility of his studying law, Hugo, a few years ago. He is, as you say, an expert in interrogation. However, I thought it best for him to act only as a military officer. His work has been excellent. That is why I am promoting him to the rank of colonel.”

  Durant let his pent breath leave his mouth.

  Reynolds scrutinized him again, and said, almost idly: “Any French blood in your family, Major—Curtiss?”

  “Not that I know of, sir.” He made himself smile.

  Reynolds said: “I’ve gone over your whole history, Major. Very, very good.” He waited for Durant to answer, but Durant only inclined his head as if pleased by the compliment.

  Something was not pleasing Reynolds. He frowned delicately. Carlson’s face was smooth.

  Then, without the smallest gesture, without the smallest rise of inflection in his voice, Reynolds pounced.

  “Major Curtiss, I see that you’ve carefully gone over the possibility that the murderer, or murderers, of Andreas Zimmer may have arrived from some point beyond Philadelphia. You’ve advertised for witnesses who might be able to give any information as to any car or other conveyance. None appeared. You went into the matter exhaustively. You inquired as to whether the murderers might have come on foot. You questioned everyone in the neighborhood of Zimmer’s apartment. Nothing more was learned. Yet, Major,” and his slow voice became slower, “my own secret investigators have discovered something very serious.”

  He stopped, and waited. Durant controlled his features. The sweat was a river down his back. But his mind had become cold and still.

  “I’d be interested to hear about it, Mr. Reynolds.”

  Reynolds regarded him in silence for a few moments. “Major, we’ve found two witnesses who swear that they saw an official car running rapidly, without lights, from the direction of your farm residence on the night in question. We’ve found two more witnesses who saw that car returning, still without lights, along the same road, about an hour after the time of the murder. The witnesses say that there were at least three men in the car.”

  My God, thought Durant. He made himself frown as if incredulous. “Was the car traced?”

  “No,” said Reynolds, still watching him. “It was seen only on the road.”

  Durant smiled very convincingly. “There was only one official car at the house of John Lincoln. It was mine. My junior off
icers did not accompany me home that night. They stayed in town, for a party.”

  “And you, personally, locked the car, and retained the keys?”

  “I did.”

  “And you found the car exactly where it had been left, with no signs that it had been used—without your knowledge, Major?”

  “It was not used. I had the keys.”

  “There was a slight shower that night, Major, I’ve learned. The car was not spotted, or dusty, or soiled in any way?”

  Durant raised his eyebrows. “I never knew of the shower. The car was not spotted in the slightest. I’d have noticed. I’m particular about those things, Mr. Reynolds.”

  Reynolds tapped the papers reflectively with his silver pencil. “It surprises me, Major, that under the circumstances you did not question anyone closely at the farm about the car, or wonder if anyone could have used it that night.”

  Now Durant really smiled inwardly. The trap was so childish, to his lawyer’s mind, and almost all his fear of this lethal man drained away.

  “You forget,” he said, “that I knew nothing of what you call these ‘circumstances,’ Mr. Reynolds.” He made his voice subtly and deliberately authoritative, the voice of a military man who has permitted a civilian considerable liberties and who has decided not to permit them much longer. He felt, rather than saw, that Carlson had begun to smile a little. “My car,” continued Durant, “never left the farm that night.”

  Reynolds studied Durant with hard new attention.

  “Moreover,” said Durant, staring at him directly, “I don’t believe your witnesses saw an official car on the road to and from the farm at all. I believe they are manufacturing evidence—possibly, it could just be possibly—for a fee.”