“A fee?”
“Or for some excitement, or in a spirit of self-importance. Call it what you wish. It isn’t unusual, in law, for witnesses to spring out of the earth with made-to-order evidence, tailored to fit any—buyer.”
“And who do you think would be the buyer, Major?” asked Reynolds softly.
Durant shrugged. “I don’t know. Frankly.” He added, “and I repeat, I don’t believe your witnesses saw an official car. They know that Zimmer was murdered; they know there’s a reward out for the murderers, or murderer. They are probably looking for the reward.”
Reynolds was coldly amused. “Let’s leave that for the moment, Major. You didn’t question anyone at the farm because your car was not used, as you say. Tell me, do you know Mr. Sheridan?”
“No.” Now Durant was all the rigid military man. “I keep my contacts with bureaucrats at a minimum. I”—and he looked at Reynolds straightly—“call them on the telephone—to tell them of my new directives—or I write them, or send a messenger.”
Reynolds ignored this not too gentlemanly insult. “Did you know Andreas Zimmer, Major?”
“I met him once. When I told him of a new directive, the one, sir, about the new assignment to essential industry of the so-called ‘unavailable’ labor exploited by the formerly privileged groups.”
Reynolds lifted an eyebrow musingly. “You do not care for the civilian bureaus, do you, Major?”
“They have a function. But their functions, as I have had reason to remind them recently, are all subservient to the Military.” He said this calmly.
Reynolds sighed. “A very correct officer, Arthur,” he said to Carlson. “You train them well.” But Carlson only smiled in the friendliest manner. Reynolds turned back to Durant.
“You had no reason to dislike either Sheridan or Zimmer, Major?”
Durant frowned. “They were civilians, sir. I neither liked nor disliked them. I knew Sheridan as the local director of the FBHS, and Zimmer”—he gave Reynolds a long look—“as assistant to Woolcott of the Bureau of Mobilized Labor.” He leaned forward in his chair, as if he had had a fresh idea. “I assume your interest in the matter is to defend Sheridan, and that Zimmer matters no way at all to you. Would you mind telling me, if you will, what other evidence you’ve been able to obtain? I’m only curious. After all, I conducted the preliminary investigations.”
“Only the witnesses to the official car, Major.” The cold voice bored at him.
“There was no ‘official car,’ sir. Your witnesses are either mistaken, honestly, or they are lying. Or, if there was actually a car, it did not come from my direction. Or were you suspecting that I, who had a broken arm at the time, drove into town and killed Zimmer, myself?” He grinned at the other man derisively. “And, if I accomplished that remarkable feat, what would be the reason? If I had wanted Zimmer killed, or Sheridan, for that matter. I’d have employed no mysterious coming or goings. I would simply have ordered their arrest, and their execution, with as little delay as possible. After all, sir, I am the Military.”
“Major,” said Arthur Carlson, rebukingly, “you are being insulting. Mr. Reynolds is merely conducting a full investigation.”
Durant was entirely the junior officer who was losing his temper in the presence of the despised civilian, even if that civilian was a powerful and dreaded man. “I meant no insult,” he said to Carlson, allowing indignation to touch his voice. “But apparently the Military, through my person, is being insulted. If you’ll excuse me, sir—” And he actually got to his feet and managed to convey his pretended wrath by cleverly upsetting his chair.
“Sit down!” Carlson’s voice was sharp, and cracked with authority. “You’ll not leave, Major, until Mr. Reynolds is finished questioning you on an entirely routine matter. You should give him that courtesy, whether it is necessary or not.”
Durant blunderingly righted his chair. He protested: “I’ll not be insulted by a—” And his voice rose.
“Sit down!” said Carlson again.
Reynolds watched all this, narrowly. He saw Durant’s inflamed face. He heard the icy anger in Carlson’s voice. He saw this military man’s trembling hands and mutinous hot eyes as he obeyed his superior.
Durant thought to himself: I’ve saved Dodge. I’ve saved the others. I’ve saved myself, and all of us. He was almost enjoying his own histrionic performance. It had been a desperate maneuver, and he hoped it had succeeded.
“There is no other evidence, Major,” said Reynolds indifferently, ignoring the whole immediate episode. “However, I’m not prepared to accept, as you have accepted, that the witnesses are lying, or mistaken. We’ll go into that at the trial. But can you explain to me, Major—and this is just by way of casual conversation—how it would be possible for three men to deny the presence of Sheridan at the tavern, and one other man to affirm it?”
“I understand that it often happens that way, during trials. Conflicting witnesses, Mr. Reynolds. Judges invariably accept, unless there are other circumstances, the word of several witnesses as opposed to the word of one. As you know, I interrogated the three denying withnesses. They displayed no animosity toward Sheridan.”
“You didn’t—let us say—intimidate them, did you, Major?”
Durant was outraged. “‘Intimidate’ them, sir?” He conveyed incredulity. “Why should I?”
Reyolds ignored this. “Tell me, Major, do you think it possible that the farmer, Lincoln, or any of his sons, could have driven into the city that night?”
The temptation was strong, but childish, Durant thought regretfully. He shook his head. “If they did, it was in my official car. I doubt very much if they went in one of their own.”
“I’ve been informed, Major, that Lincoln’s daughter disappeared that night, from her father’s home.”
Durant put on a sheepish and sullen expression. “I’d rather not go into that matter, if you please.”
Reynolds permitted himself a frigid smile. “By the way, Major, do you know a man at the farm, who is conscripted labor, by the name of Dodge?”
Now fear tore at Durant again. “Dodge? Do you mean the old house servant Lincoln has around?”
“You don’t know who he was?”
“Good God!” cried Durant. “He’s an old imbecile fool! ‘Who he was?’ Was he ever anything?” He showed his impatient bewilderment.
“He was once a very famous scholar. But scholars wouldn’t interest you, would they, Major? After all, you are a military man.” The voice was shaded with derision.
“I doubt if he was ever a scholar, Mr. Reynolds. I’m sure you’re mistaken.”
But Reynolds did not answer that. “Have you ever known him to drive a car?”
“Of course not. He’s half blind, and almost totally deaf. The walking dead, we call him.” Durant laughed. “Like thousands of other civilians one sees every day.”
Reynolds swiftly took another direction. “You don’t care it Sheridan dies for a crime he didn’t commit, Major?”
“I’m convinced he did commit it, sir. There are witnesses, recorded in my report, who swore there was bad blood between the two men. Why, I don’t know. I never found out. It seems, apparently, that they either quarreled at some time, or had a mutual antipathy. It often happens that way.” Then he showed signs of a bright inspiration. “I can see that the evidence against Sheridan is very slim, in spite of the witnesses, and in spite of what Zimmer’s wife has testified, herself. No one saw him near Zimmer’s house. There were no signs of blood under his fingernails, or on his clothing. There is no absolute evidence that the two men ever really quarreled. Sheridan is a married man; he perhaps had a female friend, unknown to his wife, and he is protecting her. It is possible he was with her that night. For some time I’ve had the vague suspicion that Zimmer’s wife might have done it, herself.”
“But you had her examined, Major. She, too, had no blood on her clothing, or under her fingernails, and the murder weapon has never been found.”
> Durant appeared to be all crestfallen. “You’re quite right, sir. I’ve no evidence against the woman, except the gossip of the neighbors. No, sir,” he added resolutely, “I’m afraid Sheridan is guilty. After all, Zimmer was a wary and careful man. At least, he gave that impression. It isn’t likely he would have admitted anyone he didn’t know. And he told his wife that Sheridan was coming.”
Reynolds put his papers meticulously together. He rose. “I’m finished with the major, Arthur. Or is he now a colonel?”
“He is.” Carlson was suave and genial. “You won’t have lunch with me, Hugo?”
But Durant was rudely importunate. “Mr. Reynolds, what would Zimmer have to do with Sheridan, anyway? Zimmer, assistant to Mr. Woolcott?”
Reynolds regarded him with distant aversion. “I’m sure I don’t know, Major. It’s very mysterious, isn’t it? I suppose you’ll be at the trial?”
Durant was properly rebuked for his insolence. “If Mr. Carlson wants it, yes. Otherwise, no. What have I to do with civilians, except to give them directives?”
Reynolds overlooked him entirely, now. “No, thank you, Arthur. I must get on with this investigation. But tomorrow?”
The two men left the room, talking together as equals, leaving Durant behind. He sat down and lit a cigaret with wet fingers.
Carlson and Reynolds were gone a long time. Restlessly, and smoking too quickly, Durant went to the window. He saw Reynolds leaving in his limousine. Carlson was standing in the driveway. He waved affably to Reynolds, and the chauffeur started the car and drove away. Carlson continued to stand in the driveway, as if waiting. Then Durant saw an old black car, nondescript and common, glide with an astonishing swiftness from behind the house. A man sat in it, a little dark-clad man with a sharp and intelligent face. Carlson nodded, and the old car took off at a safe distance behind Reynolds’ car, careful to let clouds of dust envelop it.
Well, thought Durant, and his anxiety went away. He sat down and lighted another cigaret with equanimity, and congratulated himself. When Carlson entered the room, he stood up and saluted. Carlson’s face was quiet and wryly amused. “Colonel Curtiss,” he said, and held out his hand. “And now, here’s a letter from your wife. The last one, I might as well warn you.”
Arthur Carlson ordered that lunch be served him and Durant in the closed room where Hugo Reynolds had interrogated the young man. Durant’s reverence and almost fearful respect for Carlson took on a warmer tint, and his release from the tension of the past hour made him exuberant. He was full of questions, but Carlson, showing more and more of a suppressed and sternly controlled humanity, suggested that Durant first read Maria’s letter. So, while they drank whisky and Durant’s nerves quieted, he concentrated on the letter from his wife, the envelope of which was not postmarked and did not reveal by any address her present whereabouts.
Maria’s letter was filled with love and concern for her husband, and with quiet confidence. She was very happy, she said, and was living obscurely “in the sort of place where I have always wanted to live.” (That means a farm, somewhere, thought Durant eagerly.) Maria, who had once been a teacher of English in a New York school, had a gift for description, and it was soon apparent to her husband that she was artfully giving him hints as to her location. “The scenery is so lovely,” she wrote. “I missed the hills which we used to visit on our trips to the Catskills, but now the brilliant flatness of the land, and the color of the earth, and the strange and fiery flowers, seem to me to be more beautiful than the strong cold green of New York mountains.” (California? No, California had hills and deep valleys. Florida? Louisiana? Georgia?) The letter went on: “Flowers long finished blossoming just about the time they start to bloom at home! And flowers just coming up which will bloom by Christmas in a warm, calm sun! Dear Andy, how little we ever knew of America.” (Florida? Florida!) “Do you remember, Andy, how we admired the Guernsey and Holstein cattle on the farms in New York and how you planned that we’d breed them ourselves some day? You don’t see that kind of cattle here, for they’re mixed with the Brahmin cattle.” (Yes, Florida!) “The children love to play in the water, though it’s strange to them.” (Durant had a moment’s bafflement. New York City was surrounded by the salt ocean, except for part of the Hudson River—Then he remembered, with excitement, that he and Maria had never taken the children to the seashore, because all the hotels and beaches had been appropriated by the Military for many years. They had had to accustom themselves to fresh water pools and little streams and lakes in other places in New York. So, the children were swimming in the sea. Taken all together, it must be Florida, he thought.)
“They tell me we are quite safe here, and though I work hard, it is worth it. The children are so healthy and brown, such as they never were at home. In fact, I never want to return to New York.—They say I must never plan on seeing you again, and that I mustn’t have false hopes. But I pray constantly. Father Martin always told us that God never ignores a prayer—When I am most lonely, I remember that you are working for our country, and that is the greatest consolation. It was not only wise that you should have a new identity, but that your family should not be near you to distract you. Without us, you have less fear, and can give all your devotion to our dear America.”
Durant, deeply moved, turned to Carlson, who said gravely, “Yes, I have read the letter. It was brought to you, passed from hand to hand, by brave men who were instructed to destroy it at any sign of danger. It has taken months to arrive. We always permit our men to have one last letter from their wives and families. It relieves them, and frees their minds. But this will be the last letter you will ever receive from your wife. There is too much peril involved for men who have too much to do to act as postmen.”
He held out his hand commandingly for the letter. “You know you can’t keep it, Durant. It would endanger you, and us.” So Durant, with a last look at his wife’s handwriting, gave up the letter reluctantly. Carlson set it afire, methodically, and when it was reduced to ashes he opened the window and gave the ashes to the quiet wind, fragment by fragment. He can say what he wants, thought Durant. But some day I shall see Maria and the children again. I shall—Arthur Carlson spoke quietly from the window. “No. No, you won’t.” And he closed the sealed window again and returned to his chair. He did not speak of the letter again. The subject was done.
Two Picked Guards brought in their meal on trays, and left the room. While the two men ate, Durant talked exhaustively, and Carlson listened. Carlson made no comment until Durant smoked after the meal was finished. He was sunk in thought. At last he said: “Good.” Durant waited, but no further praise came, and he was momentarily disappointed. Carlson went on: “Dr. Dodge. Of course he will allow himself to be tortured to death if necessary and if Reynolds, who apparently knows that Dodge was prosecuted by Sheridan, has any real suspicions. Durant, we must never forget that there are men, not Minute Men, who are also conducting solitary fights for America, on their own initiative.”
He smiled his cool and wintry smile, and all the ascetic planes of his face sharpened. “I rarely make a mistake in choosing my men. I knew you had wit and artistry and flair for drama and acting. Section 7 is the most important Section in the country. It needed an intelligent, keen and dynamic man to set it ablaze, a blaze that would light up the other Sections. Time is growing too short. Improvising was necessary on a bold and reckless and courageous scale. I want to tell you now that you’ve succeeded even better than I expected, and in a shorter time.”
Carlson went on: “I doubt if you had an actual method worked out in your mind when you arranged for the murder of Zimmer, who was a desperate threat to Colburn and all of us. I’ve learned, incidentally, that he knew too much. He even had his suspicion of you. A week later, he would have set an earthquake under us, and would have shaken Section 7 from border to border. Your impulsive improvising to bring about his murder was marvelous; I think, though, it was more intuitive than anything else. Mind you, I don’t underestimate intuitio
n. I’ve always believed it is the very essence of enormous intelligence, a subconscious summing-up of intangible factors.”
“Yes, it was improvising, and impulsive,” said Durant. “I just saw, in the flash of a moment, how it could be arranged. I had no definite plan in the beginning.” He was gratified, and his dark face beamed. Then he said: “But what of the other Sections? Are they following us? I’m so damned alone—”
Carlson replied: “I often think of what Ibsen said: ‘The strongest man upon earth is he who stands most alone.’ Your strength has been in your aloneness, Durant. There was no one you could consult, at any time. Consultations weaken, raise disastrous doubts. Stultify. Had you men with whom to consult, you would have been in danger. You might have been paralyzed, for some of the men might have been too cautious, too slow of action, too reasonable. In desperate situations we need desperate men, not rational intellects.”
He sat and watched Durant for a little. “You ask me about the other Sections. I can tell you this: as soon as I learned what you were doing—and don’t ask me how the news traveled to me so fast—I went to Washington and had a talk with my father. Then we went to the Joint Chiefs of Staffs, those greedy and avaricious rascals, who live only by wars, their pockets and their bellies. Within minutes after we received news of your directives, and long before we received furious protests from the privileged groups, we saw the full possibilities. Of course, you know,” and Carlson smiled again, “you interfered somewhat with matters not concerned with your actions against the farmers. For instance, the man who is working against the bureaucrats was at first annoyed with you, and then he began to appreciate your action and enlarged on its potentialities. He is a little too cautious. You excited his imagination—
“But I’m wandering a little. My father and I, in our secret sessions with the Joint Chiefs of Staffs, who are great friends of ours, soon convinced these mechanical brutes that the new directives and new taxes would bring them enormous personal fortunes, even greater than their present revenues. One or two were somewhat doubtful at first, but even they joined the general delirium when they fully understood. They’ve already arranged to triple their salaries, out of the pockets of their former friends, the members of the privileged groups. They’ve received protests from this Section, at their offices in Washington, but what are protests from groups already being oppressed and shorn of their golden fleece compared with more money and more power for professional soldiers? Also, they highly approve of you, Durant. One of the generals said you have ‘restored the authority and majesty of the Military.’ General Anderson suggested that your rank be raised. Another general even demanded you be made a brigadier-general! I bring you their love.” And Carlson smiled dryly.
The Devil's Advocate: The Epic Novel of One Man's Fight to Save America From Tyranny Page 24
