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

by Taylor Caldwell

  Dr. Healy flushed. He went to the door, applied his ear to it. He came back to the fire and stared at it, uneasy and visibly alarmed.

  “Perhaps,” Durant continued, “they’ve decided, in a mob, and through some unknown stimulus, to hold their tongues and to sit on their hands. Group dynamics, you know.”

  Even the exhausted Ben Colburn smiled at this. Durant shook a finger archly at Dr. Healy. “Letting down in your work, Doctor? None of your cheer-leaders out there today?”

  Schaeffer said comfortably: “The members of our bureaus haven’t arrived yet, Colonel. They usually come about five minutes before the President’s speech.”

  Dr. Healy was relieved. “That’s true! The masses must always be led, given a signal.”

  “Listen,” said Durant.

  The band, as if appalled at the lack of enthusiasm given to its earlier effort, swung into the national anthem: “All Hail to Democracy!” Durant opened the door, and heard the band’s chorus roaring into the words of this idiot hymn:

  “Raise your voices, men of labor,

  Men who made the nation great!

  Clasp the hand of fellow neighbor

  ’Gainst the hordes of foreign hate!

  Rejoice, rejoice, in noble freedom!

  Hold the sword at every door,

  Guard with joy and hope each city,

  Pledge your faith forevermore!”

  This was the signal for the standing multitude to join in the exuberant chorus:

  “Democracy! Oh, our Democracy!

  Where no man dies for one man’s gain!

  Democracy, our Democracy!

  Evermore, evermore!”

  The banal, rapid and discordant anthem came to an end. And there was nothing but silence. Now all the others were crowded at the half-opened door, listening also. Durant closed the door after several long moments.

  “Well,” he said, “‘group integration’ and ‘group dynamics’ seem to have called a holiday today, don’t they?”

  Dr. Healy had turned white, and could say nothing. He wandered uncertainly back to the fire, accompanied by his fellow speakers. Durant’s officers and Guards looked blankly at nothing.

  Durant sat down and lit a cigaret, and appeared to be musing. The firelight rose and fell on all those silent faces around the hearth. Then there was a hard and fast knocking on the door. Sadler opened it, and a little, dark, fat man, perspiring and wild-eyed, rushed into the room, carrying a baton. He sought out Durant, and it was evident that all his wits were gone.

  “Colonel, sir!” he stammered, in a shrill and incoherent voice. “I don’t know what’s the matter! Something’s wrong! I—I’m afraid. The people—they didn’t even stand up when we played the national anthem! They—they—they just sat there and stared at us—like dummies. They didn’t sing. It’s against the law, Colonel, not to stand up and salute the flag, and to—sing—when we play the anthem—” He snatched at his handkerchief and mopped his face, and gazed at Durant with bemused fright. “I don’t know, Colonel—it was funny, playing, and our chorus singing—and the people just sitting as if they were deaf, or something. And, Colonel, you ought to see their faces!” He shuddered, spread out his hands despairingly.

  Durant was calm. “Maybe that’s how people in this city act,” he said. “Staid, and such. Not emotional.” He turned to Dr. Healy. “Would you say they’re emotional, Doctor?”

  Dr. Healy looked at him, opened his mouth, then closed it again. His lips were as white as his cheeks.

  Durant waved his cigaret. “Well, maybe they’re tired. After all, during the past six months, they’ve been working twelve hours a day, seven days a week, and their rations, never very abundant at any time, have been cut one-third. So, perhaps they’re just too tired for anything, being so devotedly engaged in unity, duty, sac-ri-fice. Wouldn’t you say that, Doctor?”

  Dr. Healy could not take his eyes from Durant. The latter seemed to fascinate him in a dreadful kind of way. Then he said, in a faint voice: “The colonel has promised that he wouldn’t become offended at anything one might suggest? He has asked for frankness—”

  “Go ahead,” invited Durant genially.

  Dr. Healy hesitated. Then he took courage, and said with a kind of desperation: “The food rations—they haven’t been sufficient. The people are inflamed. I told the colonel some of the other causes.”

  Durant was outraged. He sat up in his chair. “Are you implying that the people would put more food ahead of unity, duty, sacrifice? Are you implying that they might be questioning sacred Military orders? What have you been doing lately, Doctor? Neglectful of mass-indoctrination? Isn’t that your job?”

  Dr. Healy, stunned, could find no words. The little band leader gestured frantically: “Colonel! You ought to see their faces!”

  “Their faces,” repeated Durant thoughtfully, sitting back in his chair. “Yes. Their faces.” He gestured to the man, and said: “Go back and play that fine, newest popular song. What’s it called? Yes; ‘Wake Up and Work, Now Don’t You Shirk, the Bogey-Man Will Get You If You Don’t Watch Out!’ The people love it, I understand. They sing it everywhere. It’s played everywhere. Go back and play it, and get the people to laughing.”

  The band leader groaned, threw hands and eyes toward the ceiling. “We’ve already played it, Colonel! And you ought to have—”

  “I know,” remarked Durant, smiling, “—seen their faces. Well, play something else. How about: ‘Posy-Wosy, Rivetting Rosie’? An old favorite.”

  The other man dropped his hands, baton and all, and just stood there, shivering. He gazed at Durant and whispered: “Colonel, I’m scared. I’m just scared to death. I’m afraid to go back out there.”

  Durant had another thought, and he sat up. “The walls are lined with soldiers, aren’t they? What were they doing during the singing? Aren’t they supposed to join in?”

  “They didn’t,” said the band leader simply.

  “Well, well,” mused Durant. “Well, well.”

  Dr. Healy slowly approached him, as if pushed by something he could not resist. He stood before Durant and his face was ghastly. He said, his voice thin with terror: “I think I’m beginning to understand.”

  “Understand what, Doctor?” asked Durant coldly. He looked into the other’s eyes and let him see what there was to be seen. He could not help himself; his hatred and exultation were too powerful.

  “Nothing,” said Dr. Healy. There was a livid film on his forehead. He stumbled back to the fire. The others watched Durant gravely, and there were a few somber smiles.

  The little band leader, with a yelp of shrill despair, ran from the room, clutching his baton. A moment later, noises in the corridor announced the arrival of the two distinguished guests from Washington. Durant rose and looked at Dr. Healy, and laughed a little. “Shall we discuss this again, some other time, Doctor?” he asked. “Somewhere, where it’s very quiet?”

  Sadler opened the door and everyone stood at attention near the fireplace. Mr. Regis and Mr. Burgess were entering the room.

  “Good afternoon, Colonel,” said the first gentleman who entered. “I am Dean Burgess of the Confederated Association of Labor Unions.” He extended his hand and smiled cordially at Durant.

  Durant’s first impression of Mr. Burgess, to his own great astonishment and confusion, was that here was a man it was almost impossible not to like.

  Mr. Burgess was a man in his late fifties, not tall but muscular and broad, with an air of powerful vitality and magnetism. He moved rapidly but surely and his handclasp was warm. His hair was a mass of springy gray curls high on the top of his round head and his features expressed a very sanguine personality, full of force and genial laughter. No weakness showed on his strong and smiling mouth; his nose was a wedge of firmness, and his eyes were frank and interested and alive with youthfulness.

  Durant controlled an impulse of responsive warmth to this man, whose Bureau, vicious and oppressive, had been ostensibly formed some ten years ago to
“protect” labor and labor’s interests, but which in reality had merely absorbed all American unions in order to deliver workers in one huge tight slave organization to the absolute State. In this infamous work, thirty-two Communist-affiliated union leaders, and many more potent gangsters and criminals, had ably assisted. Remembering all this, and remembering, too, that he, Durant, had often met villains who could smile as kindly as Mr. Burgess, whose eyes were as candid, and who radiated similar integrity and masculine strength, Durant replied conservatively to Mr. Burgess’ greeting. He had often been baffled by the fact that men who were truly good and honorable and sincere frequently did not reveal these virtues by feature or speech or manner, and sometimes were even possessed of repellent ways.

  Durant turned abruptly to Mr. Howard Regis, Federal head of the most infamous Bureau in The Democracy, the FBHS. He extended his hand, began to make his set speech, then halted, puzzled and uncertain. Where had be seen this exceptionally tall thin man before, a man of sixty-odd, with a long narrow face and features distinguished and quiet, and who possessed such an air of quiet authority and control? He stared so intensely at Mr. Regis that it was some moments before he became aware that Mr. Regis had taken his hand. Embarrassed, but with growing alarm, he continued his greetings. He could not look away from Mr. Regis, who was smiling at him slightly.

  Mr. Regis said: “I’ve often wanted to meet you since my appointment a short time ago, Colonel. I’ve heard a good deal of your fine administrative qualities and the work you have been doing in this Section for The Democracy.”

  That voice was much more familiar than the man’s face. It was very quiet and yet had a stern, dominant quality. Durant had a strong if whirling impression of rain, firelight, pipesmoke, and the scent of a woman’s sweet perfume—then he stood there, utterly shocked, utterly incredulous.

  Mr. Regis continued to smile at him, and if he had noticed Durant’s bulging eyes he gave no indication of it. He was holding Durant’s hand, and it took a little time for Durant to notice that he had been expertly yet unobtrusively moved so that his face could not be seen by the others. “So,” continued Mr. Regis, “I was delighted to come today, and to meet you.” He dropped Durant’s hand and turned his fine long head expectantly in the direction of the fireplace.

  Durant steadied himself. He made a fumbling gesture toward Captain Alice Steffens, who came forward. The girl was paler than ever and her eyes were shining brightly as if suffused with tears. Her pretty mouth trembled even as it smiled; she shook hands with Mr. Regis and murmured something inaudible, and turned away. Durant caught the drift of her perfume, and now he was certain. A deliriously jubilant wave lifted his heart, and he was momentarily dizzy with joy.

  “I believe you took poor Mr. Reynolds’ place, after he was murdered,” he said.

  “Yes. Very sad, wasn’t it?” replied Mr. Regis, with his slight cool smile. “I hear you’ve had your troubles, too, Colonel.”

  Durant smiled at him, a shade too vividly, then caught himself. He called the others to him, and introduced them to Mr. Regis. His voice was somewhat breathless in spite of all his efforts. He watched Karl Schaeffer as the latter was presented to his superior officer, and Schaeffer’s face remained bland and smooth and noncommittal.

  Walter Morrow was introduced to the visitors, as was Mr. Woolcott. Something had happened to Ben Colburn. His air of abstracted exhaustion had gone. His bent shoulders had lifted and his gray face had taken on color. Mr. Regis was courteous, but Mr. Burgess was very cordial to this Section head of the Bureau of Mobilized Labor, and Durant was sure that Burgess and Colburn knew each other well, and affectionately. Durant glanced at Walter Morrow of the Grange. Morrow’s expression was serious, and if he knew either of the guests he did not betray the fact.

  Dr. Joseph Healy was quivering with eagerness. He was in the presence of two of the most powerful men in The Democracy. Durant, grinning inwardly, could almost read the eminent doctor’s thoughts: I’m among friends, now! I can tell them what I suspect about this ambiguous colonel, and they will deal with him and find out everything about him!

  The doctor was very polite to Mr. Burgess of the Confederated Association of Labor Unions, but his real and passionate interest was in Mr. Regis, of the FBHS. Nothing could ever be concealed from the FBHS, which boasted the most skillful and intelligent spies in the whole country. Dr. Healy decided to concentrate on Mr. Regis, and tell him of his suspicions of Durant at the first convenient opportunity. His white face glowed with triumph; he could not refrain from shooting Durant a glance of elation.

  Durant knew now, beyond any doubt, that the time of emancipation was here. It was no concern of his how General Steffens alias Howard Regis had secured his appointment to the cogent Federal Bureau of Home Security; he would never know, and was contented not to know. However, he suspected that the Chief Magistrate, so close to the President, so beloved of the President, had contrived this momentous appointment.

  “We have about ten minutes before going into the auditorium, gentlemen,” he said, indicating two comfortable seats near the fire. But Burgess and Regis ignored the gesture. They talked casually, and with the utmost kindness, with the others. They walked slowly about the pleasant room, complimenting Durant on the appointments. It was then that someone made a slight and choking sound, and everyone turned in surprise toward Durant’s executive officers.

  Young Grandon had apparently been taken suddenly ill, and Durant’s first thought in his confusion was that his lieutenant must have eaten some of the poisoned ham. For Grandon had pressed his body against a wall for support, and his face was deadly white. Bishop and Edwards caught his arms as he began to slide toward the floor. His head had dropped to his chest and he was breathing stertorously.

  Mr. Burgess and Mr. Regis looked at the young man with quiet curiosity. The officers had not been introduced to such eminent visitors, and it was apparent that this was the first time that the men had been called to their attention. They watched Grandon being lowered into a chair. Durant went to Grandon, perplexed and grim. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

  Grandon did not lift his head, and Durant could not see his face.

  “Stomach, or something, Grandon?” Durant continued. “If you’re conscious, answer me at once.”

  Grandon, with an effort visible to everyone, raised his head. He was whiter than ever. He smiled forcedly. He said: “Too much party or something last night, Colonel. Excuse me.” He kept his eyes on Durant as if he dared not look anywhere else. The Picked Guards, including Sadler, stolidly stared before them.

  Durant was silent. Bishop said: “Perhaps if he could lie down, somewhere, sir?”

  But Grandon shook his head; he passed his hands over his face slowly and almost firmly. “Just dizzy a minute,” he muttered. “Sorry.” He pushed himself to his feet, inch by inch, still looking nowhere.

  “Did you eat anything at the house, that we didn’t all eat?” asked Durant.

  Grandon had attained the wall and was leaning against it, struggling against another collapse. He stiffened, then, at Durant’s words. His pale lips tightened convulsively. He shook his head as if he could not speak, but his eyes fixed themselves on Durant with a kind of terror. Keiser had retrieved his hat and stood there, frowning thoughtfully at the young lieutenant.

  So, thought Durant, it was you who tried to kill me and my Picked Guards. It is you who are the spy and traitor.

  But something perplexed Durant. If Grandon were the enemy, with instructions to murder his superior officer, why, then, the disregard for the lives of the Picked Guard, the darlings of the President and the Joint Chiefs of Staff? A military officer’s death, though deplored in Washington, did not arouse the spirit of vengeance as did the slightest attack on the Guard.

  Mr. Burgess had approached and was now regarding Grandon with kind solicitude. “Your officer is ill, Colonel?” He smiled at Grandon, who looked at him with deep concentration. “Perhaps a little whisky might help him. What is your name, Lieute
nant?”

  Grandon could not answer for a moment. Then he muttered: “Grandon.” And again: “Grandon.”

  “Grandon,” repeated Mr. Burgess consideringly. He turned away and Durant wondered if, for a moment, Mr. Burgess’ face had really expressed sadness. His bewilderment increased. Mr. Burgess said, as he approached the window: “I once knew some Grandons. Very wonderful people. That was out West. I hear they’re all dead now. I remember them best because they were brave and honorable men who always fought for their country, and who never betrayed it, voluntarily or involuntarily.”

  Grandon straightened and lifted his head. “Yes, Mr. Burgess,” he said. Color was returning to his face, and his eyes sparkled. He said to Durant: “I’m all right, Colonel. Just too much party, as I told you.”

  Mr. Regis had joined Mr. Burgess at the windows, and Durant, frowning, joined them. They had parted the golden draperies and were looking down at the monster crowds below, so ominously silent, so ominously still. Mr. Burgess opened the window and he and Mr. Regis listened. Not a lip moved in all that vast congregation of humanity which filled the small square before the Stadium and flowed endlessly into the side streets. Yet, from their many thousands came a faint and sinister sound, a kind of throbbing.

  “I don’t like it, sir,” said Durant uneasily, to Mr. Regis.

  But Mr. Regis and Mr. Burgess did not answer him. To Durant’s confusion, the two men exhanged a look of dark and secret exultation. They closed the window.

  “A very orderly gathering,” murmured Mr. Regis. Durant continued to look at that awful mass below, and then something struck him forcibly, something he should have seen before, and which had escaped him. The people, so dun-colored and faceless all these years, were wearing color! From some old hiding places, from some forgotten boxes, from corners and from lost drawers, they had retrieved bits of bright ribbon, brilliant headscarves, a little slash of blue or yellow or red or green silk, ties with gay hues. The amount each man and each woman was wearing was small, out of necessity, but Durant, dumbfounded, saw that the aggregate was impressive. The souls of the people had instinctively understood, and only after many years of grayness and despair, that color was their manifestation of revival and independence, their flag of rebellion, their insignia of individuality.