After lunch--which was poor, slow and expensive--I screwed up my
courage and telephoned the Office of Strategic Services.
"May I speak to Mrs. Jacklin?" I asked the switch-board girl. She
promptly referred me to Information, who told me that Mrs. Dorothy
Jacklin was on Extension 3046, shall-I-connect you?
A moment later a pleasant voice said, "Yes? This is Mrs. Jacklin."
"Mrs. Jacklin," I told my wife, "my name is Tompkins, W. S. Tompkins. I
have a message for you from Commander Jacklin."
"Oh," she said. It was not a question. "Are you a friend of Frank's? Is
he all right?"
"He asked me to see you when I got to Washington and gave me some
special messages for you. I'm staying at the Willard. Are you free for
cocktails or dinner this evening?"
Something of the urgency in my voice communicated itself to her and I
could feel her reverse her original impulse to refuse the invitation.
"Why yes, Mr. Tompkins," she agreed. "I'd be glad to join you, for
cocktails, that is. Shall we say about half past five?"
"Splendid! I'll meet you in the south lobby. I'm sure to recognize
you, Frank gave me such a good description of you. If there's any
slip-up, have one of the bellboys page me."
"Thank you," she said. "I'll be there."
As I laid down the telephone, my pulse was racing and my throat was
dry. How in God's name should I act with her?
Half-past five crawled around. I filled in some of the time by phoning
the F.B.I. and telling Lamb's secretary I was registered at the Willard
under the name of R. L. Grant. I phoned Bedford Hills and told Jimmie
that I was in Washington and wanted her to join me at the Willard. She
was a little slow about getting the R. L. Grant angle but allowed that
she could register as Mrs. Grant or Mrs. John Doe if necessary and when
was all this nonsense going to stop?
In spite of my assurance, I almost failed to recognize Dorothy. She
looked younger, smarter and infinitely more self-possessed, and the
tanned and muscular young man in uniform who accompanied her was
obviously not animated by brotherly sentiments toward her.
"Mrs. Jacklin?" I asked. "I'm Tompkins. And--" I turned eloquently to
her escort.
"Oh, this is Major Demarest," she said. "Thanks, Tony, for escorting
me. I'll see you later?"
"Half-past sixish?" Demarest asked.
"Say seven," Dorothy told him. "I'll meet you here, by the desk."
So I was neatly bracketed. While Dorothy and I were talking, her
escort would be waiting--impatiently. There was no chance of a
prolonged operation. I must keep things moving.
I took her to the rather garish cocktail lounge on the east side of the
hotel and ordered her a Bourbon old-fashioned and a Scotch-and-soda for
myself.
"Frank told me that's what you like," I remarked, before she could
raise her eyebrows after I told the waiter to bring a sliver of lemon
peel to go with the old-fashioned.
"Where did you know him?" she asked.
I leaned confidently across the table. "Mrs. Jacklin," I told her, "I'm
in intelligence. Tompkins is my name but I don't use it much. I've
seen quite a bit of your husband during the past few years--here at
Washington and out in the Pacific. In fact," I added, "I might say that
I'm his closest friend. We were at school together, many years ago. I'm
surprised he never mentioned me."
"How _is_ he?" she asked. "I know too much to ask _where_ he is."
I looked gravely at her. "We don't know where he is," I replied. "His
ship hasn't been reported for nearly two weeks. He was on a special
mission. That's why I've looked you up. Frank made me promise that I
would if--I mean--he thought--"
Dorothy drained her glass and gave me a long, strange look. "Are you
trying to tell me that he's dead?" she asked.
"It's not official," I said. "It may never be confirmed, but I
personally am sure, as sure as I'm sitting here that you'll never see
him again."
She looked down at the table and nervously tapped an unlighted
cigarette against her lacquered thumb-nail. "I'll have another drink,
if you don't mind," she said. "It's not that--well, our marriage was
over long ago--but, he--I--"
I signaled our waitress and duplicated our order.
"This is one of the times when my father told me to remember the
giants," she said.
I raised my eyebrows.
"My father was professor of philosophy at Wesleyan," she explained.
"He always said that it was impossible to imagine anything so big that
there wasn't something else bigger. He said that it stood to reason
that somewhere in the universe there was a race of giants so big that
it took them a million years to draw a breath. He said when things
seemed difficult just to think about that."
"Sounds like the Navy Department," I observed. "Was he the one who
argued that there might be several sexes? Frank told me something--"
She smiled. "Yes. That was when I was adolescent and having crushes
about boys. He said that somewhere there must be a place where, Instead
of two, there were six or seven sexes. He suggested that falling in
love under those conditions was really complicated. He was a nice man,"
she added. "He's dead."
"Your father sounds like a right guy," I remarked. "Frank said--"
"How do I know you're telling the truth?" she suddenly interrupted.
"What proof have you?"
Here I was on home-ground. "Frank thought of that. He told me to remind
you that you have a mole on your left hip, that you're nuts about
Prokofiev, that you don't think much of Ernest Hemingway as an author
and--"
"The louse!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I know I oughtn't to talk about him
this way if he's dead but I didn't dream men told each other--"
I pulled out my fountain pen and wrote my Jacklin signature rapidly
across the back of the drink-card. I pushed it at her across the table.
"There!" I told her. "Recognize that, Mrs. Jacklin?"
"Why!" Dorothy exclaimed. "It's his writing! Who _are_ you, Mr.
Tompkins? Only I could say that it's a forgery."
"Listen, Dorothy," I began conspiratorially. "And if I call you Dorothy
it is only because your husband always spoke of you as Dorothy. I must
see General Donovan. This is much more than a matter of your husband
and yourself. It's a matter of top-echelon intelligence."
She looked downcast. "The General's out of town," she said. "He's
trying to get back for the Roosevelt funeral but the man who's running
the show in his absence is Colonel McIntosh. Ivor McIntosh."
There was a curl to her lips as she pronounced the name that told
me all I needed to know about the colonel. Still, beggars can't be
choosers and Colonel McIntosh was ever so much better than nothing at
all.
"Very well," I told her. "Will you arrange to have me see Colonel
McIntosh tomorrow morning? Tell--" here I took a leap--"Tell him that
I'm from the White House."
"You aren't, are you?"
"Of course not, but I gather that's the kind of bait your Colonel
needs."
"He's a very clever man," Dorothy belatedly defended him. "They say
he did brilliant staff-intelligence work under Stillwell in the first
Burma campaign."
"That's the one we lost, isn't it?" I asked dryly. "No, Dorothy. Let me
see this Colonel. You know how to fix it--there's always one special
girl in an office that has the ear of a man like that. Frank swore to
me that there was nothing you couldn't do if you decided it was worth
while."
She looked at me across the little round, black table. "Mr. Tompkins,"
she said, "I have no way of telling whether you are telling the truth
or not. Frankly, if General Donovan was in town I wouldn't bother him,
but Colonel McIntosh is--you know--one of _the_ Chicago McIntoshes.
You never heard of him? Nobody else did either but here he is with a
British accent and if you can make the grade with him it won't worry
me."
I ordered another round of drinks.
"Tell me, Dorothy," I said, "not that it's any of my business, except
that I was a friend of your husband's, don't you feel any special
regret that he's probably gone west?"
She took a man-sized swallow of her old-fashioned. "Not particularly,"
she admitted. "In a general, normal sort of way, I'm sorry, of course.
He was nice even if we didn't get on very well. But we had almost no
interests in common and when we broke up it was for keeps. He was kind,
and on the whole, decent, but God! so stuffy and boring to live with.
Day after day, Hartford, Connecticut, writing and yessing, living by
minutes and dying by inches. He rather liked it. I couldn't understand
it. So you can see why I can't pretend to be prostrated. And perhaps he
isn't dead at all."
I nodded. "He's dead if that's the way you feel about him," I said. "He
told me that his wife was a lovely girl with a mole on her hip and the
hell of a temper. He said it was like being married to a circus acrobat
or an opera singer--exciting but not happy. He said you had a habit
of--" I stopped in the nick of time.
"Oh, he did, did he?" she snapped. "Well, Mr. Tompkins, I don't suppose
he ever told you that he snored or that--"
"Skip it, please," I calmed her. "It's your marriage, not mine. I told
you these things so you'd know I was really sent to you by Frank. Now
you fix it so I can talk to McIntosh."
"I will," she replied.
It was the epitaph on ten years of marriage. I knew when I was
licked. Dorothy was what she had been when I had picked her out of
Middletown--as inaccessible as the root of a Greek aorist or as a
book of curiosa in a Carnegie library. She had not shown a trace of
recognizing Frank Jacklin inside the body of Winnie Tompkins, even
though my morning calisthenics were reducing my circumference. I was
licked. I was no Faustus to woo this Marguerite, especially when she
obviously had someone else on the string. The Master of the Rat Race
obviously meant me to play the hand he had dealt me, and no Joker. By
Godfrey, it would go hard with Dorothy's boss when I came to grips with
him. All the Navy men who had been hitched by Washington would applaud
me--Marty Donnell who had been sent out against the "Nagato" with the
wrong size shells for his guns; Abie Roseman, who had been cashiered
because he had refused to okay a travel order for the Admiral's
sweetie; Julius Winterbottom, who had died on the "Lexington"--and all
the gobs who had died. Well, win or lose, I'd give the F.B.I. a run for
its money and what could they do to me? Damn it! I was a civilian--one
of the guys that paid their salaries!
Colonel Ivor McIntosh of the Chicago McIntoshes was one of those who
had been born with a platinum spoon and a broad "A" in his mouth. His
face bore the marks of years of application to the more expensive
tables, cellars and bedrooms. His uniform was in the U.S. Army but
definitely not of it--having a Savile Row touch that suggested the
Guards. He was, he told me, in charge of the O.S.S. "until Bill gets
back," and what could he do for me?
"Colonel," I said. "I came to you in the face of strong opposition from
the F.B.I. I have first-hand information concerning the sinking of the
Alaska."
"Nonsense!" McIntosh replied cheerily. "It was on the map five minutes
ago. I'm sure it's still there."
I smiled. "The U.S.S. Alaska, sir," I explained. Colonels love to be
called "Sir," especially by a civilian. "I have the inside story of
the sinking of the carrier. The F.B.I. told me it was useless to try
to see you or Admiral Ballister. In fact, they ordered me under no
circumstances to mention the F.B.I. in connection with my mission."
McIntosh toyed with a crystal elephant on his desk. "Exactly what _is_
your mission?" he asked.
I drew myself up, not without dignity. "I am with Z-2, Colonel," I told
him, "and as you know the Z Bureau reports only to the President." I
had heard of G-2, A-2, even X-2. Why not Z-2--to end all 2's.
"Of course," he agreed without bending an eyelash. "But why have you
come to see me, Mr. Tompkins?"
"Call me Grant, Colonel," I replied with a knowing smile. "That's the
name I'm registered under at the Willard. The reason I've come to you,
is that my orders, which were given to me personally last February by
President Roosevelt, were to consult the head of the O.S.S. if anything
went wrong. As you undoubtedly know, Roosevelt had a very warm feeling
for the O.S.S. and my instructions have been to work with your men
whenever possible. F.D.R. told me that, if I needed prompt action
at any time to come to this office and skip the other intelligence
services."
Colonel McIntosh was only human, if from the Chicago McIntoshes. He
relaxed. He almost smiled.
"I got back to this country less than two weeks ago, Colonel," I told
him. "I was working on the other end of the Alaska case--and it's a
tough one--when word came of the President's death. My report was due
to him at Warm Springs next Monday. Now I'll have to take it up direct
with Admiral Ballister. The F.B.I.'s trying to block me."
"Why?" he asked, but he knew why.
I shrugged my shoulders. "You know Washington, Colonel," I said.
"The F.B.I. tried to get control of Z-2 and was stopped by the other
services. Since then, they've refused all cooperation. And I must get
to see Admiral Ballister before he goes away for the week-end. Since
Roosevelt's death the whole town has changed and Truman is too busy and
bothered to see Z-2 reports."
Colonel McIntosh put in some earnest home-work on the telephone.
"Ballister," he said at last. "McIntosh speaking, O.S.S. A Mr. R. L.
Grant--that's not his name, but he's from Z-2--Yes, of course you
do. That's the special--Yes, that's right, Admiral. He has an urgent
report for you. He's been trying to reach you since Thursday but our
good friend J. Edgar has been blocking him--Sure, you remember--That
was a couple of years ago, when Edgar tried to grab Z-2 and we all
helped block it. Grant has some hot stuff for you, on the Alaska
sinking--Fine! Yes, he'll be over as fast as my car can take him. Oh,
not at all. Always glad to help--As you know, orders are to help Z-2 at
all times--no questions asked, nothing on paper--Righto!"
McIntosh hung up and turned to me with an air of authority. "That was
Admiral Ballister, Mr.--er--Grant," he said. "He'll see you right away.
I'll have my chauffeur drive you over to the Navy Department. You can
talk freely to the Admiral. He's a sound man."
I smiled wanly. I had won the first round of my match with the F.B.I.
Ballister meant nothing to me but I had to convince him that I was on
the level or Mr. Lamb would close in on me. In any case, I owed it to
my Navy friends to take a fall out of the Department. After all, I
couldn't be worse off than I already was, with the G-Men breathing down
my neck and me out on open arrest, on a charge of treason. The electric
chair doesn't look funny when there's even the faintest chance of your
sitting in it yourself.