"Then perhaps you'd tell me precisely what you _do_ mean?" Her voice was
clipped and hard.
Shandor sighed in exasperation. "The personal angle. His likes and
dislikes, how he came to formulate his views, his relationship with his
wife, with you--"
"He was a kind and loving father," she said, her voice mocking. "He
loved to read, he loved music--oh, yes, put that down, he was a _great_
lover of music. His wife was the apple of his eye, and he tried, for all
the duties of his position, to provide us with a happy home life--"
"Miss Ingersoll."
She stopped in mid-sentence, her grey eyes veiled, and shook her head
slightly. "That's not what you want, either?"
Shandor stood up and walked to a window, looking out over the wide
veranda. Carefully he snubbed his cigarette in an ashtray, then turned
sharply to the girl. "Look. If you want to play games, I can play games
too. Either you're going to help me, or you're not--it's up to you. But
you forget one thing. I'm a propagandist. I might say I'm a very expert
propagandist. I can tell a true story from a false one. You won't get
anywhere lying to me, or evading me, and if you choose to try, we can
call it off right now. You know exactly the type of information I need
from you. Your father was a great man, and he rates a fair shake in the
write-ups. I'm asking you to help me."
Her lips formed a sneer. "And _you're_ going to give him a fair shake,
I'm supposed to believe." She pointed to the newspaper. "With garbage
like that? Head cold!" Her face flushed, and she turned her back
angrily. "I know your writing, Mr. Shandor. I've been exposed to it for
years. You've never written an honest, true story in your life, but you
always want the truth to start with, don't you? I'm to give you the
truth, and let you do what you want with it, is that the idea? No dice,
Mr. Shandor. And you even have the gall to brag about it!"
Shandor flushed angrily. "You're not being fair. This story is going to
press straight and true, every word of it. This is one story that won't
be altered."
And then she was laughing, choking, holding her sides, as the tears
streamed down her cheeks. Shandor watched her, reddening, anger growing
up to choke him. "I'm not joking," he snapped. "I'm breaking with the
routine, do you understand? I'm through with the lies now, I'm writing
this one straight."
She wiped her eyes and looked at him, bitter lines under her smile. "You
couldn't do it," she said, still laughing. "You're a fool to think so.
You could write it, and you'd be out of a job so fast you wouldn't know
what hit you. But you'd never get it into print. And you know it. You'd
never even get the story to the inside offices."
Shandor stared at her. "That's what you think," he said slowly. "This
story will get to the press if it kills me."
The girl looked up at him, eyes wide, incredulous. "You _mean_ that,
don't you?"
"I never meant anything more in my life."
She looked at him, wonderingly, motioned him to the table, a faraway
look in her eyes. "Have some coffee," she said, and then turned to him,
her eyes wide with excitement. The sneer was gone from her face, the
coldness and hostility, and her eyes were pleading. "If there were some
way to do it, if you really meant what you said, if you'd really _do_
it--give people a true story--"
Shandor's voice was low. "I told you, I'm sick of this mill. There's
something wrong with this country, something wrong with the world.
There's a rottenness in it, and your father was fighting to cut out the
rottenness. This story is going to be straight, and it's going to be
printed if I get shot for treason. And it could split things wide open
at the seams."
She sat down at the table. Her lower lip trembled, and her voice was
tense with excitement. "Let's get out of here," she said. "Let's go
someplace where we can talk--"
* * * * *
They found a quiet place off the business section in Washington, one of
the newer places with the small closed booths, catering to people weary
of eavesdropping and overheard conversations. Shandor ordered beers,
then lit a smoke and leaned back facing Ann Ingersoll. It occurred to
him that she was exceptionally lovely, but he was almost frightened by
the look on her face, the suppressed excitement, the cold, bitter lines
about her mouth. Incongruously, the thought crossed his mind that he'd
hate to have this woman against him. She looked as though she would be
capable of more than he'd care to tangle with. For all her lovely face
there was an edge of thin ice to her smile, a razor-sharp, dangerous
quality that made him curiously uncomfortable. But now she was nervous,
withdrawing a cigarette from his pack with trembling fingers, fumbling
with his lighter until he struck a match for her. "Now," he said. "Why
the secrecy?"
She glanced at the closed door to the booth. "Mother would kill me if
she knew I was helping you. She hates you, and she hates the Public
Information Board. I think dad hated you, too."
Shandor took the folded letter from his pocket. "Then what do you think
of this?" he asked softly. "Doesn't this strike you a little odd?"
She read Ingersoll's letter carefully, then looked up at Tom, her eyes
wide with surprise. "So this is what that note was. This doesn't wash,
Tom."
"You're telling me it doesn't wash. Notice the wording. 'I believe that
man alone is qualified to handle this assignment.' Why me? And of all
things, why me _alone_? He knew my job, and he fought me and the PIB
every step of his career. Why a note like this?"