Hoover looked at me with the fond expression of a man who has cracked
open a bad egg. "That," he said, "I doubt," and he turned on his
military heel and walked out the back door. When they got me my pants
I followed him. I had to.
I ended up at the Federal Building, which is a cavernous morgue, even
during business hours. They gave me what might have been a comfortable
chair if I hadn't had to sit in it. A young fellow was sitting
opposite me with a stenographer's notebook, and I knew that any story
of mine had better not be repeated two different ways. Hoover came in
with a nondescript man with a hat pulled down over his eyes, who
inspected me from all angles and then shook his head, a little
resentfully, I thought. The hat-over-the-eyes left and I shifted
nervously under those grim eyes staring at me.
"All right," said Hoover; "now we'll hear that explanation. Talk!"
So I talked.
* * * * *
When I finished my throat was dry and he was nodding as though he
believed every word. He didn't. I asked for a cigarette and for news
of my wife, and they gave me a cigarette. They told me my wife was all
right, or would be, if I behaved.
"Don't worry," I said. "I'll behave." They just laughed when I said
that.
"Quite likely," said Hoover. "Now, let's hear that once more. Begin
at the beginning."
They gave me a room all to myself, finally. For three days, maybe
more, I had that room all for myself and the various people that
walked in at all hours of the day and night to ask me some of the
silliest questions you ever heard just as though they expected
sensible answers. After that first night I didn't see J. Edgar Hoover
at all, which is just as well, because I don't think he liked me one
little bit. They brought me a suit with the lining in the sleeve
ripped and a shirt with the cuffs turned. When I got those I began to
worry all over again about Helen, because I knew she had no part in
picking out the clothes they brought me. I didn't feel too chipper
when they came after me in force again.
* * * * *
The same room, this time more crowded. Older men this time, and a few
of the usual high school boys. Again we went through the same routine,
and once again my voice cracked dusty dry. They were all desperately
sorry for such an incurable psychopathic liar. I hadn't felt so
helpless, so caught-in-a-quicksand since my days in the army.
"I'm telling you the truth, the truth. Don't you see that I've got to
tell you the truth to get out of here? Don't you believe me?"
Never such disbelief outside of a courtmartial. In desperation my eyes
jerked around looking for escape. They slid over, and back to, the
ventilation fan purring on the wall. I sucked in a loud gasp. The
blades of the fan slowed to where you could see them as individuals,
and the motor housing began to smoke.
"See?" I yelled at them. "Believe me now?"
The blades came to a standstill and the black smoke oozed toward the
ceiling.
"See?" I yelled again. "Look at that fan!"
Their eyes showed their astonishment. The smoke began to disappear in
the stillness. "What about that? Now do you believe me?"
Maybe they did. No one said anything. They took me back to my room.
About an hour or so later they came after me again. The chair felt no
more comfortable than it ever had, though it was beginning to shape
itself to my seat. The same faces were there, but the air was a little
different this time. On the desk, where I had seen sit no one but J.
Edgar Hoover were a half dozen fans, plugged to an extension cord that
snaked away and lost itself in a dark corner. My ears twitched
hopefully. Maybe this was going to get me out of here. One of the
younger men spoke up.
"Mr. Miller," he said briskly, "can you stop these fans as you did,
apparently, the other?"
I started to tell him that "apparently" wasn't the right word. One of
the older men broke in.
"One moment," he said. "Can you stop any one of these fans, or all of
them? Any particular one, and leave the rest alone?"
I thought I could. "Which one?" There were five fans whirring silently
away.
"Well ... the one in the center."
* * * * *
The one in the center. One out of five. Hold your breath, Peter
Ambrose, hold it now or you can hold your breath the rest of your
natural life and no one will ever know, nor ever care. The fan in the
center began to smoke and the blades choked off abruptly.
I said, "The one on the far left ... the one next to it ... the far
right ... and four makes five." I watched the last blade make its last
swing. "Has anybody got a cigarette?"
I got a full package. While I tore off the cellophane someone held a
light. I filled my lungs so full they creaked and sat back defiantly.
"So now what?"
No one knew just what. Two men slipped out and the others drew
together their chairs for a whispered conference full of dark looks in
my direction. I sat quietly and smoked until even that got on my
nerves. Finally I broke it up with a yell.
"Can't you fatheads make up your minds? Don't you know what you want?
Do you think I'm going to sit here all night?"
That was a stupid question; I knew I was going to sit there until they
told me to get up. But at the time I wanted to say it, and I did, and
I said a few other things that were neither polite nor sensible. I was
a little upset, I think. It didn't matter. They paid no attention to
me, so I lit another cigarette and waited. The outer door opened and
one of the two that had left came back in. He came directly to me,
waving the others out as he came. They filed out and he stood in front
of me.
* * * * *
"Mr. Miller. This is rather an awkward situation for all of us,
particularly for you, obviously. I want to say this, Mr. Miller;
I--that is, we here in the Bureau are extremely sorry for the turn of
events that brought both of us here. We--"
At the first decent word I'd heard in days I blew up. "Sorry? What's
being sorry going to do for me? What's being sorry going to do for my
wife? Where is she? What's happened to her? Where is she, and what are
you doing to her? And when am I going to get out of here?"
He was a polite old man, come to think about it. He let me blow off
all the steam I'd been saving, let me rant and rage, and clucked and
nodded in just the right places. At last I ran down, and he moved a
chair to where he could be confidential. He started like this:
"Mr. Miller, I, speaking personally, know exactly how you must feel.
Close custody is as unpleasant for the jailor as it is for the jailee,
if there is such a word, sir."
* * * * *
I snorted at that one. A jail is a jail, and the turnkey can walk out
if he chooses.
"You must remember that you are and have been dealing with an official
agency of the Government of the United States of America, of which you
are a citizen; an agency that, officially or otherwise, can never be
too careful of any factor that affects, however remotely, the security
or safety of that Government. You understand that quite well, don't
you, Mr. Miller?" He didn't wait to find out if I did. "For that
reason, and for no other, you were brought here with the utmost speed
and secrecy, and kept here."
"Oh, sure," I said. "I'm going to blow up a tax collector, or
something like that."