"Mr. Hoover concedes that both possible places have inherent
advantages and disadvantages," the President went on. "He feels,
however, that protection should be provided by a staff specially
trained in law-enforcement and counter-espionage."
So where did that leave me? I didn't say it quite that way, but I put
across the idea.
The President frowned a bit at nothing. "I'm informed you haven't been
too ... comfortable."
I gulped. Might as well be hung for a sheep. If the Boss likes you,
the Help must. "I'm sorry, Mr. President, but it isn't much fun being
shifted around pillar and post."
He nodded slowly. "Quite understandable, under the circumstances.
That, we'll try to eliminate as much as we can. You can see, Pete,"
and he flashed that famous wide grin, "it will be in the national
interest to see that you are always in the finest physical and mental
condition. Crudely expressed, perhaps, but the truth, nevertheless."
I like people to tell me the truth. He could see that. He's like that,
himself. On his job, you have to be like that.
"Now, Pete; let's get down to cases. Have you any ideas, any
preferences, any suggestions?" He took a gold pencil out of his breast
pocket and it began to twirl.
I had an idea, all right. "Why not just let me go back home? I'll keep
my mouth shut, I won't blow any fuses or raise any hell, if you'll
excuse the expression."
Someone coughed. The President turned his head out of the circle of
light. "Yes, Mr. Hoover?"
J. Edgar Hoover was diffident. "Er ... Mrs. Miller has been informed
of her husband's ... demise. An honorable one," he hastened to add,
"and is receiving a comfortable pension, paid from the Bureau's
special funds."
"How much?" I wanted to know.