Melville Goodwin, USA

by John P. Marquand

  Well, things were different now. I did not stop at B Street, NE, any more. Instead I was lodged in one of those peculiar diplomatic suites at the Hotel Mayflower, all done in Empire and damask, designed apparently for foreign potentates with an entourage of equerries. We did not need the entire suite, because Gilbert would not be there, but still, there was the entourage. There was Sammy Kohn, who always traveled with the show to handle transportation reservations and general broadcasting arrangements. Then there was Miss Maynard, who always seemed to come along largely for decorative purposes but who answered the telephone and helped out Sammy more than she ever helped me. Then there was Art Hertz and Miss Olson, his secretary, and one of the boy ushers named Jimmy, who handled bags and typewriters and poured drinks for callers and who looked like a Yale undergraduate, now that he was out of uniform.

  The suite and the entourage were all there ready and waiting for me, when I arrived from New York at eleven in the morning, but there was not the customary flair to the expedition with Gilbert Frary away in Hollywood. We all seemed like automatons, without Gilbert’s showmanship to pull us together, and there was also a perfunctory quality in everyone’s attitude toward me which was even more noticeable than it had been in New York. The atmosphere seemed to be charged with impending change, and I felt somewhat as Bonnie Prince Charlie must have felt after the Battle of Culloden—still the boss but a falling star. Sammy naturally gave me the largest room, but he did not buzz around as he had formerly. Art Hertz was in the adjoining room, and I noticed that Jimmy, who was unpacking his bags, did not leave them to take care of mine. There were two adjoining sitting rooms, one for Art and Sammy and me, and the other for the girls, who had already set up their typewriters. We were all one big happy family.

  “Art,” I called through the connecting door, “is your room all right?”

  Art entered my room in his shirt sleeves.

  “Everything’s swell, Sid,” he said. “I’ve begun on a first draft—without waiting for you.”

  There was nothing to criticize in the way he said it except that his manner was unduly positive.

  “Go right ahead,” I told him, “and see this man Stillwater, too. I won’t bother you with any thoughts today.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way, Sid,” Art said.

  “Oh, that’s all right, Art,” I told him, “and when Gilbert calls up from the Coast, talk to him yourself, I have a lot of personal things on my mind.”

  “Sid,” Art said again, “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Neither did I,” I told him. “I only mean this whole show runs like clockwork when I’m not here.”

  I smiled my sincerest smile. I had never enjoyed snide little wars of words, but my instinct for self-preservation told me that the time had come for some serious personal planning.

  “I don’t know what’s troubling you today, Sid,” Art began, “but if I’ve done anything you don’t like, I wish you’d specify.”

  Of course there was nothing to specify, and nothing could have been gained by having it out with Art Hertz, who was only a straw in the wind.

  “Don’t you ever get depressed, Art?” I asked. “I’m only undergoing a mild fit of depression, that’s all. Don’t worry about me. I’ll get over it.”

  It was like asking the dealer for one card at poker and then tossing in a blue chip.

  “Well, don’t be depressed,” Art said. “Everything is going fine.”

  I smiled my sincerest smile at Art again and walked into the sitting room and called Miss Maynard. I had already made my business plans and contacts. Dottie Peale had taken over as she had said she would, and I had seen my lawyers and Dottie’s friend in White Wall Rubber. It was time to put my cards into order according to suit and value.

  “Miss Maynard,” I said, “will you get me Mr. George Burtheimer in Chicago, please?”

  I said it loudly enough so that Art could not miss hearing it, and Art did not miss.

  “Say, Sid,” he said, “you know how Gilbert feels about anyone else talking to Burtheimer.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “I’m feeling lonely,” and I observed that both Miss Maynard and Art looked flustered.

  “But there isn’t anything to bother him about,” Art said.

  “Now, Art,” I said, “I won’t bother him.”

  The telephone was a wonderful invention. I only had time to sit down and smoke half a cigarette before Mr. Burtheimer was on the line, and by then all the connecting doors of the suite were open and everyone was listening.

  “Hello, George,” I said. “I’m here in Washington and I’m feeling lonely.”

  Then I asked him what he was doing for breakfast the next morning. I said I was lonely and I wanted to have breakfast with him and I told him that I could take a night plane to Chicago. Then I asked Miss Maynard to see about a reservation. I had been thinking over this plan for several days, and I was gratified by the general reaction. “Say, Sid,” Art said, “have you told Gilbert anything about this?”

  “Why, no, Art,” I said. “The impulse just came over me,” but I was sure that Gilbert Frary would hear about it in a very little while.

  “But what about tomorrow night?” Art said.

  “Oh, I’ll be back in New York in time,” I told him. “You write it and I’ll read it, Art.”

  When it came to office infighting with all its ridiculous nuances, offense was always preferable to defense, and clearly no one had expected a definite step like this. At least Bonnie Prince Charlie had put the whole crowd off balance, and now that the lines were drawn, it was only necessary to let matters take their course. There was no need to embarrass Art Hertz by staying in the suite for the next few hours. All I required was some good excuse to leave, and I thought of Melville Goodwin as a valid one. I had the Goodwins’ number in Alexandria, and I did not want to confuse the entourage any more by calling anyone whom they might think had something to do with Chicago.

  “Will you please get me General Goodwin,” I told Miss Maynard, and of course Miss Maynard would tell everyone else that I was only going to see an army general.

  I reviewed, as I waited for the call, everything I had heard about the house in Alexandria which was owned or rented by Colonel Bud Joyce of G–2, and which had sheltered Muriel Goodwin and young Charley through the war years. It would certainly be in a new development and I could imagine the living room with its collection of signed photographs. There would also be some sort of sun porch, and somewhere the card table with its picture puzzle. When I did not recognize the voice of the woman who answered, I knew that Enid Joyce must be speaking. The General—that is, Mel—was not in, but Mrs. Goodwin—that is, Muriel—was right there, and she knew that Muriel would be so delighted I had called up, and she would get Muriel in just a second.

  “Muriel,” I heard her calling, “Muriel,” and I gathered that Muriel Goodwin was doing something in the kitchen, because I heard the opening of a door.

  There was often a discouraging anticlimax in the sound of a disembodied voice, but Muriel Goodwin’s had a clear, executive assurance, surprisingly like that in the voice of Dottie Peale. Both voices had the same contagious warmth and enthusiasm, artificial perhaps, but nevertheless peculiarly effective.

  “Now let’s see,” she said. “We must make plans. Mel will be furious if he doesn’t see you right away. He’s at the Pentagon, and I’ll have him call you, and what are you doing after the broadcast tonight?”

  I could see what Mel Goodwin meant about her taking over. She had read all about the broadcast, and she kept on planning even after I told her I was taking a night plane to Chicago.

  “We’ll take you to the airport,” she said. “We’re having a steak fry in the back yard tonight. If it’s too cold we can eat them in the house, but everything always tastes better outdoors.… It won’t be any trouble at all, Sid. Mel or someone can take you to the airport. It’s really only a step.”

  She had all of Dottie Peale’s executive powe
rs, and an even greater certainty. It was impossible to tell her that I did not want to be in a dimly lighted Alexandria yard on a cold November evening, meeting strange people from the armed services, or that food, for my money, always tasted better indoors than out. I could smell the steaks as she was speaking. I could see myself coping with one on a paper plate while I also tried to handle one of Melville Goodwin’s Martinis.

  “That sounds wonderful,” I heard myself saying.

  No people in the world were more hospitable than service people. There was an invariable disregard for ordinary limitations. All I had to do was to wait right where I was, and she would get hold of Mel, and Mel would call me. All I had to do was wait until I had heard from Mel.

  I did not have to wait more than a few minutes either, before the telephone rang. Muriel Goodwin had set the wheels in motion, and the army was in control. A captain by the name of Rattisbone was on the telephone. General Goodwin was at a meeting which he could not leave, but the General was looking forward to seeing me the moment he was free. In the meanwhile, if I would wait just where I was, Captain Rattisbone would get a car from Public Relations and call for me. The army had taken over and Captain Rattisbone would be at the Hotel Mayflower in a very few minutes.

  It was not so long ago that my own job in the army had included meeting Very Important People, an assignment taxing one’s capacity to please and demanding tact and adroitness, but now I was the VIP and I was in a position to admire Captain Rattisbone’s technique. He reminded me of a registered human retriever who could go on a complicated liaison mission and who could bring back VIPs alive, unruffled, and contented, to any designated point. He would get me where I was going, though he might agree to stop momentarily en route so that I might purchase a pack of cigarettes, razor blades or a pint of bourbon. He would get me there and he would do it no matter what. His uniform was impeccable. His European and his Asiatic theater ribbons and Infantry Combat badge were just enough and not too much for his rank. His hair was a golden molasses color. His eyes were discreetly gray and his nose, mouth and chin were ingenuous and beautiful, but firm. I could not help wondering what Robert Goodwin would have thought of him. They both looked the same age and they had been classmates, perhaps, at the Point—undoubtedly the Point.

  “It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Skelton, sir,” he said.

  His gaze moved incuriously about the sitting room until it stopped with Miss Maynard, but Miss Maynard did not deflect him.

  “It’s very kind of you to come and get me, Captain,” I said.

  “It’s a real pleasure for me, sir,” the captain answered. “Are you ready to start now, Mr. Skelton?”

  I was in the army again, and I picked up my hat and coat.

  “What about your baggage, sir?” he asked.

  “Baggage?” I repeated after him. “I’ll come back here for my suitcase, Captain.”

  A shadow of concern crossed Captain Rattisbone’s face.

  “The General said you were bringing baggage, sir,” he said. “The General is planning to see you off on the night plane to Chicago.”

  “The General must have misunderstood,” I said. “I’ll have to be back here later, Captain.”

  He looked as though I were the one who had misunderstood and not the General.

  “I’ll explain to him about my bag,” I said.

  “Thanks very much, sir,” the captain answered.

  We did not speak in the elevator or while we crossed the lobby, but I knew he was trying to place me, and my silence may have indicated to him that this sort of experience was not entirely new to me. The Army Public Relations car stood at the curb.

  “No baggage,” the captain said to the driver, who held the door open, and then he seated himself beside me.

  “Would you care for a cigarette, sir?” he asked.

  “No thanks,” I said, and of course he could not smoke alone. Neither of us spoke again until we turned left off Constitution Avenue.

  “We’ve been enjoying a wonderful autumn in Washington this year,” he said.

  “Yes,” I answered, “it looks like a pretty good autumn. Are you with General Goodwin now?”

  “No, sir,” he said, “with General Gooch, but General Goodwin is using General Gooch’s office for the present.”

  “General Gooch was General Goodwin’s chief of staff over in France, wasn’t he?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the captain answered. “Did you serve with General Goodwin in France, sir?”

  Captain Rattisbone had stuck his neck out slightly, which proved that he was not absolutely perfect. I was absurdly pleased that he had guessed that I had been in the army.

  “No,” I said, “but I did meet him there. The General isn’t hard to meet, is he?”

  “No, sir,” he answered. “The General’s really been around a lot.”

  “Yes,” I said, “and he knows a lot of good stories.”

  The captain brightened. We were on safe ground at last.

  “He really does,” the captain said. “Did he ever tell you the one about that orderly of his at Schofield who was drinking his liquor?”

  “The one about liquids seeking their own level?” I asked.

  “That’s the one, sir,” the captain said. “He really does know a lot of stories.”

  “Has he been given any sort of assignment yet?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t know, sir,” the captain answered, “but I don’t believe so—not yet.”

  I should not have asked the question and his words became more measured, but suddenly he relaxed.

  “We’ve all got our fingers crossed,” he said, and his tone had changed. “Everybody’s right behind the General, but you know the way those things are.”

  “Yes,” I answered, “I have a pretty good idea.”

  I was back in the army again. I almost wished that I were back in uniform—almost, but not quite. We were drawing up to the River entrance of the Pentagon, with the two flagpoles and the Stars and Stripes on the bank in front. I glanced at Captain Rattisbone. The captain was not the sort of officer to be easily impressed. I remembered what the General had said about staff officers—that he never had been able to get along with them, although he had often been one himself. It must be that he had developed if he could impress a smoothy like Rattisbone. Somehow in the last few years Mel Goodwin had learned how to handle any sort of troops.

  The Pentagon, I was thinking, was the greatest military monument in the world, dwarfing the Invalides and Napoleon’s tomb in Paris. The whole intricate structure—complex yet severely designed corridors and moving staircases and ramps—was a stony tribute to military planning and as much a logical projection of its predilections as were the filing systems and the top-secret documents and requisitions all done in quintuplet. It was endless and labyrinthian and, characteristically, had already grown too small for the clerical staffs and the documents that occupied it. It was the glorified temple of the services, and I could feel the invisible arms of discipline surround us as Captain Rattisbone and I walked up the steps.

  It was a relief to see that the captain was moving forward confidently, because I often lost my sense of direction in the Pentagon. He looked as though he had been made to fit the building. Exactly, I was thinking, who was Captain Rattisbone? What had he been once and where had he come from? I should probably never know, and if I did, this sort of knowledge would never help me to understand him any more than I understood Melville Goodwin. You had to make your sacrifices to be in his group. You had to turn your back on early associations. In a way, you had to develop a passion for anonymity when you became a part of the machine. Yet there were compensations for sacrifice—quarters, allowances, low prices at the commissary, retirement pay, opportunity to travel and opportunity to die with your boots on. The Pentagon itself was as much a monument to dedication as a monastery.

  “This way, sir,” the captain said when we stepped off the moving staircase. “Did you ever hear the story about the West
ern Union messenger boy who got lost in the Pentagon?”

  I winced slightly, though I endeavored not to show it.

  “It seems to me I have,” I said, “but maybe I’ve forgotten it.”

  “The one about his being lost for a year,” the captain said, “and coming out an Air Force colonel?”

  I laughed politely.

  “Oh, yes,” I said, “I remember that one now.”

  The captain glanced at me doubtfully, and I remembered that a sense of humor was seldom a career asset below field rank. Still, it was not a bad story to tell a VIP.

  “I suppose it is what you might call an old chestnut, sir,” he said.

  “Well, not entirely,” I told him. “Did you ever hear the one about the officer who moved his desk into the men’s room?”

  Captain Rattisbone’s step lost its briskness and his face looked redder.

  “I guess maybe I’ve been sticking my neck out, sir,” he said.

  “Only a very little way, Captain,” I told him.

  “You see, you’ve got to watch your neck around here, sir,” he said.

  I knew how right he was. The corridor was taking us toward heights where every junior measured his words, if he knew what was good for him. We were nearing the thrones of the hierarchy. Young Rattisbone was near the end of his assignment and we were soon to part, and I would never learn anything more about him. He was opening a door on our right.

  “This way, sir,” he said.

  We entered the outer room of a suite of offices, but the captain did not pause. Having led me past a row of empty leather upholstered chairs, his hand dropped tentatively on the knob of a closed door. He turned it noiselessly and pushed the door cautiously, ready to close it discreetly if we had arrived at an unpropitious moment. If it were not for his uniform so immaculately pressed, Captain Rattisbone might have been a street fighter leading a patrol, but everything must have been all right inside because he turned his head toward me, nodded and opened the door wide.