Delicate Ape

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  “Yes.” The President’s interest was titillated. “Secretary Anstruther has told me. He believes Fabian to be a great man.”

  “Yes.” And Fabian had sent David with a gun. To take at gunpoint what the Germans too would take by force. “They are friends as well as leaders.” He put a fresh cigarette in his mouth. “I’ll make this brief, sir. I went into Africa when the first spot of trouble appeared. I saw with my own eyes what was causing it. The secretary and I went over my findings and he agreed with me that whereas the incidents themselves were doubtless unimportant, farm squabbles—Fabian had not even considered them worthy of international investigation—undeniably they were German-fomented.”

  Gordon’s control was good. The President had disbelief unflexing his mouth. “Did you say German-fomented?”

  “Yes, I did, sir. Undeniably. I can prove it. I have the facts if you wish to examine them. I’ll have to send to Berne for them naturally. I didn’t bring them along as I expected Anstruther to have his copies here. The proof was sufficient for Anstruther to state in no uncertain terms that he would make certain that Germany should remain under the protectorate for the prescribed years.”

  Gordon didn’t like it at all. The President was fashioned of wonderment.

  “The Secretary was ready to take the plane to Lisbon when a wire from Fabian, asking him to meet at the Lake of the Crocodiles, changed his plans. He thought it must be a new incident. There was a small plane leaving that day for the Equatorial border—the department doesn’t have its own planes in Africa. I saw Anstruther off in it. He was perfectly well. There was no reason for me to feel uneasy and yet—after he left, I did. Call it that sixth sense. I made enquiries and learned that Gundar Abersohn had piloted the plane that day. The Arabian pilot had had a sudden stomach attack after breakfast. I’ve learned since, as I told Gordon, that Fabian could not possibly have sent the wire. He was in Tibet.”

  The President was a startled faun. He shook his head, kept shaking it as if it wouldn’t stop. “What do you think has happened?” He knocked over a desk calendar feeling for his cigarette case.

  Piers lifted his shoulders. “It’s possible that the Germans didn’t want Secretary Anstruther to attend the Conclave, sir.”

  “But that’s kidnaping!”

  “Or murder.”

  The head began to pendulum again. “Oh no. No. We’re at peace with Germany. All the nations are at peace. Things like that don’t happen today. In the Last War—”

  “It isn’t so far away.” He couldn’t keep the fear from his voice.

  “No. No. But it’s incredible, Hunt. This is the time of peace.”

  “The time for vigilance if we would continue peace. Those are Secretary Anstruther’s words.” They weren’t but they had come from the spirit of Anstruther.

  The President was moving his hands, the way a woman would, a woman in anguish. “What to do? We cannot accuse Germany. We cannot make trouble—you have proof?” He didn’t want proof; proof meant trouble.

  “I have facts.”

  “I’d like to see them,” Gordon said bluntly.

  Piers looked at him. “I will cable Nickerson tonight.”

  “We mustn’t have trouble,” the President reiterated. “It is just such things as these that are the roots of war. And without Anstruther—” The anguish bit his voice now. “You think Anstruther is dead?”

  “I do not believe it would be safe otherwise. He could not be spirited away, not and be allowed to return and tell.”

  “Yes.” He accepted the inevitable. His mouth was haggard. “You’ll help, Gordon? In every way? To bring the Conclave off, and after—” The search for Anstruther must wait on peace. The Secretary would decree it so. But if Germany won her point, there would never be an avenger. The President leaned over his desk. “We must make certain that there is no leakage of our news, gentlemen.” He said almost to himself, “I don’t know what to do.”

  He was a busy man. The office outside was filled with appointments. Gordon and Piers were not shown out through that office from whence might come more rumors. They left through the private door under the escort again of the secret service. They were guided to a car in the drive. This had no official seal.

  Piers asked, “Are we sharing the plane back?”

  “I’m staying over.” Gordon’s face was important. “I’ll have to visit the department tomorrow, see how things are going.” He spoke to the man at the wheel. “Do you mind dropping me at the Mayflower before you take Mr. Hunt to the airport?” To Piers he said, “I keep an apartment there.”

  Piers said, “I’ll hop off where you do.”

  Gordon’s eyes moved doubtfully.

  “There are some men I want to see. I might as well stop over. No use making a flight for just one of us.”

  “I don’t know when I’ll get away.” It came quickly.

  “It doesn’t matter. I don’t need a private plane. Take off whenever you like.” He preferred a commercial ride, particularly now. “I’ll go up on one of the regular runs when I finish my business.”

  Gordon spoke cautiously, “If you need any introductions—”

  “I know the men I’m looking for.” Piers didn’t add to it.

  The car left them at the door. Gordon didn’t like Piers at his side entering the grandeur and glory of the corridor. Here important men and women met to settle affairs of state in private court. Here unimportant men in dirty linen didn’t belong. Particularly not at the side of the new Secretary of Peace, De Witt Gordon.

  Piers was definitely surprised when Gordon said, “Come up and have a drink with me before we separate.” Surprise was underlined with doubt. He had expected Gordon to eliminate him with a nod at the elevators. Curiosity at the change of attitude made him accept the offer, and he entered the gilt elevator behind the new secretary.

  The rooms were a suite, a handsome, expensive setting. The decor was white and ivy green, there were good original oils, even a small Renoir on the walls. Piers sat hesitantly on the whiteness of a chair. “Your own things?”

  “Yes.” Gordon was at the plastic bar. “I’m here most of the year. Hotel stuff is too depressing.”

  Salary couldn’t cover it, nor could Gordon’s undistinguished background afford sufficient inheritance. It had never occurred to Piers before. There were ways to make money even in the Peace Department if you knew the right men, the brilliant investments: Spanish liquors, English shipping, Russian exports, American airlanes, German production. Each country would offer some means. Gordon was doubtless a rich man, and a rich man didn’t have a selling price. Gordon wouldn’t need to sell out peace. Morgen had been necessary.

  Gordon brought the glass, crystal sheer as water, silver embossed monogram. “I didn’t ask. It’s Napoleon—” He sat down on the couch opposite.

  Piers tasted. It was right.

  Gordon drank again and when he set down the glass it rang against the metal table like a temple bell. He spoke quietly but distinctly. “I want you to give me Secretary Anstruther’s papers.”

  3.

  Piers didn’t attempt to answer at once. He drank from the glass again, drank without moving his eyes from his opponent. When he put down his glass it was without sound. He said, “I don’t have them.”

  Gordon wasn’t annoyed; he had expected this parry. He reasoned as with a child, “Come, Piers. It’s undeniable that you had his briefcase at the Alexandria airport. That’s been proven without a doubt.”

  “By Schern’s spies,” Piers bit out.

  Gordon flushed slightly. “And by the English inspectors,” he countered. “I won’t say you know more than you’ve told about what has happened to the old man—”

  Piers broke in angrily, “Are you suggesting that I had a—”

  Gordon’s voice was an iron door. “I repeat that I won’t say you’re withholding information. But there isn’t any doubt that you had his case in your possession after he left the port. I want his papers.”

  Pier
s lifted his glass. “I don’t have them.” His mouth was sullen.

  “Listen, Piers,” Gordon’s choler was rising. “As acting head of the Peace Department those papers belong in my hands.”

  Piers drank.

  “What purpose have you in hiding them? Don’t you want to further international peace?”

  “You’re calling me a liar,” Piers warned. He put down his glass again.

  “I don’t want to call you a liar,” Gordon placated. He would recall the adages, molasses preferable to vinegar, all of them save the important one of seating himself above the salt. “But what else do you expect me to say? You lied to me about Anstruther leaving for Lisbon. I know the briefcase was in your possession. I know it contained his most important papers—he cabled me he was carrying them with him, too important to trust to the air mails. Yet you deny having them.”

  “I told you it was my briefcase. Resemblance.”

  “Yours wasn’t lettered with the old man’s monogram, was it?” Gordon asked with malice.

  Gordon even knew that. Faded gold lettering by the hasp. But English inspectors and German spies hadn’t based their knowledge on three scarred letters. They knew he had had the briefcase because they knew how it came into his possession. Gordon wouldn’t mention that. Ten to one they hadn’t told him that part of it. Piers smiled. Not even Schern’s spies of highest intelligence knew for certain that Anstruther wouldn’t reappear. They hadn’t any of them had a report on the death of Anstruther. Even Fabian’s men didn’t know how he had died.

  Gordon said, “I see no reason to quarrel. You have been a valuable man to our Peace Department.”

  He caught the inflection. That would be the next move. He had known it.

  “We’re after the same thing. Peace,” Gordon appeased. “What I’m asking is certainly reasonable. If the old man gave you those papers to carry across, knowing he was on a dangerous mission; if he told you to guard them in utmost secrecy, I can understand. But he couldn’t foresee what has happened. As matters now stand, I must have the papers. I can’t conduct the Conclave as Anstruther would wish it conducted unless I know his wishes in the matter. You can understand that.”

  He could understand that. It was reasonable; it was smooth, well-oiled from every approach. And if Morgen, and bulwarking her Brecklein and Schern, were not behind Gordon’s shoulders, Piers would capitulate. But he knew that papers could disappear; he knew they could be doctored. He said, “I told the President what Anstruther’s opinion is. If you doubt it you will see my notes when Nickerson sends them.”

  “Your notes, not Anstruther’s.”

  Piers stood and felt for his hat. He looked down at Gordon, as if Gordon were far below him in a chasm. “I’ll tell you what I want,” he said softly. “I want to make the initial speech at the Conclave. Let me do that and I’ll get you anything you want.”

  Gordon was sharpened to anger. He pushed up from the couch and his fist was knotted at his side. “I’m not making any trades,” he stated. And then the realization of his position as against that of Piers steadied him; sureness filled him, his fingers loosed. His voice was strong. And it was cold. “As presiding officer of the Conclave, I naturally must make the keynote address.” He was in, Piers out; there was no reason for generosity. “As Secretary, I do not need to trade with you. All Peace Department material, including yours, belongs in my hands. I can force you to turn it over to me. Good day, Piers.”

  It was no idle threat; it was certainty. Piers went out, rang for the elevator. He was sticky with heat. The brandy on an empty stomach didn’t help. Napoleon brandy hadn’t been tasted outside Germany since the days of the occupation of Paris. Gordon had attentive friends. The elevator man’s peaked face was startled at a man laughing aloud in his loneness. The cage whirred to the main floor. Laughter was shaking Piers’ stomach silently. Gordon couldn’t lay hands on those papers for his dear friends, not for all the brandy that had been stolen from France. Nor could the dear friends turn the papers over to Gordon. They were as safe as if they’d been buried in the Nubian grave.

  The difficulty was that open rupture would mean redoubling of surveillance. He wasn’t quite sure how he could safely, first retrieve and then transport the memoranda to the opening of the Conclave on Sunday. It would be chancey. Would Gordon dare dismiss him from the department? If the breach widened he would, and he’d have his neat packet of cause for the President. Refusal to cooperate with the department, hostility to the cause of peace—the lies would contain enough truth to pass muster. It would be one sure way to silence Piers in Conclave.

  Gordon hadn’t carried the briefcase tale as yet to the President. And why? Because he wanted to get the papers first, to make sure that nothing inimical to the furtherance of his career was disclosed. Because Morgen had asked for them? Gordon was no mean opponent; he was wiser in the wrongs of diplomacy than his generation. Would he include suspicion of murder in his accusation? Piers scowled himself into a phone booth. Gordon had definitely hinted at that. With it spoken out, he would have no trouble getting rid of Piers for good and all. He didn’t need that weapon. He could discredit Piers without going that far. For the first time it occurred to Piers that it might have been Gordon who put Cassidy on him.

  He looked up the number of the British Embassy, dropped the coin and dialed. He asked for Herbert Watkins or where to find him. Watkins himself came to the phone.

  “This is Piers Hunt.”

  Watkins expressed surprise. “Where are you?”

  “The Mayflower. Can you have dinner with me?”

  Watkins hesitated.

  Piers said, “I think it’s important, Bert. I’ve only tonight. Back to New York in the morning. I don’t know if I’ll get down again.” He didn’t know if he would be alive tomorrow. Even now his trail might have been freshened, one of those well-dressed men outside could wear the colors of Brecklein or Fabian or—or Gordon. He had once seen a man in Paris walk out of a phone booth into the extinction of a bullet. The hairs rose on the back of his head, something of urgency went into his demand. “Well?”

  Watkins said, still with faint hesitancy, “I’ll meet you. There?”

  He didn’t want to remain here in Gordon’s territory; he was afraid to take a chance on going elsewhere. He answered finally, “Yes. I’ll be in the bar.”

  “Be around shortly.”

  Piers hung up. He pushed his hat forward, looking through the pane. A man was waiting for the booth. Piers opened the door, stepped forth without bravery. He held himself stiff, moving wooden legs down the elegance of corridor, found the bar. He took a stool that placed his back to the wall, his eyes to the door. There were glances at him, some curious, too many nose-lifted. He realized again his distinct shoddiness. One thing certain, he didn’t look important enough to be marked for death. Neither had John Smith.

  Even the barman had his nose wrinkled. Piers said, “Brandy,” slung a ten-dollar bill on the bar and was sorry. Why should he give a tinker’s damn about the barman’s snobbery or that of his customers? He swallowed from the glass and his stomach burned. He’d had enough brandy; what he needed was food. Until Watkins arrived, he’d have to husband this drink, despite the disapproval of the barman. Watkins was long. He reluctantly ordered a second drink, sipped at it. When he saw the Englishman in the doorway, he stood to signal and felt his head twirl. He kept his hand flat on the bar while the man advanced, stolid and reassuring, neat in his blue serge, the weathered face below the bristled, graying head curious.

  Piers sank to the stool again. “Have a drink, Bert?” His voice seemed to waver.

  “Yes.” Watkins sat next him but he was dubious.

  Piers said, “I’m glad you could come. I won’t take another. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  “Let’s eat now.”

  “Have your drink first. Do you know a place we can go? I don’t know Washington well. I’d rather not stay here. I want to talk without Gordon hearing.” He knew he was saying too mu
ch but his voice ran on in spite of himself. “The way you hesitated about coming I thought maybe you’d been warned already to stay away from me.”

  “For God’s sake,” Watkins breathed and sympathy came over his square face. “Bad as that, is it? I was supposed to be on tap for a call from the Lud and a state dinner. I slipped out.”

  “You’re a friend,” Piers said dreamily. He wanted to put his head on the cool silvery bar and sleep.

  Watkins downed his drink, took Piers’ arm. “We’ll eat now, old man.”

  Piers’ legs were brittle. He let the Briton guide him. He repeated, “You’re a friend, Bert. I’ll be all right when I’ve had some food. I hadn’t a chance to eat today. I’ve been with the President—fancy that!—and Secretary Gordon.” He felt Watkins’ fingers tighten. “Fancy that, too!” They were outside in the mildness of night. He saw the curious passersby in a blur. He drew back as the taxi rolled up to the curb. “You’re going to take a cab?”

  “Too far to walk.”

  He hadn’t the strength to resist. Watkins pushed him in, gave an address. “We’re going to my digs, Piers. We can talk there.”

  “He could have put something in the brandy,” Piers said through the dream.

  “Who?” Watkins was sharp.

  “Secretary Gordon. I didn’t think of it before. I hardly believe he would—yet. But he could have.” And he could have appeared, opportune, regretful for an employee under liquor. He could have moved Piers to his room, the kind Gordon, the great Gordon. There’d be no further need for surveillance in German hands. Such a small favor delivering him to Schern—to force the papers. Or—it wouldn’t matter about the papers if Piers were dead. No, they wouldn’t kill, not yet, not until they knew the whereabouts of Anstruther.

  They were at another hotel. He couldn’t distinguish the name but Watkins’ hand was firm. The elevator crept. And then he was in a hotel room, nothing of grandeur, just a room. Watkins urging, “Don’t lie down there. Get under the shower, cold.” And Watkins speaking into the phone while Piers wavered to the bath, “Send up two of the biggest steaks in the kitchen. All that goes with it. Plenty of strong coffee.”