The Rat Race, Jay Franklin [best sales books of all time TXT] 📗

"He's a very clever man," Dorothy belatedly defended him. "They say he did brilliant staff-intelligence work under Stillwell in the first Burma campaign."

"That's the one we lost, isn't it?" I asked dryly. "No, Dorothy. Let me see this Colonel. You know how to fix it—there's always one special girl in an office that has the ear of a man like that. Frank swore to me that there was nothing you couldn't do if you decided it was worth while."

She looked at me across the little round, black table. "Mr. Tompkins," she said, "I have no way of telling whether you are telling the truth or not. Frankly, if General Donovan was in town I wouldn't bother him, but Colonel McIntosh is—you know—one of the Chicago McIntoshes. You never heard of him? Nobody else did either but here he is with a British accent and if you can make the grade with him it won't worry me."

I ordered another round of drinks.

"Tell me, Dorothy," I said, "not that it's any of my business, except that I was a friend of your husband's, don't you feel any special regret that he's probably gone west?"

She took a man-sized swallow of her old-fashioned. "Not particularly," she admitted. "In a general, normal sort of way, I'm sorry, of course. He was nice even if we didn't get on very well. But we had almost no interests in common and when we broke up it was for keeps. He was kind, and on the whole, decent, but God! so stuffy and boring to live with. Day after day, Hartford, Connecticut, writing and yessing, living by minutes and dying by inches. He rather liked it. I couldn't understand it. So you can see why I can't pretend to be prostrated. And perhaps he isn't dead at all."

I nodded. "He's dead if that's the way you feel about him," I said. "He told me that his wife was a lovely girl with a mole on her hip and the hell of a temper. He said it was like being married to a circus acrobat or an opera singer—exciting but not happy. He said you had a habit of—" I stopped in the nick of time.

"Oh, he did, did he?" she snapped. "Well, Mr. Tompkins, I don't suppose he ever told you that he snored or that—"

"Skip it, please," I calmed her. "It's your marriage, not mine. I told you these things so you'd know I was really sent to you by Frank. Now you fix it so I can talk to McIntosh."

"I will," she replied.

It was the epitaph on ten years of marriage. I knew when I was licked. Dorothy was what she had been when I had picked her out of Middletown—as inaccessible as the root of a Greek aorist or as a book of curiosa in a Carnegie library. She had not shown a trace of recognizing Frank Jacklin inside the body of Winnie Tompkins, even though my morning calisthenics were reducing my circumference. I was licked. I was no Faustus to woo this Marguerite, especially when she obviously had someone else on the string. The Master of the Rat Race obviously meant me to play the hand he had dealt me, and no Joker. By Godfrey, it would go hard with Dorothy's boss when I came to grips with him. All the Navy men who had been hitched by Washington would applaud me—Marty Donnell who had been sent out against the "Nagato" with the wrong size shells for his guns; Abie Roseman, who had been cashiered because he had refused to okay a travel order for the Admiral's sweetie; Julius Winterbottom, who had died on the "Lexington"—and all the gobs who had died. Well, win or lose, I'd give the F.B.I. a run for its money and what could they do to me? Damn it! I was a civilian—one of the guys that paid their salaries!

Colonel Ivor McIntosh of the Chicago McIntoshes was one of those who had been born with a platinum spoon and a broad "A" in his mouth. His face bore the marks of years of application to the more expensive tables, cellars and bedrooms. His uniform was in the U.S. Army but definitely not of it—having a Savile Row touch that suggested the Guards. He was, he told me, in charge of the O.S.S. "until Bill gets back," and what could he do for me?

"Colonel," I said. "I came to you in the face of strong opposition from the F.B.I. I have first-hand information concerning the sinking of the Alaska."

"Nonsense!" McIntosh replied cheerily. "It was on the map five minutes ago. I'm sure it's still there."

I smiled. "The U.S.S. Alaska, sir," I explained. Colonels love to be called "Sir," especially by a civilian. "I have the inside story of the sinking of the carrier. The F.B.I. told me it was useless to try to see you or Admiral Ballister. In fact, they ordered me under no circumstances to mention the F.B.I. in connection with my mission."

McIntosh toyed with a crystal elephant on his desk. "Exactly what is your mission?" he asked.

I drew myself up, not without dignity. "I am with Z-2, Colonel," I told him, "and as you know the Z Bureau reports only to the President." I had heard of G-2, A-2, even X-2. Why not Z-2—to end all 2's.

"Of course," he agreed without bending an eyelash. "But why have you come to see me, Mr. Tompkins?"

"Call me Grant, Colonel," I replied with a knowing smile. "That's the name I'm registered under at the Willard. The reason I've come to you, is that my orders, which were given to me personally last February by President Roosevelt, were to consult the head of the O.S.S. if anything went wrong. As you undoubtedly know, Roosevelt had a very warm feeling for the O.S.S. and my instructions have been to work with your men whenever possible. F.D.R. told me that, if I needed prompt action at any time to come to this office and skip the other intelligence services."

Colonel McIntosh was only human, if from the Chicago McIntoshes. He relaxed. He almost smiled.

"I got back to this country less than two weeks ago, Colonel," I told him. "I was working on the other end of the Alaska case—and it's a tough one—when word came of the President's death. My report was due to him at Warm Springs next Monday. Now I'll have to take it up direct with Admiral Ballister. The F.B.I.'s trying to block me."

"Why?" he asked, but he knew why.

I shrugged my shoulders. "You know Washington, Colonel," I said. "The F.B.I. tried to get control of Z-2 and was stopped by the other services. Since then, they've refused all cooperation. And I must get to see Admiral Ballister before he goes away for the week-end. Since Roosevelt's death the whole town has changed and Truman is too busy and bothered to see Z-2 reports."

Colonel McIntosh put in some earnest home-work on the telephone.

"Ballister," he said at last. "McIntosh speaking, O.S.S. A Mr. R. L. Grant—that's not his name, but he's from Z-2—Yes, of course you do. That's the special—Yes, that's right, Admiral. He has an urgent report for you. He's been trying to reach you since Thursday but our good friend J. Edgar has been blocking him—Sure, you remember—That was a couple of years ago, when Edgar tried to grab Z-2 and we all helped block it. Grant has some hot stuff for you, on the Alaska sinking—Fine! Yes, he'll be over as fast as my car can take him. Oh, not at all. Always glad to help—As you know, orders are to help Z-2 at all times—no questions asked, nothing on paper—Righto!"

McIntosh hung up and turned to me with an air of authority. "That was Admiral Ballister, Mr.—er—Grant," he said. "He'll see you right away. I'll have my chauffeur drive you over to the Navy Department. You can talk freely to the Admiral. He's a sound man."

I smiled wanly. I had won the first round of my match with the F.B.I. Ballister meant nothing to me but I had to convince him that I was on the level or Mr. Lamb would close in on me. In any case, I owed it to my Navy friends to take a fall out of the Department. After all, I couldn't be worse off than I already was, with the G-Men breathing down my neck and me out on open arrest, on a charge of treason. The electric chair doesn't look funny when there's even the faintest chance of your sitting in it yourself.

"Name please!" asked the snippy young thing at the Navy Department Reception Desk.

"R. L. Grant," I told her. "To see Admiral Ballister. By appointment," I added.

"Have you any identification, Mr. Grant?" she inquired.

"Of course not. Tell the Admiral that Z-2 has no identification. He will understand."

She looked at me very dubiously but dialed a telephone and muttered into it. Suddenly she cackled, "You don't say? Sure! I'll send him right up."

She beamed at me. "The Admiral is expecting you, sir," she said. "Here's your badge. Will you please sign this form?"

She thrust a blue-and-white celluloid saucer at me, with a number on it, and passed a mimeographed form, which I duly signed "Robert E. Lee, C.S.A.," and which she duly accepted and filed. A Marine sergeant appeared out of the shadows and led me up a flight of stairs and along several unevenly paved concrete floors to an office where a battery of Waves and Junior Lieutenants promptly took me in charge.

Admiral Ballister was a civilian's dream of a Navy Officer—"every other inch a sailor," as we used to say in the Pacific—with a ruddy face tanned by ocean winds or rye whisky, grizzled hair, incipient jowls, a "gruff old sea-dog" manner and a hearty hand-clasp.

"Glad to see you Grant," he told me. "I've been checking up on Z-2 since McIntosh called. You boys have been doing one hell of a swell job on your security. There's not a word about you in our files."

"Z-2, Admiral," I replied modestly, "is forbidden by the terms of the Executive Order setting us up to put itself on record. We have no identification, we get no glory, but a Z-2 agent was in the Jap squadron that attacked Pearl Harbor and one of our men was military secretary to Rommel in North Africa. At least two of our agents hold the rank of General in the Red Army. As you know, sir, we report directly to the President, and always verbally. Nothing on paper."

"I know, I know," the Admiral agreed wistfully. "McIntosh is usually all wet"—he paused for me to register a flash of strictly subordinate glee at his meteorological witticism—"but he gave me a fill-in on the fine job you did on the Alaska case."

"I'm afraid I worried your O.N.I. group in New York, sir!"—in addressing an Admiral, the "sir!" should not be slurred but should come out with a touch of whip-crack, if you wish promotion in the U.S. Navy—"They almost penetrated my cover as W. S. Tompkins, a Bedford Hills stock-broker with offices in Wall Street, and reported me to the F.B.I."

"Oh!" Ballister seemed relieved. "So you are Tompkins. No wonder Church Street was worried. Of course, they didn't know you were Z-2."

"Naturally I couldn't tell them, sir!" I confided. "I was due to report to President Roosevelt at Warm Springs next Monday but since his death, I have to report to you, according to previous White House instructions. The new President hasn't had time to get orientated on Z-2 operations and this Alaska business can't wait, sir!"

Ballister did some dialing, asked a few terse questions—gruff old sea-dog style—over the telephone and then turned to me.

"It's lucky for you, Grant, you didn't try to report to the White House. The Secret Service might have nabbed you," he said. "The Naval Aide tells me that all Roosevelt's papers and records have been impounded for the Roosevelt Estate under the law and that it may be weeks before they are untangled. Now, tell me about the Alaska. We've had no report on her since early on the second, when she cleared Adak."

"Before I report to you, sir!" I replied, "I'd rather you ask me a few questions about Alaska and Operation Octopus. In that way you can satisfy yourself that I know what I'm talking about."

"Good!" the Admiral grunted. "Wish O.N.I. had as much sense as Z-2. Save a lot of time. When was Alaska commissioned?"

"Late in February, sir! At Bremerton. Trial run in March to Pearl Harbor, back to San Diego for fueling and up the coast to Bremerton again. Latest U.S. light carrier in the Pacific. A sneak-job. 38 knots at full speed, 8,000 mile cruising radius. Twenty-four planes—eight light bombers, sixteen fighters. Anti-aircraft and radar out of this world."

Ballister studied the