He took another delicate sip at his scotch and soda and then went on.

  For instance [said Griswold] back in the days when the agency was run by you-know-who, there wasn’t an agent who dared lift his voice against any ukase, however ridiculous. After all, senators threw themselves over mud puddles so the chief could use them to avoid getting his shoes muddy, and presidents cowered in the corner when he frowned.

  You could tell an agent a mile away by their chief-imposed uniforms. No one else had shirts so white, so glossy, so buttoned-down, or ties so narrow and so neatly centered, or suits so subdued, or waistlines so carefully flat, or hair so short and so neatly parted, or was scented in so masculine a fashion, or seemed so much younger and callower than his years. Well, they might just possibly have been mistaken for Mormon missionaries, but for nothing else.

  And of course, they were all in a state of constant terror. It was not so much that they might make a mistake. That might be forgiven. The real fear was that they might make the agency, and the chief, look foolish. For that it was evisceration the first time. There was no forgiveness and the agents knew it.

  Naturally, I could never make it with the agency in any official capacity. I wouldn’t shave my mustache, which was dark in those days but almost as impressive as it is now, and I wouldn’t wear the uniform, and worst of all, I once chose to look over the head of the chief, which was easy to do, and to pretend I didn’t see him. He might forget anything else, but he never forgot a slur on his height, however indirect.

  It didn’t matter. I made out. When things got tough there was many an agency official who came to me for help.

  Jack Winslow came to me once, I remember, with an ingratiating smile on his face and some telltale beads of sweat on his forehead, despite the rule that no agent must perspire. Jack Winslow was his real name, by the way, which helped him a lot at the agency. The only better name would have been Jack Armstrong.

  He said, “Listen, Griswold, the damndest thing happened today and I’d appreciate it if you would let me have your thoughts on it.”

  “Tell me what happened,” I said, “and I’ll tell you if I have any thoughts about it. And I won’t tell the chief you asked me.”

  He thanked me very sincerely for that, but, of course, there was no way I could tell the chief if I wanted to. We were not on speaking terms—which suited me fine.

  There’s no point in telling you Winslow’s story in full detail because he’s an awfully tedious fellow. Still is, I understand, though he’s retired now. I’ll give you the essentials in brief.

  The agency had gotten on to the fringes of an operation it was important to stop. They had located a pawn in the game. They could pick him up any time they wanted to, but it would have done them no good. He wouldn’t know enough and he could be too easily replaced. If he were left at large, however, he might be used as a wedge that could pry out something far more useful than himself. It was tedious and delicate work, and sometimes this sort of thing was fumbled and no agent was ever allowed to enjoy that fumble—so Winslow was in a difficult position.

  The goal at this particular time was to spot a relay: the passage of something important from one person to another. Two items of information were desired: the manner of the surreptitious passage, because that could be an important clue to the system of thought being used by these people; and the identity of the pick-up, that is, the one who received the item, for the pick-up was likely, but not certain, to be more important than the transmitter.

  The pawn had been maneuvered into accepting something to put through the relay. It was something that was legitimately important; though not as important as the others had been led to believe. Still, they were not fools and had to be fed something in order to make them bite. It was important enough, at any rate, to make the agents prefer not to lose it without having gained something at least equally important.

  The real coup was the shape of the object to be transferred. Somehow the opposition had been persuaded to order their pawn to pick up a package which, while not heavy, was six feet long and about four inches wide. It looked like a packaged fishing rod and there was no way in which it could be disguised or made to look inconspicuous. Winslow was proud of this and wouldn’t tell me how the trick had been turned, but I didn’t care. I knew that, as a general rule, the people we fight against are as vulnerable as we are.

  There were five agents at various places and in various forms watching the progress of the pawn or, rather, of the very conspicuous package. They didn’t stay close; they couldn’t have, or they would have been easily spotted by their white shirts and beautiful gray fedoras in a neighborhood in which neither was ever seen on the inhabitants.

  The pawn walked into a crummy restaurant in this slummish neighborhood. He had to maneuver the package to get it through the door, and Winslow held his breath lest he break it, but he got it into the restaurant in one piece. He stayed there about five minutes—four minutes, twenty-three seconds, Winslow told me, since he had stupidly been watching his watch instead of the restaurant—and then he came out. He didn’t have the package with him, or anything that could possibly have held it.

  They expected that. Somehow, though, they expected that it would come out in the hands of someone else, or in some fashion, and it never did. After two hours, Winslow got very uneasy. Could they have frightened off the pick-up by being insufficiently clandestine in their surveillance? They couldn’t help that as long as they wore their uniform, but that wouldn’t protect them against the chief’s wrath.

  Worse yet, could they have allowed the package—six feet long, four inches wide—to be slipped out under their noses somehow? If so, their careers were finished.

  Finally, Winslow could stand no more. In desperation, he ordered his men into the restaurant, and then came the final blow.

  “It wasn’t there,” said Winslow desperately. “It wasn’t such a damned big place and the package just wasn’t there. As soon as I could see that was the situation, I came here. I remembered you lived only a mile away and hoped you might be in.” He looked decidedly grateful I was in.

  I said, “I suppose I can trust your agents to find it if it’s there. Something six feet long isn’t exactly a diamond or a piece of microfilm.”

  “It’s not there.”

  “Could it have been dismembered, taken apart, hidden in parts, or, for that matter, taken out in parts?”

  “No, it would then be broken, useless. It had to be intact.—I’m not telling you what it is, mind you.”

  “I’m not asking and you probably don’t know yourself.—Did you look over the people in the restaurant?”

  “Certainly. They were the type who were completely uncooperative, who turn sullen and resentful at the least sign of the law. But there’s no way something like that could be hidden on anyone’s person.”

  “By the way,” I said, “do you have a search warrant?”

  Winslow reddened a bit. “We have a sort of catchall search warrant for safety violations. Never mind about that.”

  I’m sure it wouldn’t have held up in court, but in those days such things weren’t questioned.

  I said, “Maybe it was taken upstairs.”

  “There is no upstairs. It’s a crummy little one-story greasy-spoon restaurant, between two tenements.”

  “Well then,” I said, “there must be an entrance into one of the adjoining tenements, or both.”

  “Not a chance. Solid wall, both ways.”

  “Cellar?”

  “We looked through it. A junkyard with some food staples. What we wanted wasn’t there.”

  “Entrances into the adjoining tenements through the cellar?”

  “No. Damn it, Griswold, give us some credit for brains.”

  “Kitchen?”

  “Plenty of cockroaches; nothing of what we wanted.”

  “Egress from the kitchen?”

  “There was a door to a back alley, where they put out the garbage—such garbage as they didn’t serve—but we had a man there and I assure you he’s reliable. People came out long enough to dump garbage and then went back in.—And before you ask, he looked through the garbage cans, something that didn’t require much detail work, since an intact six-foot package would—”

  “Stick out like a sore thumb. Rest rooms?”

  “I looked through it carefully myself. Personally. Two stalls. I looked in both of them and both were empty, thank goodness. I even checked the urinals, so help me, just in case they were loose and you could slip a six-foot package into the wall behind them. There was a small window, caked with dust and old paint. No way of opening it and the glass was unbroken.”

  I said, “If the pawn took it in and didn’t take it out, then it must still be in the restaurant.”

  “But it isn’t. I swear.”

  “Then if it isn’t there, it must have been sneaked out—a six-foot package with five agents watching.”

  Winslow winced. “That couldn’t be.”

  “One or the other,” I said.

  But Winslow looked so miserable, I relented. I said, “Stop suffering, Winslow. I’ll save your hide. I know where it is.”

  And it was where I knew it was. And I did save his hide.

  Griswold just sat there smiling at us fatuously. Then he leaned back in his chair as though he were about to close his eyes.

  I said, “Come on, Griswold. This time you’ve gone too far. You couldn’t possibly know where it was. I defy you to explain yourself.”

  “Defy? Defy? Good God, man, it was so easy. I told you what agents were like and what their chief had trained them to be. They might dash fearlessly into enemy fire, they might fearlessly search a place quite illegally. But not one of the chief’s men would think of doing anything that was downright unmannerly and crude. They would poke about everywhere but one place—a place they probably didn’t even let themselves realize existed.”

  “What are you talking about?” said I.

  “With regard to the rest rooms, Winslow said, “I looked through it carefully myself.’ It. Singular! It was the men’s room, because it had urinals. He mentioned them. Well, a restaurant can’t possibly have a men’s room without having one for women, too. Our culture demands that symmetry.—But what respectable agent would dream of walking into a ladies’ room, even in a slum restaurant?”

  “You mean the pawn hid it there?”

  “Sure. I imagine he listened to make sure it was empty, then he opened it and propped it up against one corner. Any woman entering that crummy rest room would have neither leisure nor desire to investigate the package, or do anything but go in and get out. Even if the room were not empty, it could be done so quickly, the woman inside would have had no time to scream.—In any case, that’s where Winslow and his men found the package when they forced themselves to look.”

  “But why would he put it there?”

  “As it turned out on another occasion, the pick-up was a woman. So why not?”

  18

  Dollars and Cents

  Considering the state of the world today, a great many thrillers deal with terrorism. Again, I am at a disadvantage, since I don’t want to be too grisly. (It makes me wonder why I am so intent on writing mysteries—but then when I was in high school I passed through a phase when I wanted to be a surgeon, and if I didn’t have that on record, I would refuse to believe it. Anyway, I didn’t become a surgeon.)

  But here is a terrorist plot and, as you can guess, nobody gets hurt. At least, I demonstrate that I can do it—after a fashion.

  “My own feeling,” said Jennings, as we sat in the somewhat brooding and melancholy atmosphere of the Union Club library, “is that in order to cut down on terrorist activity, it would be best to bring down an absolute curtain of silence over it.”

  “You mean,” I said sarcastically, “like not letting anyone know that the President has been shot, in case he’s shot.”

  “No,” said Jennings, “that’s not what I mean at all. I mean you don’t release the name of the would-be assassin, or anything about him, or show any pictures, or talk about him. He becomes a nonperson and so does anyone who’s involved in terrorist activity. What’s more, you cut down on all television coverage particularly, except for the bare announcement of what is happening.”

  Baranov said, “I take it you are trying to imply that terrorists do it for the publicity involved. Take away the publicity and there’s no point in doing it.”

  “To a certain extent, yes,” said Jennings. “Let’s say there’s some movement for independence for Fairfield, Connecticut. A Fairfield Liberation Committee is established by five nuts. They call themselves the FLC and begin a campaign of tire slashing in Hartford, sending letters to the newspapers taking credit for it. As the tire slashings continue and as the media give it full exposure, not only does this make the five nuts feel powerful and important, but the publicity actually gets lots of weak-minded people to thinking that there may be something to the notion of making Fairfield independent. On the other hand, if the tire slashings are investigated under cover of a strict news blackout—”

  “It just isn’t possible,” I said, “for two reasons. First, the people whose tires are slashed are going to talk, and rumors will get around that will be worse than the truth. Second, once the principle is established that you can set up a news blackout over something like that, you can do it over anything you conceive as dangerous for people to know, and that means anything.—Never in the United States, I hope. Sooner the occasional terrorism.”

  “Besides,” boomed out Griswold’s voice suddenly, “there comes a time when the blackout may break down. How do you keep it secret when you have to evacuate a hotel in the evening rush hour and must send out every fire engine in the area.”

  He had both eyes open, the blue of them blazing at us, and he sat erect. It was the widest-awake I’d seen him in years.

  “Something you were involved in, Griswold?” I asked.

  It began [said Griswold] when a reporter at one of the New York newspapers received a neatly typed, unsigned note, delivered through the mail, to the effect that a dummy bomb had been deposited in a particular room in a particular hotel. The number of the room was given.

  The reporter wondered what to do about it, decided it was some sort of gag being pulled on him by one of the jokers about the place, then, after a while, decided he couldn’t take the chance. He fished the crumpled letter out of the wastebasket and took it to the police. It meant running the risk of making a fool of himself, but he felt he had no choice.

  The police were not in the least sympathetic. They thought it was a gag being pulled on the reporter, too, but they had no choice. They sent a member of the bomb squad to the hotel and he was gotten into the room in question. Fortunately, the occupant was not there at the time. Under the eyes of a disapproving hotel official, and feeling very much the jerk, the policeman searched the room rather perfunctorily and, in no time at all, found a box on the shelf in the closet where the extra blankets were stored. On the outside it said in straggly capital letters: BOMB. On the inside was excelsior. Nothing else.

  They checked the box for fingerprints, of course. Nothing. The letter was covered by the reporter’s fingerprints. It still seemed like a gag of some sort, but more serious than it had been considered at first. The reporter was instructed to bring any further letter to the police forthwith and to try not to handle it. He took to opening his letters while wearing kid gloves.

  It turned out to be a useful precaution, because three days later he received another letter. It named another hotel and gave the room number again. He brought it in at once and a member of the bomb squad was sent out. A box filled with bits of cardboard was found in the bathroom, wedged behind the toilet seat. It also said: BOMB.

  No fingerprints anywhere.

  The police had informed all the general newspapers of the city of what had happened, had asked for no publicity to avert panic, and had urged them all to watch for the letters.

  A good thing, too, for the third letter came to a different reporter on a different paper. Same as the others except that this time there was an additional paragraph, which said, “I trust you understand all this is practice. One of these days, it will be the real thing. In that case, of course, I will not give you the room number.”

  By that time, the police called me in and showed me the letters.

  I said, “What has the lab found out?”

  My friend on the force, a police lieutenant named Cassidy, said, “It’s an electric typewriter, undoubtedly an IBM product, and the fake bomber is a man of education and an accomplished typist. No fingerprints. Nothing distinctive about either paper or envelope, or about the fake bombs for that matter. The postmark indicates the letters were posted from different places, but all in Manhattan.”

  “That doesn’t seem particularly helpful.”

  Cassidy curled his lip. “It sure doesn’t. Do you know how many IBM electric typewriters there are in Manhattan? And how many good typists with some education there are? If he sends enough letters, though, we’ll be able to gather more information, I hope.”

  I could see nothing further to do, either. I may be extraordinarily good at understanding the trifles that escape others, uncanny even—but it is only everyone else who considers me a miracle man. I make no such claims on my own behalf. Still, I stayed in close touch for the duration of the case.

  Additional letters did come and they did contain more information, at least as to motive. The mysterious bomber began to express himself more freely. He was apparently sick and tired of our money-mad society and wanted a return to a purer, more spiritual day. Just how this would be effected by his antics, he didn’t say.

  I said to Cassidy, “He clearly doesn’t have any trouble getting into hotel rooms, but then there’s no reason why he should.”

  “Oh,” said Cassidy, “skeleton keys?”