Chapter 11

When I entered my office on Monday morning, the genteel receptionist informed me with some austerity that Mr. Roscommon was waiting for me.

“Okay, send him in,” I directed, bracing myself for what would probably be a stormy interview. If Roscommon was as well-informed as he claimed to be, he must know that I had already reported him to the F.B.I.

“Smart work, Tompkins!” he beamed, giving my hand a vise-like squeeze. “Working as I do with the highest echelons, I’m afraid I sometimes forget the value of naiveté. You couldn’t have invented anything better calculated to slow down the Bureau than to report me as a Nazi agent. Even the Director was impressed, though he’ll see through your ruse after a couple of days.”

“Is that what you wanted to tell me?” I inquired, “because your visit will certainly arouse new suspicions. I assume I’m still under F.B.I. observation.”

Axel Roscommon smiled. “Nothing to worry about, old boy, I assure you. Naturally you’ll have to go to Washington sooner or later and explain things there. I suggest that you go next week, when the whole Administration will be in a state of maximum confusion.”

I asked him whether that would be any change.

“Absolutely, old boy. The war’s been managed quite impressively well up to now. After this week, with Roosevelt out of the way, things will begin to fall apart and there will be plenty of pickings but the war is already won, so that won’t hurt.”

Roosevelt, I observed, was down in Georgia, according to the papers, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t keep in touch with things in Washington.

Roscommon stood close against my desk and leaned forward on his hands, facing me. “Listen carefully, old boy,” he said, “and keep this to yourself. Roosevelt will be dead before the week’s out--on Friday the thirteenth if there’s any symmetry to be expected in this crazy world. It’s the same stuff they gave Woodrow Wilson over at Paris in the spring of 1919. You may remember that chap Yardley wrote a book, ‘The American Black Chamber, ‘ and told how the American Intelligence got word of a plot to poison Wilson by one of America’s allies. Not long after, Wilson had a slight illness and a few months later had a stroke, as they called it. You see your American Constitution--marvelous document, that!--makes absolutely no bloody provision for the illness of a President, and Wilson’s paralysis paralyzed your government for nearly two years, while America’s allies cleaned up on the peace-arrangements.

“Roosevelt is tougher than Wilson was. They slipped him the first dose at Teheran early last year. When he came back that spring he had a slight illness--they called it influenza--and he was never quite the same. Except for a few trusted social associates, close friends and members of the family, he was kept in strict seclusion. Then, with his amazing vitality, he began to throw off the stuff and staged a magnificent political campaign last fall. So they had to try again at Yalta early this year. The second time they gave him too much. He had one bad attack on the cruiser coming back from the Mediterranean. When he addressed Congress, he had the same gaunt look and thick speech that Wilson had towards the end. The final stroke is due this week and has been held off only because he’s taking things easy. No, old chap, Roosevelt’s doomed and all I can tell you is that the Germans had no part in it. Only five men in America know about this, and F.D.R. is one of them.”

“You’re talking utter piffle,” I replied. “I can see how Hitler or Tojo might want to get rid of Roosevelt but who else? Why don’t you warn the authorities. Or I could.”

Roscommon smiled rather sadly. “What good would it do? There’s no antidote after the first twenty-four hours. If Roosevelt hasn’t warned them, why should you? All that would happen would be to put yourself under the blackest kind of suspicion. Just fancy the reaction of the American Intelligence. You march in and say, ‘See here, the President’s been poisoned and will die before the end of the week.’ They promptly call for an ambulance and an alienist and send you to St. Elizabeth’s for observation. Then the President does die. ‘By the Lord Harry!’ they think, ‘this chap we locked up said Roosevelt would die and now he has died. He probably had a hand in it himself. Let’s fix him just to be safe!’”

I nodded. “Yes, I can see that,” I agreed. “Look at what happened when Lincoln was assassinated. But if I’m not to pass word on to anybody, what’s the point of telling me about it--assuming it to be true, which I doubt?”

“Naturally you doubt me, my boy, naturally. All you need do is to wait until Friday the thirteenth and if I’m right you’ll know it and if I’m wrong you’ll know it. But I assure you that I am not wrong. The war is over and Roosevelt is the only obstacle to certain long-range practical arrangements for organizing the peace. The Old World, mind you, doesn’t like outsiders like Wilson and Roosevelt telling them what to do with victory. From now on, America is going to be immobilized. It’s all rather simple, really, but I haven’t time to explain how simple it is because the explanation is bloody complicated.”

“You still haven’t told me why you have passed on this fantastic story to me,” I pointed out.

“Oh, that? It’s just this, my boy. Sell the war short! Sell it short! You must use all the funds that Ribbentrop gave you to get a real nest-egg. With Germany defeated, our intelligence will need funds--decentralized funds--and this is your chance to do an important job. I don’t care what the Foreign Minister told you to do with the money. Forget him--he’s a dead duck, anyway. Just take the cash and sell the war short. Make a killing and then we’ll be able to finance future operations.”

After Roscommon had made another of his abrupt departures, I buzzed for Arthurjean and told her to ask my partners to come in.