Chapter 15

The events which brought me into the office of Edward Lamb, Deputy Director of the F.B.I., on Friday the thirteenth, had developed so rapidly that I could scarcely believe that less than twenty-four hours had passed since Harcourt had taken me into custody.

We had gone to the Federal Court House in a taxicab (paid for by me) where I was placed alone in a room for fifteen minutes. At the end of that period I was informed that Washington had asked that I be sent down for direct interrogation at the Bureau. I was told that if I preferred I could demand a formal warrant of arrest but that Mr. Vail, who had been released with an apology, advised me to go, and that I could confirm it by telephone--which I did. I was told that there was still no formal charge against me but they asked if I would let myself be fingerprinted. To this I agreed and then sat back while arrangements were completed to fly me down to Washington from the LaGuardia Airport. Harcourt was to accompany me. That had been all. They allowed me to phone Germaine and tell her I was going to Washington and invite her to join me there as soon as I could get hotel accommodations. The F.B.I. put me up for the night in one of their Manhattan hide-outs--an old house on East 80th Street--and in the morning Harcourt and I had taken the plane. The clock had barely touched noon when I was told that Mr. Lamb was ready to see me.

Lamb was a pleasant, youngish man--with that inevitable faint Hoover chubbiness--whose roomy office with its deep leather easy chairs spelled power in the F.B.I. I was amused to note that he followed Rule 1 of whistle-stop detection, by seating me in a deep chair, facing the light, while he sat at his desk on a definitely higher level and with the light behind him.

“Well, Mr. Tompkins,” he began, “we’ve had disturbing reports about you from at least three different sources. Frankly, we still don’t know what to make of them and the Director thought it would be better if you came here and talked to us.”

“Always glad to help,” I assured him. “If you’ll tell me what the reports are, I’ll try to explain.”

Lamb glanced at a file of papers on his desk. “The first one is an allegation that you aren’t Winfred S. Tompkins, but an imposter who has kidnapped Tompkins and taken his place. That report was anonymous and we don’t attach any particular importance to it, although if necessary we could use it to detain you for questioning under the Lindbergh Law.”

I stretched out my hands toward him. “My fingerprints were taken last night,” I said. “They ought to settle that question.”

Lamb laughed. “Unfortunately,” he admitted, “it takes a little time to establish identity by fingerprints. The first tentative identification suggested by yours was a man named Jonas Lee. He is a Negro currently employed in the Charleston Navy Yard. However, I think we can assume that the final identification will bear you out. They’re working on it now.”

There was a buzz and he picked up the desk-telephone. “Oh, they do,” he remarked. “Good!”

He turned back to me. “That was the Finger-Print Division. They’re your prints, all right, so we’ll cancel the kidnapping charge.”

“What’s the second strike on me?”

“That’s a report phoned in by one of your partners that you seemed to expect President Roosevelt’s death two or three days before it happened.”

“I did,” I explained. “A man named Axel Roscommon came to my office, said that he was the chief Nazi agent in the United States, and told me that Roosevelt had been poisoned at Yalta. I had already reported Roscommon to the Bureau and was told to let him alone. Roscommon said that only a few people, including Roosevelt, knew about the poisoning. I wanted to pass on the warning but was told that it was too late, that I would simply expose myself to suspicion. So what I did was to make normal business preparations to take advantage of its effect on the Stock Market.”

Lamb looked up at the ceiling and remained silent for a few minutes. “So that’s the way it was,” he said. “For your personal information, Mr. Tompkins, Roscommon told the Director the same thing a month ago but when Mr. Hoover tried to warn the Secret Service he had his ears slapped back. If I’d known about the Roscommon angle in your case I would have told the New York office not to worry. I thought perhaps that this was another angle on the same story.”

“Do you believe that President Roosevelt was assassinated, Mr. Lamb?” I asked, point-blank.

He shrugged his shoulders. “No, I do not,” he replied. “Not officially, that is. It is not inconceivable and the Secret Service is so set in its ideas and methods that--well, frankly I’d rather not believe it. I have no evidence, aside from a verbal warning which might have been coincidence. Some of our toxicologists say that it could be done, others deny that there is a virus which can produce the symptoms of a paralytic stroke. In any case, it’s outside of our jurisdiction.”

I heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank God I’m clear of that one,” I said. “I shouldn’t like to be mixed up, even by accident, in anything like that. I remember what happened to Dr. Mudd.”

Lamb nodded. “The doctor who bandaged Booth’s leg after the murder of Lincoln? Yes, I can see your point.”

“How about the third charge?” I asked.

Lamb looked serious. “That’s not going to be so easy, Mr. Tompkins,” he announced. “Harcourt reports that he doesn’t think there’s anything to it, but Naval Intelligence has the jitters about this Alaska business. It seems to be pretty well established that on the afternoon of April second you stated that the U.S.S. Alaska had been sunk in an explosion off the western Aleutians. That was over ten days ago and there is still no word from the carrier. The last report came from Adak which had picked the ship up by radar on the first. The report given us was that you represented that it was all a dream. What worries the Navy about this explanation is that no public announcement had ever been made of the Alaska’s launching or commission. She’s a sneak-carrier built under stringent security regulations and until you came into the picture the Navy was pretty sure that there’d been no leak.”

I nodded dismally. “Knowing the Navy,” I replied, “I can see how they feel. All that I can suggest, Mr. Lamb, is that this is a case of mental telepathy. There have been plenty of other instances of it on record. Often they call it intuition or second sight. I can only say that if you investigate and can find any other explanation I’ll be delighted.”

“I don’t think that Admiral Ballister--he’s the present head of O.N.I., though they change so fast we almost lose count--will be satisfied with the theory that it is a case of E.S.P. That’s ‘extra-sensory perception’ and there have been plenty of scientific experiments in that field but the Navy doesn’t know about them. And then, of course, there was the bomb--”

I nodded. “The thorium bomb--” I began, and stopped as I noticed an official change in Lamb’s attitude.

“Exactly, Mr. Tompkins,” he observed. “The thorium bomb. Nobody--at least outside of the President, the Secretary of the Navy and Professor Chalmis--was supposed to know that there was such a thing as a thorium bomb. The security arrangements on the thorium project were so drastic--”