Chapter 21

“You were what?” I demanded.

“I am--or was--the head of Z-2,” Tyler replied. “You know, Mr. Tompkins,” he continued, “I find it most intensely interesting that you should have picked on that particular combination--Z-2--for your higher echelonics. In fact, I should like to have you psycho-analyzed, in order to learn why you, of all people, should have selected the super-secret insignia of the super-secret Roosevelt intelligence outfit. Not that it matters now, of course,” he added. “With this new growth across the street I’d be lucky if the White House knew the difference between Z-2 and B-29.”

I studied Tyler’s face. Who he was, I had only a remote idea, so many had been the different offices that had shunted me around. But in spite of his airy-fairy persiflage and la-di-da manner, I felt that he was straight.

“Okay, chief,” I said. “I confess. I robbed the bank but I didn’t shoot the cashier. That was Muggsy. You see, chief, it was this way--”

Tyler sat back and heard me out from A to Z-2, in the history of my last two weeks.

“I can’t expect you to believe me, Mr. Tyler,” I concluded, “but I’d like to have it on record somewhere in this town that I had told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and all I get for it is an Order of Merit citation.”

“Few escape it!” he cried. “My poor old bewildered Tompkins. Of course I believe you. Stranger tales than yours have passed across my desk. I have served under one President who thought he was Jesus Christ, one who knew he was Jesus Christ and two who were afraid the voters would realize that they were not Jesus Christ. I have seen five successive Secretaries of State who had no doubt that they were God’s Vice-Regent on earth. As for drawing a blank, Mr. Tompkins, that is no news to this Department. What we diplomatic underlings fear is when our superiors fail to draw blanks. Why I remember--but no matter.”

“Then what would you do if you were me, Mr. Tyler?” I asked him. “I’m the innocent victim of the damndest set of circumstances ever dreamed up.”

The red-headed young diplomat looked at me warily. “The Department, sir,” he said, “does not answer hypodermic--I mean hypothetical--questions. What is good enough for the Department is good enough for me.”

“But here I find myself,” I reminded him, “in high favor with the intelligence forces and with the reputation of a Don Juan in the bosoms of my family, and no idea how I got there.”

Tyler chuckled. “I always knew they were plural,” he said. “Think nothing of it. Stupider men than you have stood in far higher repute in this town and the reputation of Don Juan is easily acquired. For all you know, you may be a perfectly sterling family man and quite devoid of political intelligence.”

“How’s that again?”

“Just a figure of speech,” Tyler answered airily. “Just the same, Mr. Tompkins, it would be interesting to know why you picked on Z-2 and where you got your undoubted talent for brass-knuckled duplicity. So far as I can see, you’ve sold yourself as Z-2 to all the brass hats, including the Kansas City lad who woke up to find himself President.”

“Again in my own defense,” I said, “I did it only because the F.B.I. had a gun at my back and were going to give me the works if I didn’t clear myself inside of twenty-four hours. I always thought,” I added, “that in this country you were assumed innocent until proved guilty.”

Tyler winked wickedly. “There’s a war on,” he announced, “and doesn’t the F.B.I. know it!”

I bade the diplomat good-bye and left the State Department with a sense of personal uneasiness. Who would have dreamed that there was a Z-2 organization before I imagined it! If this kind of thing kept on happening it mightn’t be a bad idea to take a fling at the Hartford Sanctuary and have myself psyched by experts.

“Beg pardon, sir, but are you Mr. Tompkins?”

The Hart, Shaffner & Marxed youngster who accosted me on the State Department steps had a definite bulge under his left shoulder that warned me he was armed.

“Yes, and who are you, sir?” I inquired.

“I’m Monaghan from the Secret Service,” he told me. “The Chief wants to see you.”

“And who is the Chief?” I asked.

“Chief Flynn, of course,” he said. “It’s only a few steps over at the the Treasury Building.”

“All right, Mr. Monaghan,” I agreed. “I’ll come along quietly. Am I under arrest? Should I send for my lawyer?”

“The Service don’t go much for lawyers,” he said. “This way, sir.”

With Monaghan at my elbow, I turned right on Pennsylvania Avenue and walked in front of the White House and turned down East Executive Avenue to the side-entrance of the Treasury. A few baffling twists and turns in the corridors of Morgenthau, and I found myself in a large, sparsely furnished room, facing a white haired Irishman.

“This is Tompkins, Chief,” Monaghan reported and left me with the gimlet-eyed Secret Service executive.

“You W. S. Tompkins?” he asked me.

“Yes. And who are you?”

“My name’s Flynn.”

Neither of us said anything for a couple of minutes. He was obviously waiting for me to ask him why I had been brought to him--so I deliberately kept silent, pulled out a cigarette and lighted it. Seeing no ash-tray, I flicked the burnt match on the official green carpet and waited for him to open the conversation.

“So you don’t need to be told why you’re here, Tompkins,” he purred.

“I came here, Mr. Flynn,” I told him, “because one of your men practically put a gun at my ribs in front of the State Department. What do you want? A ticket to a prize fight? A good write-up in the papers? Tell me what it will cost me and I’ll pay within reason. I didn’t know that the Irish had got control of the Secret Service or I would have mailed the money ahead--in cash, of course, no checks, all small bills not consecutively numbered.”

Flynn scowled out the window in the general direction of the White House. I dropped some more cigarette ash on the carpet.

Suddenly he whirled to me. “We’re here to protect the President,” he snapped, “and we don’t propose to take any lip from you.”

I said nothing. Then I noticed the flag over the White House at half-mast.