Chapter 7

Tompkins, Wasson & Cone maintained sincere-looking offices on one of the upper floors of No. 1 Wall Street. The rooms were carefully furnished in dark wood and turkey-red upholstery, in a style calculated to reassure elderly ladies of great wealth that the firm was careful and conservative.

The girl at the reception desk looked as though she had graduated with honor from Wellesley in the class of 1920 and still had it--pince-nez and condescension--but she was thoroughly up-to-date in her office-technique.

“Oh, Mr. Tompkins,” she murmured in a clear, low voice, “there’s a gentleman waiting to see you in the customer’s room, a Mr. Harcourt. He’s been here since ten o’clock this morning.”

“He’s had no lunch?” I inquired.

She shook her head.

I clucked my tongue. “We can’t have our customers starve to death, can we? Send out for a club sandwich and some hot coffee. Give me five minutes to take a look at my mail and then send him in. When the food arrives, send that in, too.”

She blinked her hazel eyes behind her pince-nez to show that she understood, and I walked confidently down to the end of the corridor to where a “Mr. Tompkins” stared at me conservatively from a glazed door.

My office lived up to my fondest dream of Winnie. It was an ingenious blend of the 1870’s and functional furniture--like a cocktail of port wine and vodka. There were electric clocks, a silenced stock-ticker in a glass-covered mahogany coffin, an elaborate Sheraton radio with short-wave reception, tuned in on WQXR, and desks and chairs and divans and a really good steel engraving showing General Grant receiving Lee’s surrender at Appomattox Court House, with a chart underneath to explain who was who in the picture.

The desk I was glad to note, was bare except for an electric clock-calendar which told me that it was 3:12 p.m. of April 4, 1945, and a handsome combination humidor, cigarette case and automatic lighter in aluminum and synthetic tortoise-shell. A glance out the window gave me a reassuring glimpse of the spire of Trinity Church. There was a single typed memo on the glass top of the desk, which read: “Mr. Harcourt, 10:13 a.m. Would not state business. Will wait.”

I pushed one of the array of buttons concealed underneath the edge of the desk and a door opened to admit a largish blonde in a tight-fitting sweater.

“Yes, Mr. Tompkins?”

“Please have Mr. Harcourt sent in,” I said, “And when he comes, bring your notebook and take a stenographic record of our conversation and--er--what’s your name?”

She raised her well-plucked eyebrows. “I’m Eleanor Roosevelt, my parents named me Arthurjean--after both of them--Arthurjean--Miss Briggs to you!”

“Very well, Miss Briggs, tell Mr. Harcourt I’ll see him now.”

A moment later, she reappeared holding a card in her fingers as though it was a live cockroach. “Sure you want to see this?” she asked.

The card read: “Mr. A. J. Harcourt, Special Agent. Federal Bureau of Investigation, U. S. Department of Justice, U. S. Court House, Foley Square, New York 23, N. Y.”

“Of course,” I replied, “I’ve been expecting him for some time.”

A. J. Harcourt was neat but not gaudy: a clean-cut, Hart, Shaffner and Marx tailored man of about thirty-five, with that indefinable family resemblance to J. Edgar Hoover which always worries me about the F.B.I.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Harcourt,” I said pleasantly, “and what can I do for the F.B.I.?”

Harcourt shook my hand, took a seat, refused a cigarette and cast a doubtful glance over his shoulder at Arthurjean Briggs, who was working semi-silently away at a stenotype machine.

“Oh, that’s my secretary,” I explained. “I always have her take a record of important conversations in this office. I hope the machine doesn’t disturb you, Mr. Harcourt.”

“If it’s all right with you it’s all right with me,” he said grudgingly. “I thought perhaps you’d rather have this private.”

“Not in the least,” I replied. “Miss Briggs is the soul of discretion and I can imagine nothing we could talk about that I wouldn’t want her to hear.”

The G-Man looked as though he was worrying over whether he ought to call Washington for permission. They hadn’t taught him this one in the F.B.I. academy of finger-printing, marksmanship, shadowing and wire-tapping.

“By the way, Mr. Harcourt,” I added, “I just learned as I came in that you’ve been waiting for me since ten this morning. It’s after three now so I took the liberty of sending out for a sandwich and some coffee for you. I thought you might like a bite of lunch while you are talking with me.”

The Special Agent looked as surprised as though he had found Hoover’s fingerprints on the murder-gun, but he nodded gamely.

“Here it is now,” I remarked, as there was a knock on the door and a knowing-looking boy placed an appealing tray-load of sandwiches, pickles and coffee in front of Mr. Harcourt.

“Now you go right ahead and eat your lunch,” I urged. “Ask me for any information in my possession and you shall have it. And of course I’ll have Miss Briggs send a complete transcript of our talk to you at F.B.I. headquarters by registered mail. First of all, if you don’t mind, would you show me your official identification and let Miss Briggs take down the number and so on. It’s always best to put these things in the record, isn’t it?”

The G-Man gulped and produced a battered identity card, complete with fingerprints, number, Hoover’s signature and a photograph which would have justified his immediate arrest on suspicion of bank-robbery.

“I imagine, Mr. Harcourt,” I remarked, “that you’ve had plenty of time in the last five hours to question members of my staff about whatever it is you think they might know about my business.”

He looked up, almost pathetically. “I asked a few questions,” he admitted. “This is just an informal inquiry. Nothing for Grand Jury action--yet.”

I didn’t like that last word.

“Do you think I ought to call my lawyer in before I proceed with our talk?” I asked. “I resent your reference to Grand Jury action. So far, I don’t even know what you wish to see me about and you have just made a libelous statement in front of a reliable witness. Is that the way J. Edgar Hoover trains his Gestapo?”