Shall We Tell the President? Read online

  Mark had to think quickly. He couldn’t ask the manager of a local bank to ring the Director of the FBI. It would be like charging your gasoline to the account of Henry Ford.

  “Why don’t you ring the FBI’s Washington Field Office, sir, ask for the head of the Criminal Section. Mr. Grant Nanna.”

  “I’ll do just that.”

  Mark gave him the number, but he ignored it and looked it up for himself in the Washington directory. He got right through to Nanna. Thank God he was there.

  “I have a young man from your Field Office with me. His name is Mark Andrews. He says he has the authority to take away twenty-eight fifty-dollar bills. Something to do with stolen money.”

  Nanna also had to think quickly. Deny the allegation, defy the alligator—Nick Stames’s old motto.

  Mark, meanwhile, offered up a little prayer.

  “That’s correct, sir,” said Nanna. “He has been instructed by me to pick up those notes. I hope you will release them immediately. They will be returned as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Nanna. I’m sorry to have bothered you. I just felt I ought just to check; you never can be sure nowadays.”

  “No bother, sir, a wise precaution. We wish everybody were as careful.” The first truth he’d uttered, thought Grant Nanna.

  The bank manager replaced the receiver, put the pile of fifty-dollar bills in a brown envelope, accepted the receipt, and shook hands with Mark apologetically.

  “You understand I had to check?”

  “Of course,” said Mark. “I would have done the same myself.”

  He thanked Mr. Guida and the manager and asked them both not to mention the matter to anybody. They nodded with the air of those who know their duty.

  Mark returned to the FBI Building immediately and went straight to the Director’s office. Mrs. McGregor nodded at him. A quiet knock on the door, and he went in.

  “Sorry to interrupt you, sir.”

  “Not at all, Andrews. Have a seat. We were just finishing.”

  Matthew Rogers rose and looked carefully at Andrews and smiled.

  “I’ll try and have the answers for you by lunch, Director,” he said, and left.

  “Well, young man, do you have our Senator in the car downstairs?”

  “No, sir, but I do have these.”

  Mark opened the brown envelope and put twenty-eight fifty-dollar bills on the table.

  “Been robbing a bank, have you? A federal charge, Andrews.”

  “Almost, sir. One of these notes, as you know, was given to Mrs. Casefikis by the man posing as the Greek Orthodox priest.”

  “Well, that will be a nice little conundrum for our fingerprint boys; fifty-six sides with hundreds, perhaps thousands of prints on them. It’s a long shot and it will take a considerable time, but it’s worth a try.” He was careful not to touch the notes. “I’ll have Sommerton deal with it immediately. We’ll also need Mrs. Casefikis’s prints. I’ll also put one of our agents on her house in case the big man returns.” The Director was writing and talking at the same time. “It’s just like the old days when I ran a field office. I do believe I’d enjoy it if it weren’t so serious.”

  “Can I mention just one other thing while I’m here, sir?”

  “Yes, say whatever you want to, Andrews.” Tyson didn’t look up, just continued writing.

  “Mrs. Casefikis is worried about her status in this country. She has no money, no job, and now no husband. She may well have given us a vital lead and she has certainly been as co-operative as possible. I think we might help.”

  The Director pressed a button.

  “Ask Sommerton from Fingerprints to come up immediately, and send Elliott in.”

  Ah, thought Mark, the anonymous man has a name.

  “I’ll do what I can. I’ll see you Monday at seven, Andrews. I’ll be home all weekend if you need me. Don’t stop working.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mark left. He stopped at the Riggs Bank and changed fifteen dollars into quarters. The teller looked at him curiously.

  “Have your own pinball machine, do you?”

  Mark smiled.

  He spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon with a diminishing pile of quarters, calling the weekend-duty secretaries of the sixty-two senators who had been in Washington on 24 February. All of them were most gratified that their senator should be invited to an Environmental Conference; the Director was no fool. At the end of sixty-two phone calls, his ears were numb. Mark studied the results … thirty senators had eaten in the office or with constituents, fifteen had not told their secretaries where they were having lunch or had mentioned some vague “appointment,” and seventeen had attended luncheons hosted by groups as varied as the National Press Club, Common Cause, and the NAACP. One secretary even thought her boss had been at that particular Environmental Luncheon on 24 February. Mark hadn’t been able to think of a reply to that.

  With the Director’s help he was now down to fifteen senators.

  He returned to the Library of Congress, and once again made for the quiet reference room. The librarian did not seem the least bit suspicious of all his questions about particular senators and committees and procedure in the Senate; she was used to graduate students who were just as demanding and far less courteous.

  Mark went back to the shelf that held the Congressional Record. It was easy to find 24 February: it was the only thumbed number in the pile of unbound latest issues. He checked through the fifteen remaining names. On that day, there had been one committee in session, the Foreign Relations Committee; three senators on his list of fifteen were members of that committee, and all three had spoken in committee that morning, according to the Record. The Senate itself had debated two issues that day: the allocation of funds in the Energy Department for solar-energy research, and the Gun Control bill. Some of the remaining twelve had spoken on one or both issues on the floor of the Senate: there was no way of eliminating any of the fifteen, damn it. He listed the fifteen names on fifteen sheets of paper, and read through the Congressional Record for every day from 24 February to 3 March. By each name he noted the senator’s presence or absence from the Senate on each working day. Painstakingly, he built up each senator’s schedule; there were many gaps. It was evident that senators do not spend all their time in the Senate.

  The young librarian was at his elbow. Mark glanced at the clock: 7:30. Throwing-out time. Time to forget the senators and to see Elizabeth. He called her at home.

  “Hello, lovely lady. I think it must be time to eat again. I haven’t had anything since breakfast. Will you take pity on my debilitated state, Doctor, and eat with me?”

  “And do what with you, Mark? I’ve just washed my hair. I think I must have soap in my ears.”

  “Eat with me, I said. That will do for the moment. I just might think of something else later.”

  “I just might say no later,” she said sweetly. “How’s the breathing?”

  “Coming on nicely, thank you, but if I go on thinking what I am thinking right now, I may break out in pimples.”

  “What do you want me to do, pour cold water in the phone?”

  “No, just eat with me. I’ll pick you up in half an hour, hair wet or dry.”

  They found a small restaurant called Mr. Smith’s in Georgetown. Mark was more familiar with it in the summer, when one could sit at a table in the garden at the back. It was crowded with people in their twenties. The perfect place to sit for hours and talk.

  “God,” said Elizabeth. “This is just like being back at college; I thought we had grown out of that.”

  “I’m glad you appreciate it,” Mark smiled.

  “It’s all so predictable. Folksy wooden floors, butcherblock tables, plants. Bach flute sonatas. Next time we’ll try McDonald’s.”

  Mark couldn’t think of a reply, and was saved only by the appearance of a menu.

  “Can you imagine, four years at Yale, and I still don’t know what ratatouille is,” said E