see. It was a plain sheet of ordinary bond paper, and the text was single-spaced neatly in the center of the sheet with no errors or exings. From habit and experience I noted two mechanical peculiarities: the
“Hot stuff,” Lawson said, sitting down. “He could a tale unfold, but he doesn’t. Nothing but insinuations.”
Fife asked him sarcastically, “Does that close the matter, Lieutenant?”
“Sir?”
“I ask, is your verdict final, or are we to be permitted to proceed?”
“Oh.” Lawson showed color. “I beg your pardon, sir. I was merely observing-”
“There’s another way to observe. Look and listen.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If I may be allowed-” Colonel Tinkham offered.
“Well?”
“Interesting points about that letter. It was written by a person who is incisive and highly literate and who also types expertly. Or it was dictated to a stenographer, which doesn’t seem likely. The margining at the right is remarkably even. And the double spaces after periods-”
Wolfe made a noise, and Fife glanced at him. “What?”
“Nothing,” Wolfe said. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind if this chair were properly constructed and of a proper size. I suggest, if the discussion is to be at kindergarten level, that we all sit on the floor.”
“Not a bad idea. We may come to that.” Fife turned to Shattuck. “When did you get the letter?”
“In the mail Saturday morning,” Shattuck told him. “Plain envelope of course, address typed, marked personal. Postmarked New York, Station R, 7:30 p.m. Friday. My first impulse was to turn it over to the F.B.I., but I decided that wouldn’t be fair to you fellows, so I telephoned Harold-Colonel Ryder. I was coming to New York today anyway-speaking at a dinner tonight of the National Industrial Association-and we agreed this was the way to handle it.”
“You haven’t-you didn’t take it up with General Carpenter?”
“No.” Shattuck smiled. “After that performance when he appeared to testify before my committee a couple of months ago-I didn’t feel like crossing his path.”
“This is his path.”
“I know, but he’s not patrolling this sector of it at this moment-” Shattuck’s eyes widened-“or is he?”
Fife shook his head. “He’s stewing in Washington. Or sizzling. Or both. So you’re turning the letter over to us for investigation. Is that it?”
“I don’t know.” Shattuck hesitated. He was meeting the general’s eyes. “It came to me as chairman of a Congressional committee. I came here-to discuss the matter.”
“You know-” Fife also hesitated. He went on, choosing words: “You know, of course, I could merely say military security is involved and the question cannot be discussed.”
“I know,” Shattuck agreed. “You could say that.” He bore down a little on the “could.”
Fife regarded him without affection.
“This is unofficial and off the record. There is nothing in that letter to show that the writer has any useful information. Anyone with any sense would know that in our war production, with thousands of men in positions of trust, and enormous interests and billions of dollars involved, things happen. Lots of them, probably including the sort of thing that letter hints at. One of the jobs of Military Intelligence is to help to prevent such things from happening, as far as we can.”
“Of course,” Shattuck put in, “I had no idea this would be a bolt from the blue for you.”
“Thank you.” Fife didn’t sound grateful. “It isn’t. Did you see that pink thing Ryder put in his desk drawer? You did. That’s a new kind of grenade-not only new in construction, but in its contents. Somebody wanted some samples, and got them. Not the enemy-at least we don’t think so. Captain Cross, who died last week, was working on it. Nobody on earth except the men in this room knew what Cross was doing. Cross found the trail, we don’t know how, because he hadn’t reported in since Monday, and now we may never know. Major Goodwin did a neat piece of work with an entry in Cross’s memo book which apparently didn’t mean anything, and found the grenades in a shipping carton in the checkroom at a bus terminal where Cross had left them. I tell you about this because Cross is mentioned in that letter, and also as an instance to show that if the writer of the letter wants to tell us anything we don’t know he’ll have to come again.”
Shattuck remonstrated. “Good heavens, General, I know very well you weren’t born yesterday. And ordinarily any anonymous letter I receive gets tossed in the wastebasket. But I thought you ought to know about it-and then the one specific thing in it-about Cross. Of course that was investigated?”
“It was. By the police.”
“And,” Shattuck insisted, “by you?” Then he added hastily, “I think that’s a proper question. Unofficially. Since a police investigation would be somewhat ineffectual unless they were told exactly what Cross was doing and were given the names of those who were-well-aware of it. I don’t suppose you felt free to disclose that to the police?”
Fife said slowly, choosing his words again, “We co-operate with the police to the limit of discretion. As for your first question, proper or not, it is no military secret that Nero Wolfe has worked with us on various
