man-all he lacked was Der Bingel’s pipe.
The only official-looking thing about him was the thick manila file folder in one hand. He turned a penetrating gaze on the younger agent. “Have you spoken with our guest?”
His voice was a pleasant second tenor.
“No, sir.”
“Leave me alone with him.”
“Yes, sir.”
The young agent went out, yanking the door shut: the sound was like the pistol shot at the start of a race.
The superior officer in the Hawaiian shirt turned his clear-eyed gaze on me. “Baughman,” he said by way of introduction, sticking out his hand.
Shaking it, I asked,
“That’s right.”
This character in an explosion-at-the-paint-factory shirt was Chief of the Secret Service. I was being interrogated by the top guy.
“Mr. Heller,” he said, chuckling with what seemed to be mild embarrassment, “you’ll have to excuse my informality … I got the call while my wife and I were at a barbecue.”
He was standing looking down at me; he was tall enough that I had to crane my neck back to look at him.
“What call would that be, Chief Baughman? The call to drop your ‘Don’t Mess with the Chef’ apron and grill me personally? Instead of another cheeseburger?”
His thin lips formed a smile; it was like a cut in his pasty face, a wound that opened with the words, “They were shishkabobs, actually-lamb…. You live up to your reputation, Mr. Heller, for having a smart mouth.”
“Is that in my file?”
“Actually, yes … in so many words.”
The breeze-fluttered blinds were making un-melodic metallic music.
I asked, “Why would the Secret Service keep a file on me?”
His non-answer was: “I had a chance to read up on you, on the way over.”
So a chauffeured government limo had been sent to pick him up; and somebody had seen fit to send along a file on me for U. E. Baughman, Chief of the Secret Service himself, to read.
Fanning the air absently with the file, Baughman wandered toward the end of the table, where he sat with his back to the fluttering tone-deaf wind chime of the Venetian blinds, putting some distance between us. Possibly this was to allow him to peruse my file away from my prying eyes.
“Am I being held for anything, Chief Baughman?”
“Certainly not. I hope no one indicated that you were. I don’t condone violation of rules or regulations by any agent.”
“False arrest and kidnapping fall within acceptable guidelines, I take it.”
The piercing gaze in the deceptively bland face bore through me. “You weren’t arrested. And I believe you were asked to accompany the agents.”
“I was shoved bodily in the back of a Buick.”
“Would you like to lodge a complaint about undue force?”
“No. I’m from Chicago, where the cops throw you in the back of cars just to express their affection.”
The thin lips pursed; it was like a crinkle in paper. Then he said, “You’re welcome to leave, Mr. Heller.”
But I just sat there. The son of a bitch knew my curiosity was up.
He began flipping through the file. “You’ve had a rather checkered career, Mr. Heller … friends and enemies in high and low places. It says here you once spoke ‘disrespectfully’ to Director Hoover.”
I shrugged. “I just suggested he do to himself what Clyde Tolson does to him behind closed doors-is that my FBI file? As a taxpayer, I’m gratified to see the various branches of the government rising above their petty differences to cooperate in running roughshod over the rights of the individual citizen.”
“You had some dealings with the Secret Service back in ’32, in Miami…. This
“It would be more impressive if Cermak hadn’t been killed.”
He paged through the file, slowly, savoring its contents. “When you were with the Chicago Police Department, you went to New Jersey to serve as their liaison on the Lindbergh kidnapping case, working with both Frank J. Wilson and Elmer Irey, two of my former bosses here at the Service. Both apparently have a … guardedly high opinion of you and your abilities. In particular, Chief Irey cites your good work for him in the IRS inquiry into Huey Long and his confederates…. My! So you were
“I’ll do the jokes, if you don’t mind.”
“No, actually it’s a very unusual, even noteworthy file. When Eliot Ness was with the Treasury Department in Chicago, and later with the Alcohol and Tax Unit in Ohio, you aided him on several government matters. Then later when he was safety director of Cleveland, you worked with him on several successful investigations …”
“Listen, I know all about my life. I’ve been busy living it for over forty years now.”
“Patriotic, too. Shaved a few years off your age to get into the Marines. Guadalcanal, Silver Star, Purple Heart …”
“Battle fatigue, malaria, Section Eight.”
Baughman shut the manila folder and then lifted it in one hand, as if weighing it. “One of the most curious aspects of your FBI file, Mr. Heller, is that it’s incomplete.”
“In what way?”
“It notes that before the war you on occasion worked for Navy Intelligence, but that your service in that regard is still top-secret. Classified. You know, usually information doesn’t elude J. Edgar Hoover.”
“Maybe I was off in the South Sea Islands looking for Amelia Earhart.”
“I almost believe you.” He tossed the file on the table. “It also says you ‘cooperated favorably’ with British Naval Intelligence on a matter in Nassau in 1943, shortly after you left the military. But no details.”
I leaned back in the hard chair, crossed a leg over a knee. “Well, I’m pretty impressed with me, so far. Why do you suppose I’m not famous?”
Baughman nodded toward the closed file. “Oh, you’ve had your share of press, and there are a good number of clippings here to prove it…. When you left the Chicago Police Department in ’32, to form your A-1 Detective Agency, it was under a cloud of scandal, and since then you’ve been a known associate of mobsters-Al Capone, Frank Nitti, Meyer Lansky, Sam Giancana, Benjamin ‘Bugsy’ Siegel, quite a rogues’ gallery.”
“You must be mistaken. There’s no such thing as the Mafia. I heard J. Edgar Hoover say so on the radio.”
The thin mouth formed another smile: a nasty one. “With your ready wit, that’s where you belong-on the radio, or the television. Uncle Miltie, maybe.”
“Listen, I didn’t come to Washington to be insulted. I can get that back home.”
The penetrating gaze narrowed. “Why
Now we were to it.
“I wanted to be here in time for the cherry blossoms.”
“You can do better than that, Mr. Heller.”
“No, not really. That’s about as clever as I get.”
“Why did you spend today maintaining a stakeout on Secretary Forrestal’s house on Prospect Avenue?”
“Is that what I did?”
“Except when you followed him to Burning Tree golf club, and when you tailed Secretary Forrestal’s maid- Della Brown, is it?” He removed a small notebook from the back pocket of his slacks, flipped it open. “Della Sue Brown, yes. You followed her to Martin’s Bar on Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown.”
“It sounds to me like I was just another tourist hanging around a touristy part of town, except when I took that jaunt over to Maryland to catch a matinee…. You left out where I went to see
