“Can I help you?” she said.
“Name’s O’Hara,” I said, standing as high as five nine would take me. “I’ve got an appointment with your Mr. Lyle.”
Damn, the Irish accent had taken over. I touched the brim of my hat to remind me of who I was supposed to be and cursed my stupid disguise silently.
“Come in, Mr. O’Hara,” she said, and I did.
The outer office was small. Secretary’s desk, some files, photographs, paintings of stern-looking old men in ancient suits. “Who are those fellas?” I said, pointing at the wall paintings.
“Henry Clay, Daniel Webster, William Henry Harrison, and Winfield Scott,” she said, going back to her desk efficiently.
The photographs on the wall flanking the portraits were, according to the woman, of various congressmen, none of whom I recognized.
“Most impressive,” I said, getting back my Southern exposure.
“We think so,” she said efficiently. “I’ll show you right in.”
She got up from behind the desk again, knocked at the door behind her, and, hearing a “Come in,” opened it and motioned me to follow her.
I wasn’t sure of what I expected Martin Lyle to look like. I was counting on his never having seen me before and of my accent being just good enough to disguise my voice. Lyle was standing behind his desk, which featured a tabletop American flag. Both hands were on the desk and he had a small smile on his face, the same small smile I had seen on his birdlike face in Doc Olson’s waiting room when he had been sitting there with his parrot.
“You may leave us,” Miss Frederickson,” Lyle said. “In fact, you may simply close the office and take that package to Mr. Sikes in Santa Monica.”
Without a word, Miss Frederickson closed the door and left.
“Now,” Lyle said, apparently not recognizing me in the hat or never having paid attention to me in Olson’s office, “let’s talk about our old friends in Washington.”
I had the big hat in my hands as I sat in the chair across from Lyle, who remained standing, a small smile on his face.
“Allen Hall,” he said evenly.
“Big fellah.” I grinned.
“And am I to understand that you would like to consider joining our organization?” Lyle said, still standing.
“Maybe so,” I chuckled. “Maybe so. I’m ready to do whatever it takes to save this great country of ours from going down with the likes of Franklin De-lay-no Rosey-velt.”
“And so are we,” he said as the door to his right opened and Bass stepped into the room. “So are we, Mr. Peters.”
Bass looked as close to respectable as it was possible for a moving truck to look. He wore a suit, white shirt, and tie, though the short end of the tie was too short and the long, too long. His washed-out blond hair was combed back carefully.
“Accent gave me away?” I said, trying to be calm.
“I knew who you were when you called,” said Lyle, motioning to Bass with a nod of his head. Bass clearly did not understand the nod so Lyle had to sound it out for him. “Go stand at the door to insure that Mr. Peters does not leave before we’ve had a nice chat. You like chatting, don’t you Mr. Peters?”
“I like chatting,” I said, bouncing my cowboy hat on my knee.
“Good,” said Lyle, still standing as he adjusted his rimless glasses. “I’m going to try to reason with you.”
“At the moment I’m very much interested in listening to reason,” I said amiably.
Lyle touched the tip of the gold-painted flag pole on his desk and looked at the flag as he went on.
“Your interference, your insistence on pursuing me and Mr. Bass, could result in publicity so devastating that it could reach the Whig Party. Did you know that we elected two presidents of the United States, two, both of whom were secretly assassinated to keep the Whig Party from flourishing?”
“Two?” I prompted like the congregation in a Southern Baptist Church.
“William Henry Harrison and Zachariah Taylor,” Lyle said. “General Harrison was poisoned by Martin Van Buren less than a month after he took office, and General Taylor was stabbed by minions of Polk after they first corrupted Taylor and forced Henry Clay to expell him from the Party.”
“I never heard any of that,” I said, pretending great interest.
“You mock me, Peters, but the proof is in our book, the manuscript of which will soon be going to the printer to coincide with our national campaign for the presidency. This war we are in would never have come to pass if Henry Clay or Daniel Webster, our founders, had been elected to the presidency.”
“They were against the war with Japan?” I asked.
“Bass,” Lyle said over his shoulder to the unseen Bass behind him. This time Bass understood. He stepped forward and hit the top of my head with an open palm. It felt like a steel beam falling from the top of a tall building.
“Clay and Webster were against our entry into the Mexican Wars,” Lyle explained, though I had trouble hearing him over the vibrating in my ears. “Clay made the mistake of issuing the Raleigh papers early in his own campaign. He opposed the Mexican War. But …”
And with this Lyle raised a fist.
“But …” I agreed, solemnly glancing over to be sure Bass wasn’t going to prompt me.
“But once we were in a war, the Whigs went to military leadership to lead the country as we always did. Tippecanoe, Taylor, and Winfield Scott. And that is what we want, Mr. Peters. A strong military leader to take American back where it belongs, behind its own strong borders, defended with a big stick.”
“And with you behind the scenes as Henry Clay?” I added. “And Bass here will be Daniel Webster?”
“Doctor Olson was to have served that function,” said Lyle. “Behind your sarcasm is accidental truth, Mr. Peters.”
“So?” I said, twirling the cowboy hat in my hand until Lyle nodded and Bass stepped forward to take the hat from me.
“So, if you involve us in some tale of murder, threats, and this dog obsession, it will be very difficult to get a military figure of the stature of Patton, MacArthur, or Eisenhower to join us. We need credibility. Our ranks are small but our resources boundless and our determination unswerving. New members join us every day.”
“Like Mr. Academy,” said Bass, from behind me. I turned to face him, but he had sunk back into attention for his leader, who fixed him with a less than paternal look.
“We did not kill Doctor Olson,” Lyle went on, returning his gaze to the flag. “Roy Olson was a man of great vision, though he had little fortitude for the essential actions of political realism.”
“Like dognapping,” I said.
This time I moved my head as Bass’s palm descended. It was a good and bad idea. It kept my brain from turning to Kosto pudding, but it resulted in his hand hitting my left shoulder. My left arm, hand, and fingers went numb.
“The dog was … There are more important things than the dog,” Lyle sighed.
“Mrs. Olson,” I said, trying to get some life into my tingling fingers.
“Between us,” said Lyle, “and no one will ever believe you outside this room-that was an accident. She found out about certain … things.”
Like the dog, I thought, but I didn’t say anything this time. I wanted two good legs if the chance came to get out of the room. I’d also need at least one good hand to open the door.
“Mr. Bass attempted to reason with her, but things got out of hand.”
With this, Lyle’s hands went up as if to show that the matter was out of his hands, a question of fate or bad timing.
“It was,” he went on, “an accident.”
“And the woman who pretended to be Mrs. Olson,” I said. “The one who kept me from maybe saving Olson the night he was killed, the one who took off my pants in the clinic yesterday?”
Lyle looked at me with genuine curiosity.
“I may have misjudged you, Peters,” he said. “You may simply be mad. Bass, do you know of any such
