Joe pointed out the drawbacks to this notion. Kingstone’s military career, though impressive, had been short-lived. He was never a professional soldier. Conscripted. In and out of the war within a year. Joe voiced the objection that the US had already got an army general with a reputation in the picture.
“That would be MacArthur you’re thinking of? But since last summer his reputation is pretty well a stinking one. Blotted his copy book in no uncertain terms.”
Joe had to admit mystification.
“It happened in July. I think you were up in Scotland, miles away from a newspaper. Rather shocking event! After months of strikes and disorder which nearly brought the country to its knees, the protest to end all protests broke out. The ‘Death March’ around Washington, staged by the Bonus Expeditionary Force. The B.E.N. Old soldiers. Veterans down on their luck. Ten thousand of them gathered to march and demand an instant payment of their ‘bonus.’ The promised veterans’ endowment policy which hadn’t been paid. Worth about a thousand dollars a man. They set up camp outside the capital and called their collection of shacks ‘Hooverville’ after President Herbert Hoover. Being soldiers, they dug latrines, kept the place clean and orderly. Denied use of their assembly to communists and fascists alike. There was no rise in the crime rate. They were unarmed. Some brought their families with them. Planted vegetables. A skirmish with the police left two officers dead and several injured and federal intervention was called for. Unfortunately it was the army’s chief of staff, General Douglas MacArthur, who answered the call.”
“Oh, dear! Heavy fist shaken?”
“Four troops of cavalry, four companies of infantry with machine guns and bayonets, city police in support—oh, and four tanks. Heavy enough for you? The general routed the veterans and chased them across the river. Ordered not to pursue them, he disobeyed the order and set fire to their camp. President Hoover became the first American president to make war on his own citizens. And in their own streets in sight of the White House. Many of them had voted for him. Of course he was not re-elected and in stepped Franklin D. Roosevelt that following autumn.”
A worrying picture was emerging. Joe knew that those soldiers had very likely not disappeared. And it was unlikely they had ever been paid. Men with a double grudge. A man with Kingstone’s record and soldierliness, his feeling for the common man, a Doughboy like them, would be seen as a leader they could admire, not revile. With the press behind him—and who owned the press?—such a man could be built up as one whose talents complemented those of Roosevelt. A worthy sword arm for a democratic president?
He said as much to Bacchus.
“Sounds good to me. Many might think that a winning combination.”
“But what struggle would they be winning? Who do they see as their potential enemy, James?”
Joe didn’t quite like the look of pity for such political innocence that flitted across Bacchus’s handsome features.
“We could start with the usuaclass="underline" communists and fascists. Each faction has its supporters in the States but the government fears these extremists even more when they’re in their native lands, amassing armed forces. I’d discount the Russians and the Italians for various reasons involving preparedness and resolve and look at Japan and Germany. Yes, Germany. I often disagree with Churchill but here I think he’s got it right. Unless, of course, we can respond to the placatory tone of this bloke in your lineup: Heimdallr Ackermann. Question is: whom would you prefer to take on, if it came to a fight against national extremism—a plebeian thug or a patrician schemer? Is this what’s happening, Joe? Class warfare? Takes us right back to the Battle of Crécy when the English were branded cheats and undeserving victors by the aristocratic French knights on account of their use of a company of lower-class yeoman archers. The lads of the village, standing on their own two feet and not a scrap of armour between them, scrupled not to shoot nine thousand arrows in a minute, straight at the French horses. Not very sporting!”
“Low-down trick!” Joe’s chuckle was short. “Just the kind of story I like. Are we out of our depth, James? Any hope that MI6 would be able to make sense of all this?”
“Doubt it. I can ask. Who knows? They may have been given some direction from above regarding the acceptability and trustworthiness of Herr this or Signor that.”
“We mongrels would find it a bit hard to know what to do with our allegiance if we didn’t have a wise government to tell us,” Joe murmured.
“That’s better! A bit of bite-them-in-the-bum cynicism.”
“We’ve rambled too far, James. Let’s stick to facts. And let’s ask ourselves why we’re gnawing at this bone.”
“Are you sure it’s our business? I don’t see a plot against our king or a member of our government looming.”
“I see a sailor with a broken neck and a girl with a bullet in her head. Victims, both, of some overriding ambition I haven’t yet got to grips with. They are my prime concerns. But they’re linked in a way I’m going to understand with the survival—physical and mental—of a man who’s been assigned to my care. A man I’ve grown to admire and like.” Joe allowed himself an evil grin. “And if I can make things uncomfortable, however briefly, for this lineup of arrogant tosspots—so much the better.”
“So we’re saying that this organisation is setting up an unwilling ex-Doughboy to bite the ankles of the opposition. But what exactly is the opposition?”
“We’re not near them yet, James. Tell you what—come with me and stir up the mud a bit more this morning. I may not be able to get near enough to our Morris Men to worry them but I can have a go at their lieutenants. The lower echelon that gets its hands dirty in their service. In so far as they have a centre for their clandestine activities in London, I think we’ve tracked it down. Thanks to the quick thinking and public spirit of a homeless sailor. Absalom Hope. I say his name again because no one else, I fear, will remember him since he sank below the horizon. I’ll tell you about him in the taxi. Now … Can you wait for a moment while I slip into some smart navy suiting with gold frogging? There’s a matron I’m planning to put the wind up!”
CHAPTER 25
The Matron’s office was equipped in the very latest style. Chrome and glass, black leather and silver, by turns dazzled and soothed the eye. A shining expanse of desk, clear but for three white lilies in a Lalique vase, made Joe sigh with envy. How much more efficiently would his own professional life run, he wondered, if he could exchange his ancient mahogany, worn axminster and overflowing onyx ashtrays for such an uncluttered haven. It would have the same predictable effect on anyone visiting. Reassuring. Comforting. If the medical skills were of the same order as the décor, then all would be well, and worth whatever it cost.
The matron herself was of the same style. Pin neat. Navy silk dress with white pleated trimmings at the neck. Though her head-dress was all that formality required, it had been pared down to essentials, shorn of the over-lavish folds and ruches of the traditional confection. It framed an oval face in which the most striking feature was a large pair of hazel eyes. She was a woman in her forties, Joe guessed, who’d had her training during or before the war. She had about her the stillness and economy of gesture of a nun but her eyes—or was it the laughter lines around them?—spoke of a deeper experience than the walls of a convent. Joe reminded himself that this was the woman who had been meticulous enough to descend to the basement kitchen to check the credentials of two unannounced Health Department inspectors and join them in a discussion on the state of the drains. Orford had thought he’d got away with it but Joe wondered about that.
She smiled and indicated that they should sit down in the chairs on the opposite side of the desk. She kept them waiting while she examined their warrants with care. “Commissioner. Superintendent. I’m so pleased to welcome you to the front office. I’m Ellen Frobisher. I usually have a cup of coffee at this hour, will you join me?”