“You did not come home last night,” he said evenly, indicating concern without interference.
Sitting up on the floor, I was almost at eye level with him.
“Case,” I said, tasting my tongue. “Secret, big.”
“Mrs. Roosevelt,” he said.
“My secret mission seems to be this morning’s news,” I said, getting up and groping for my-Olson’s-pants.
“Mrs. Plaut and I exchanged information while attempting to take a coherent message,” he explained. “I assumed from your converse just now …”
“You assumed right,” I said, unable to resist the urge to scratch my stomach. “Listen Gunther, I’ve got to shave my teeth and brush my beard. You want to put some coffee on? I’ll be right back.”
Gunther nodded politely and moved to the corner of my room, which served as my kitchen and which Gunther always approached as if on a mission to deal with an attacking horde of army ants.
No one was in the bathroom so I managed to finish my shaving and brushing with a new bottle of Teel in less than ten minutes. I put Olson’s shirt and tie back on, slipped on my second pair of socks, the ones with only one hole, and went back to my room. The coffee was poured, and a bowl of Wheaties stood waiting for me with a nearly empty bottle of milk next to it. Gunther sat sipping his coffee with great gentility and dignity, his feet not quite touching the floor.
Gunther had a book in front of him and was deep in thought over something in it.
“What’s the problem?” I said helpfully, now that I was awake and capable of thought and movement.
“Passage that requires a translation,” he said, tapping the tome in front of him. “What does it mean, ‘Take a deep breath, and call lung distance? Should that not be ‘long distance’? And even so, I believe there is intended some crude form of wit in this.”
I was well into my second bowl of Wheaties and had used the last of the milk on it when I concluded my explanation. Gunther had sipped coffee silently, nodding occasionally to show that he followed my explanation.
“Would you say it is a good joke?” he asked seriously. “I mean in English.”
“It sounds like Lum and Abner,” I said, finishing my coffee.
“Then I’d best find some means of rendering it in French,” he said seriously. Then he changed the subject, coming to something that I could see had been on his mind.
“What is it, Gunther?”
“If you are engaged in something that will even in a small way help in the war effort, I should like to offer my assistance, even in a small way.”
With anyone else I would have been unable to resist the opening and get in three or four small jokes.
“I have great loyalty to this nation,” he said, back erect, “as you know. Many of my people, most of my people, my own relations in Berne, assure me of their similar feelings though to be neutral is of a necessity.”
“You don’t have to explain to me, Gunther,” I said, getting up and gathering the dishes. Gunther must, indeed, have been grappling with weighty thoughts because he didn’t stop me. Usually, the thought of my cleaning anything up was repulsive enough for Gunther to not only volunteer, but to insist that he take over. He wiped the corners of his mouth neatly with a paper napkin and hopped with dignity from his chair.
“I have offered my services,” he said. “They are sincere.”
“Okay,” I sighed, “I’ll take you up on the offer. I’ll give you the address of a veterinary clinic in Sherman Oaks. I want you to go there, wait for a blond hulk. His name is Bass. Follow him but don’t let him see you. That shouldn’t be too hard. There aren’t too many smarts rattling inside him.”
Gunther nodded knowingly, and I explained the whole thing, including Olson’s murder, the missing dog, everything.
“I’m relieved,” he said with a small grin. “I was afraid you had chosen that suit. While properly conservative, it does not accommodate your personality.”
“It’ll have to do,” I said, thinking that Gunther would also have to do. Normally, it is not a wise thing to send a midget out to tail a suspect. There is no such thing as an inconspicuous midget or little person, but then again there are few people as dense as Bass seemed to be.
Gunther hurried to his room to get on with his assignment, and I decided to do the dishes some other time. In the hallway I flexed my muscles, decided that they still functioned, and moved to the phone on the wall to make a few calls.
Eleanor Roosevelt did not answer at the number she gave me, but a woman with what sounded like an English accent did. I gave her my name and she told me to wait. Gunther passed me, still suited, nodded seriously, and went down the stairs. The phone rang.
“Mr. Peters?” came Eleanor Roosevelt’s voice.
“Mrs. Roosevelt,” I said. “Things are getting a bit complicated.”
“I have been informed about Doctor Olson,” she said. “Do you think it has something to do with Fala? I should hate to think that a man actually died because of some intrigue over a dog, but then regard for human life has not been this low since the reign of the Teutons.”
“I guess,” I said. “But this might be getting beyond the stage where I can handle it. You might want to call in the heavier guns, the FBI, whoever.”
There was a pause while she considered what to say next.
“Mr. Peters, it is quite evident to both of us that you wish to continue this inquiry. You have my trust, and I feel confident that you will not betray it. Beyond loyalty, there is little else that can be asked or received.”
“Intelligence would be nice,” I said.
She laughed gently. “You do not strike me as an unintelligent man,” she said. “There are those who pose as men in the heart of our own government, even those who have been elected, whose intellect does not surpass that of a small terrier and whose loyalty lags far behind. The canine reminder is, by the way, quite intentional.”
“I’ll get back to work and get to you as soon as I can,” I said.
“Remember,” she said, “I have only a few days. I must be back in Washington for the Peruvian dinner, and Mr. Molotov is coming.”
“Sounds like a fun-packed few months,” I sympathized.
“Mr. Molotov is, in fact, quite nice,” she said. “His English is good, his sense of humor mischievous, and his manner poor. He actually brings his own food and carries a loaded gun in his suitcase.”
There I stood chatting with the First Lady in the hallway of Mrs. Plaut’s boarding house when Mrs. Plaut herself appeared at the bottom of the stairs, saw me, and began her resolute way up.
“I’ll have to go now, Mrs. Roosevelt,” I said. “Something important just came up. I’ll report as soon as I can.”
“Be careful Mr. Peters,” she concluded. “The dog is important, but it is, after all, a dog.”
“I’ll remember that,” I said, hanging up and wondering if I could make it back to my room before Mrs. Plaut caught up with me. But she was too fast.
“Mr. Peelers,” she said, cutting off my retreat with her wiry body. “Now, I think, would be a good time to discuss Aunt Gumm.”
“Mrs. Plaut,” I began, “I’ve got … forget it. It’s a fine time to discuss Aunt Gumm and Mexico.
“The Mexicans,” she said knowingly, “pronounce it Me-he-co.”
By noon I had developed a headache from shouting, but managed to break away from Mrs. Plaut. I didn’t use the phone in the hallway for fear that she would want to talk further about her proposed next chapter dealing with her mother’s encounter with the Mormons.
I darted down the stairs, out the door into the sunshine, and made it to my car in near record time. I found a Rexall drugstore and called Jeremy Butler’s office/home number at the Farraday. He didn’t answer but Alice Palice did. Alice and Jeremy had become “good friends.” It was a union that did not bear too much fantasy. Alice more than occupied space on the third floor of the Farraday. She ran Artistic Books, Inc., an economical operation, consisting of one small printing press that weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. Alice, who looked something like a printing press herself, could easily hoist the press on her shoulder and move it to another office when the going got rough.