“I’m sorry?”
“The ambassador,” Rumsey explained. “Hildorg Chk. In case we were loyal to him, they threw us all out.”
“Were you loyal to him?”
Rumsey shrugged. “While he was there.”
“Yes, of course.” Looking down at his paperwork again, Hall said, “I see I have another former employee of Ambassador Um here.”
“Yeah, Fred.”
“Fredric Blanchard.”
“I’m staying with him and a cousin of his,” Rumsey said, “until I find a thing.”
Which led Hall to offer the house where Gillette and Swope were already billeted, which was accepted at once. After that, he reassured himself that Rumsey, like the others, was content with his terms of employment, then said, “So I’ll expect you at eight in the morning, show you your pantry, where the callbells are located, internal telephone, all that. Introduce you to my wife and what’s left of the staff.”
“That’s good,” Rumsey said. “Only, shouldn’t your wife say I’m okay first? I wouldn’t wanna think I got a thing here and then your wife says, ‘Listen, I don’t want that guy.’ I mean, it can kinda happen, that kinda thing.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Hall said, pleased and surprised by the man’s sensitivity. “But my wife and I discussed it, and our situation is so, shall we say, unusual here, unless it’s a maid for herself, for instance, or something like that, she’ll be guided completely by me.”
Rumsey nodded. “So if you say I’m in, I’m in.”
“Exactly. So you can move into the house any time today, the guards at the gate will know to let you through, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
“See you then,” Rumsey said, and came very close to smiling, Hall caught him at it. He should smile more often, Hall thought, it makes him look a trifle less pessimistic.
Rumsey got to his feet and sloped across the office. Hall watched him carefully, and it seemed to him Rumsey did a very creditable handling of the door.
•
The last of the four, Fredric Blanchard, the private secretary, was the most difficult of the interviews because, on sober reflection, Hall finally admitted to himself he no longer needed a private secretary. There are people one needs at one stage of life—a nanny, say, a tutor, a drug dealer, a bookie, a bail bondsman—that one simply doesn’t need at some other stage of life. Has no use for, no call upon.
In a word, “I’m sorry,” Hall told the bright-eyed, sharp-nosed attentive fellow across the desk, “but I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time. I shouldn’t have had you come out here.”
Fred Blanchard cocked his head, like a particularly attentive crow, without losing the welcoming smile he’d brought in here. “Sorry to hear that,” he said. “Can I ask how I come up short?”
“It isn’t you, you know,” Hall told him. “It’s me. You’re overqualified. I don’t need a private secretary anymore.”
“I have trouble believing that,” Blanchard told him.
“Oh, I used to need a private secretary,” Hall said, with a little nostalgic sigh. “Two, in fact. They were always at each other’s throats, that was part of the fun of it. But, you see, I don’t have that kind of life any more, I’m not flying off here, skiing off there, board of directors meetings, chairman of symphony board, all that’s behind me now. I barely—you know, legally I could leave this property, if not the state, but I just don’t feel like it any more. The fire’s gone out. I just stay here.”
“Mr. Hall,” Blanchard said, “if I may say so, sir, you need me more than ever. Now is the time you need me, sir.”
“Need you?” Hall didn’t understand. “For what?”
“Rehabilitation!” Blanchard cried, and pointed a stern finger at the ceiling. “It’s time,” he declared, in ringing tones, “to get your story out there!”
“My story is out there,” Hall said, “that’s the trouble.”
“Your old story is out there,” Blanchard insisted. “It’s time for a new story, and that’s why you need me. A personal. Private. Secretary.”
“Yes, but—”
But Blanchard was unstoppable. “Now, if I were PR, you’d be wrong to say yes. The evils PR do would be hard to assess. That starts with ‘P,’ and it rhymes with ‘T,’ and that means trouble. But a private secretary doesn’t have that commercial hypocritical taint. A private secretary can get the new you out there!”
“The new me?”
“It’s time,” declared Blanchard, “that everybody just got over it!”
“Yes!” cried Hall. “Just myself, I—”
“You’re chastened,” Hall told him. “You’re human after all. You regret the effects of what you’ve done, but that’s the past. That’s yesterday, when all your troubles—”
“Would I have to give back the money?”
“Never!” Blanchard’s eyes flashed. “You’re explaining your common humanity, you’re not feeding the multitudes!”
“No, no, I see.”
“We’ll start small,” Blanchard said. Somehow, he was halfway across Hall’s desk, staring into his eyes. “Church social egg rolls on the lawn. Boy Scout groups meeting here. Have your photo taken at the wheel of one of Mr. Hall’s famous cars.”
“Not driving it!”
“Sitting in it.” Blanchard beamed, his arms spread wide. “The squire of Pennsylvania,” he announced. “How bad a fella could he be?”
“You’re hired!” Hall cried.
32
MAC SAID, “BUDDY? Wha’d we stop here for?” Here was the road along the periphery of Monroe Hall’s estate. Everything to the left of the road belonged to Hall. The guardshack entrance was about a mile and a half behind them. Buddy had pulled off where the shoulder was wide, and across the way was the end of the former tomato farm, now reverted to weeds, with the untouched woods just starting to its right.
Buddy said, “Look at that place. Not a gate around. You could just walk in there.”
“The wire,” Mac said.
Buddy, sounding bedeviled, said, “I know, I know.”
As usual, Buddy drove, Mac in back. Now Ace, beside Buddy, frowned at him and said, “Buddy? You got an idea?”
“I don’t know.” Buddy glared at the peaceful empty field over there as though trying to read too-small print. “The wires are too close together,” he said.
Mac said, “We know that.”
“We don’t have a plane,” Buddy said, and nodded. “And we can’t get one, I know that.”
“Good,” Mac said.
Buddy said, “Could we pole-vault over it?”
“Not me,” Ace said.
Mac said, “Buddy, did you do pole vault in high school?”
“I don’t think we had pole vault,” Buddy admitted.
Mac said, “You wanna try to learn pole vault now, at your weight—”
“Whadaya mean, my weight?”
“You know what I mean. Any of our weight, but you’re the one wants to pole-vault. You figure you’ll get over that electric wire and not fly into it three feet off the ground like the Wright brothers—”
“I could train,” Buddy said. “We could all train.”
“Tonto go home now,” Ace said.
Mac said, “I could hold your coat, Buddy. And I could take you to the emergency room after you land.”
Buddy, exasperated, said, “Now, who the hell is this?”
“It’s me, Buddy, Mac, your friend, and I’m trying to—”
“No, this little white car behind us.”