As we rolled down Pennsylvania Avenue at night, the White House loomed to our right, bathed in spotlights like a theater hosting a premiere, only the star here was the structure. Was the Executive Mansion where these Secret Service boys were taking me? Perhaps the President of the United States wanted to consult the President of the A-1 Detective Agency; you know, maybe Harry wanted me to see if Bess was shacked up at the Rockville Shady Rest with Ike or MacArthur or somebody.
My escorts hadn’t bothered sharing any information with me. They sat in the front and I sat in the back, like an obnoxious kid getting his questions ignored by the grown-ups-Am I being charged with anything? Do I need a lawyer? Don’t you guys have any counterfeiters you can go bother? How many more miles, Daddy?
But our destination proved to be just past the White House, flanking it on the east, at Pennsylvania Avenue and 15th Street: a gray granite Greek Revival-style structure that rose five stories and consumed two blocks. I’d been here before-the Treasury Building-on various visits to Elmer Irey and Frank J. Wilson, the Capone case IRS agents I’d seen Glenn Ford playing a composite of, this afternoon. Both Irey and Wilson had risen in the government, Irey eventually overseeing the Treasury Department’s various law-enforcement agencies, including the Secret Service, of which Wilson had become chief in 1936.
Despite a few adversarial situations, the two men were friendly acquaintances of mine, but I couldn’t hope to lean on them tonight: Irey had passed away last year, and Wilson recently retired.
My Secret Service escorts left the black sedan in an outdoor, “United States Government Employees Only” lot and ushered me up a broad flight of stone steps to a colonnaded portico, then through the high-ceilinged, imposing West Lobby; my shoes had surveillance-suitable rubber soles, but the shiny Secret Service shoes created footsteps that echoed off the marble floor like small-arms fire. We moved past an exhibit called “Know Your Money,” featuring methods of detecting counterfeit bills and forged checks, and onto an elevator that stopped at the fourth floor.
They deposited me in a small, rectangular conference room that seemed designed around a small, rectangular dark-varnished oak conference table where I was directed to take the nearest of half a dozen wooden chairs. The walls were a smooth, cream-color plaster occasionally broken up by framed exhibits of damaged money that Treasury experts had managed to identify despite (their prominent labels said) charring by fire, nibbling by mice or shredding by streetcar wheels. The dark-haired, dark-eyed agent who’d showed me his badge stood along a wall without leaning, arms folded, with the expression of a state trooper waiting for you to get your driver’s license out.
“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” I asked him.
“No,” he said.
Well, that was more than he’d said on the way over.
Down at the far end of the table, a single window, tall and narrow, was hidden by barely slitted-open venetian blinds, but behind them the window was open and a cool breeze rattled through, flapping the metal shutters like a stiff flag.
Ten or twelve minutes later, when the door opened and a lanky, thin-lipped, poker-faced guy about my age ambled in, the agent unfolded his arms and stood even more erect. Oddly, this new arrival-however much immediate respect he commanded from my chaperon-was not in suit and tie, but a blue-and-green Hawaiian-print sportshirt, brown slacks and brown sandals with socks; he looked more like Bing Crosby than a Secret Service 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, “Chief Baughman?”
“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 is impressive-Mayor Cermak’s bodyguard at the bandshell when Zangara tried to assassinate Roosevelt?”
“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 Huey Long’s bodyguard as well. Didn’t he also get killed?”
“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 did you come to Washington, Mr. Heller?”
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 Undercover Man in Rockville.”
“When you followed Secretary Forrestal’s chauffeur, Ted Hertel, you mean.”
“Now you have more information than I do; his name’s Ted Hertel, huh? What do you know. I didn’t much care for the movie, if you want to jot that down.”
“What did you and Secretary Forrestal discuss at Chevy Chase golf club yesterday?”
So much for my prowess at spotting somebody else’s surveillance in progress.
I said, “Jim Forrestal’s an old friend; we just played a round of golf.”
“And talked in the clubhouse for two hours.”
“There was a downpour we were waiting out.”
Baughman twitched a smile, sighed and folded his hands atop the closed folder. “Mr. Heller … I’m well aware that, as a professional investigator, you have a certain code of ethics-”
“Are you sure you read my file?”
“I understand your … reluctance … to betray the confidence of a client. But I must ask you-is Secretary Forrestal in fact your client? And, if so, what have you been hired to do?”
“I told you, Chief Baughman … I’m just a tourist.”
“Does your … friendship with Secretary Forrestal date back to these classified jobs you did before the war, for the Navy Department? When he was Secretary of the Navy?”
“Let me get this straight-the head of the Secret Service is asking me to share government secrets? Is this like where they show a kid a picture of a farmyard and there’s a pig upside down and he’s supposed to spot it?”
Baughman ignored that, and an edge came into his mild voice. “We know you did a job for Secretary Forrestal in 1940, when his wife had her mental breakdown-”
“What does Secretary Forrestal have to do with protecting the president, or catching counterfeiters?”
A sharp knock at the door made me jump.
“Jesus!” I said, undermining my stance as a cool customer.
Baughman, raising his voice, said, “Yes?”
The door cracked open and the dark-haired young agent peeked in. “Chief Wilson is here, sir.”
“Good,” Baughman said. “Send him in.”
“He’s just signing in, sir, down the hall. It’ll be a moment.”
Baughman nodded, and the door closed.
“Not Frank Wilson?” I asked. “I thought you were the big cheese around here, now.”
He arched an eyebrow; his tone was arch, too: “Haven’t you heard that expression, Mr. Heller? Too many chiefs and not enough Indians? That’s Washington to a tee.”
“A tee-pee,” I corrected.
He gave me only half a smile but it was completely condescending. “I knew you could be more clever if you tried.”
The door opened and Frank J. Wilson, former Chief of the Secret Service, stepped inside. Baughman stood, out of respect for his onetime boss; and I stood, too, surprised to see this old friend-or anyway, friendly adversary.
“Been a while, Nate,” Wilson said, and there was nothing halfway or condescending about his smile, always a surprise in that dour, jug-eared, round-cleft-chin countenance of his-almost as unexpected as the long feminine lashes of the keenly alert dark blue eyes under thick black slashes of eyebrow behind round, black-rimmed glasses.
No Hawaiian shirt for Wilson: he wore a dark blue suit with a blue-and-red striped tie that, against his white shirt, invoked Old Glory. He was not a big man-perhaps five eight, possibly 180 pounds-but he had considerable presence; his dark hair was almost entirely gray now, and his forehead had receded to Baltimore.
We shook hands-a firm quick clasp from this one-third of the triumvirate of Ness, Irey and himself who had brought down the notorious Scarface Al (Snorkey, to insiders)-and he gestured for Baughman and me to be seated. We sat, at our respective ends of the table, the wind still ruffling the blinds while Wilson, unbuttoning his suitcoat, sat next to me.
“Well,” Wilson said pleasantly, in his businesslike baritone, placing his palms flat on the smoothly varnished table, “where are we?”
It was like somebody who’d come into a movie late, asking what he’d missed.
“Mr. Heller says he’s a tourist,” Baughman said dryly. “He claims that yesterday he was golfing with his old friend Jim Forrestal, strictly social, and today he was taking in the sights of Georgetown.”
“I see,” Wilson said.
“I don’t,” I said. “Frank, I thought you left the Secret Service over a year ago.”
His face had a little less expression than Buster Keaton’s. “I did.”
I leaned forward. “Or were you asked to leave? I know Elmer saw the handwriting on the wall.”
Wilson’s longtime associate Elmer Irey had retired in ’46 after putting political boss Tom Pendergast away-Pendergast of course having been Harry Truman’s political godfather.
“Everyone thinks Elmer stepped down for political reasons,” Wilson said. “But really there were health concerns-obviously.”
“A lot of vital men die when their work gets taken away from them.”
He leaned back in his hard chair. “I’ve never had a conflict with the Truman administration. In fact, I’m still working for them.”
“Not with the Secret Service.”
“No,” Wilson admitted. “I’m a security consultant, attached to the Atomic Energy Commission, at the moment.”
I tried to digest that.
Baughman said, “Frank was nice enough to stop by and take a hand in this, because of your past relationship.”
“A hand in what?” I asked, worry spreading in me like a rash. “Frank, don’t tell me I’ve wandered into A-bomb country here….”
“What are you involved in, Nate?” Wilson asked, eyes narrowing behind the round lenses. “Secretary Forrestal hired you to do something. What?”
“Frank, if your assumptions are right, then Forrestal’s my client. I’m protected by the same client privacy privileges as an attorney.”
“No you aren’t,” Wilson said, “not unless you’re working through an attorney. There are national security issues involved here, Heller. Or would you prefer talking to Hoover’s people?”
Baughman picked up the file folder. “I neglected to mention, Mr. Heller, the two FBI agents who were hospitalized in 1937-in Burbank, California? Broken nose, severe concussion …”
“Surely they’re out by now,” I said, but I sounded cockier than I felt.
“Nate,” Wilson said, leaning forward and, in a gesture oddly personal for him, placing a hand on my right arm, “we’ve learned that Secretary Forrestal believes he’s being followed. That he thinks his phones have been tapped.”
I removed Wilson’s hand like a scab I was picking. “How did you learn that, fellas? By following him, and having his phones tapped?”
Wilson dropped his gaze. “Secretary Forrestal is under a … protective watch.”
“Then he’s not paranoid-he is being followed.”
“Paranoia is a self-fulfilling prophecy, Nate. Forrestal had these feelings before he actually was under surveillance.”
Baughman said, “The president himself asked us to investigate-that’s why this inquiry is in the hands of the Secret Service. I began with the assumption that if a man of Secretary Forrestal’s acumen feels he’s being followed, then in all likelihood he is being followed, and we wanted to know who by, for obvious national security reasons.”
“But he wasn’t,” I said.
“That’s not entirely true,” Baughman admitted. “As you discovered yourself, today, Drew Pearson’s people are actively, continually investigating, even hounding, Secretary Forrestal.”
“Nate, we’d like your cooperation,” Wilson said.
“Why?”
“Let’s begin with you telling us what you’re doing for Secretary Forrestal. After all, we’ve been forthcoming with you.”
And they had been.
So I told them, since-what the hell-they’d figured it out anyway and just needed my confirmation. Then I complimented them on the Secret Service’s expertise, because I sure hadn’t seen any signs of their surveillance.
“We thought perhaps you had,” Baughman said with a wry little smile.
“Why?”
Baughman laughed, once. “Because at one point you fell in right behind Daniels and Burnside, and seemed to be monitoring their conversation.”
I frowned. “Who the hell are Daniels and Burnside?”
“Male and female team of agents. They were posing as honeymooners.”
“Yeah … yeah, I thought they seemed a little wrong.”
“No you didn’t,” Wilson said.
“No I didn’t,” I admitted. “Listen, could Forrestal really be in danger from, say, the Zionists?”
“Unlikely,” Wilson said. “His anti-Israel stance becomes more or less irrelevant when he steps down from office.”
“More or less?”
“Well, he is a potential presidential candidate … but try to kill him? The Israelis are lobbying for American support, raising money, building an image. Would they risk an assassination of a respected, admired American like Jim Forrestal?”
Baughman snorted. “It’s absurd.”
I asked, “What about foreign agents?”
“Reds, you mean.”
“Yeah, or maybe American members of the Communist party, in bed with the Russians.”
Baughman shook his head. “The secretary’s suspicions are unfounded. There’s very little evidence of espionage activity by the Russians in this country, and what there is certainly doesn’t include assassination. Again, Forrestal’s a moot point now-unless his political future should blossom.”
I looked from Baughman to Wilson. “Is that Truman’s interest in Forrestal? As a potential political opponent in the next presidential election?”
“No,” Baughman said firmly. “Truman doesn’t always agree with Forrestal, but he admires the man, and appreciates what he’s done for this country.”
“Nate,” Wilson said, almost gently, “Secretary Forrestal has occupied … at this moment, still does occupy … an extremely rarefied position of power in our government. He is privy to information, secrets, knowledge that only a handful of living Americans share.”
“And if he’s cracking up,” I said, finally starting to get it, “that makes him dangerous.”
Baughman, speaking slowly, as if to a child, said, “This is a man who controls … or at least has controlled … weapons of enormous destructive capacity.”
“You mean planes loaded with atomic bombs. Is this where you and the Atomic Energy Commission come in, Frank?”
Wilson ignored that. “Secretary Forrestal is a great man. A public servant with few peers, a patriot of historic distinction. His government wants to help him, if in fact this is his hour of need.”
Wilson seemed sincere, but I knew horse hockey when I heard it.
“Mr. Heller,” Baughman said, “what we tell you stays in this room.”
“Understood.”
“Secretary Forrestal has become exceedingly nervous and emotional … afflicted with insomnia and loss of appetite.”
“You’ve learned this from surveillance?”
Baughman hesitated, glancing at Wilson, who shrugged and nodded; then Baughman said, “That maid … that same maid Jack Anderson was speaking to tonight, in Georgetown … also spoke to my people. She told us that Mr. Forrestal has become so overly suspicious that whenever the doorbell rings, he goes to a window and peers out secretly, to see who’s there.”
“So does everybody in Chicago.”
Baughman’s brow furrowed. “Does everybody in Chicago wander around the house with their hat on, apparently forgetting they have it on? Does everyone in Chicago look directly at their uniformed maid and ask, ‘Where’s my maid?’”
I shrugged. “He’s under great stress, gentlemen. He worked fourteen hours a day, seven days a week, from before the war till today … and now he’s losing a position that was his whole life.”
“We know,” Baughman said gravely. “We also know that, last week, he went to an attorney and made out his last will and testament.”
“And,” Wilson interjected, “he got a prescription for sleeping pills, and filled it to its entirety … enough pills to put an army to sleep-forever.”
“Now you’re saying he’s a potential suicide.”
“I’m convinced,” Baughman said, “that he’s had a total psychotic breakdown, characterized by suicidal features, yes.”
“Are you a psychiatrist?”
“No. But our field data was interpreted by our top staff psychiatrist, and these are his findings.”
“Without this shrink actually talking to Forrestal.”
Baughman shrugged an admission, then said, “Please understand that this is … treachrous, and embarrassing, turf. We can’t ask the Secretary of Defense to submit to such an examination.”
“Why the hell not?”
“It … it just isn’t done.”
“Oh, so you fire him to hell and gone, instead. Hey, that’ll clear up any of his suicidal tendencies in a hurry.”
Wilson sat forward, saying, “Nate, if the press gets wind of this-”
“Gets wind of this! What do you think Pearson will be talking about on his broadcast tomorrow night?”
“Pearson isn’t the news. He’s a phenomenon unto himself. People listen to him, but they don’t take him as seriously as the front page, or even the editorial section.”
“You trying to convince me, or yourself? What do you guys want from me, anyway?”
Wilson glanced at Baughman, who nodded.
“Have you had dinner?” Wilson asked.
I frowned. “Dinner? No.”
“Grab your hat. Uncle Sam is buying.”
Following Wilson out reluctantly, I informed him, “Don’t get the idea if you feed me, you can fuck me. I’m just not that kind of girl.”
“Really,” Wilson said. “I heard you were easy.”