"He's an intelligence officer?" Harris asked, wondering if Dillon really didn't know that intelligence officers pass out information outside their own headquarters only when specifically ordered to do so, and then did so reluctantly.
"No, Sir. He's... Frank Knox sent him over to keep an eye on MacArthur for him."
"You are referring to Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox and General MacArthur?" Harris asked. Dillon nodded, completely oblivious to the oblique reprimand. "And how do you know this?"
"It was all over Washington, General," Dillon said confidently.
This sonofabitch probably was privy to all the high level gossip in Washington. I wouldn't really be surprised if he calls the Secretary of the Navy by his first name.
"Who are we talking about, Dillon?"
"Fleming Pickering, General. He's a Navy Captain. He owns Pacific and Far East Shipping."
"And how do you know Captain Pickering?" Harris asked.
"I used to shoot skeet with him in California," Dillon said. "He's a big skeet shooter. I met him through Bob Stack."
I am about to lose my temper. How dare this sonofabitch waste my time like this?
"The actor, you mean?" Harris asked, evenly.
"Yes, Sir. We had a team for a couple of years, me, Stack, Clark Gable, Howard Hawks-the director-and Pickering."
"Major," Harris said, his voice low and icy, "are you actually suggesting to me that because a Navy captain shot skeet with you and some other Hollywood types before the war, he would make intelligence available to you that we could not get through official channels?"
"No, Sir. Not because of the skeet. He was a Marine. He was a corporal in War One. He and Doc Mclnerney and Jack Stecker were buddies at Belleau Wood. He's got the Silver Star and the Croix de Guerre. He was wounded a couple of times, too."
"By 'Doc Mclnerney,' Major, I gather you are referring to General Mclnerney?"
"Yes, Sir," Dillon said. "And Captain Pickering's boy is in the Corps. The last I heard he was a second lieutenant learning to fly Wildcats at Pensacola."
I'll be goddamned. This guy Pickering might be damned useful.
"Sergeant!" Harris raised his voice. His sergeant quickly appeared at his door. "Send for Major Stecker, 2nd Battalion, 5th. Get him in here right away. And then pass the word to Colonel Goettge that I may want to see him within the next half hour."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
Chapter Ten
(One)
THE ELMS
DANDENONG, VICTORIA, AUSTRALIA
1430 HOURS 1 JULY 1942
When Mrs. Cavendish put her head in the library and told him that there was a telephone call for him, Sergeant John Marston Moore, USMCR, was sitting at a typewriter set up on a heavy library table. He was writing to his beloved, and he was having difficulty. It was a love letter, of course, and he was highly motivated to write it, but neither his passionate intentions, nor the typewriter, nor the privacy of being alone in the house (except for the servants) seemed to help.
There didn't seem to be a hell of a lot one could say on the subject, beyond the obvious, especially for someone who had absolutely no flair for the well-turned romantic phrase. He couldn't even call to mind much of the established literature on the subject, from which he would have eagerly and shamelessly plagiarized.
He got as far as "How do I love thee, let me count the ways-" and then his mind went blank. A phrase-"Thus have I had thee" from a poem he thought was called "Cynara" by Ernest Dowson-kept coming into his mind. But he wasn't sure that was the title, that Ernest Dowson had actually written it; and not only couldn't he remember what came after "Thus have I had thee," but those words seemed to paint an erotic picture, in the biblical sense... as in "Thus have I had thee, standing up against the refrigerator in the apartment on Rittenhouse Square." And the last thing in the world he wanted to do was let Barbara think that all he was interested in was the physical side of their relationship.
That was fine, marvelous, splendid, of course, but his love for her was more than that. He loved her because...
He knew the one thing he could not write to her about was what he was doing now in Australia. Even if he could, he still didn't have all that squared away in his mind. So much had happened to him so quickly, so much that was so extraordinary, and so much he could only guess at, that his confusion was certainly understandable.
Major Banning had driven him from the hill overlooking Port Philip Bay to The Elms. And Lieutenant Hon had been waiting for them there, sitting on the wide veranda of the mansion drinking a beer.
It was the most cordial greeting Moore had ever received from an officer.
"I'm very glad to meet you, Sergeant," he said in Japanese, extending his hand before Moore could even begin to salute. "I owe you a big one."
He looked over Moore's shoulder at Major Banning and explained his last remark: "The Captain called early this morning and said, 'Pluto, I've been thinking. Wouldn't it be more convenient if you moved into The Elms with the Sergeant? Would you mind?' "
Banning laughed.
"I told him that no sacrifice for the war effort, like moving into The Elms, was too much to ask of me."
"That was very noble of you, Pluto," Banning said, in Japanese.
"And I owe it all to you, Sergeant. So welcome, welcome!"
"Thank you, Sir."
Soon after that, a motherly gray-haired woman came onto the veranda, and was introduced as Mrs. Cavendish, the housekeeper.
"Let me show you where you'll be staying, Sergeant, and then we'll serve lunch," she said.
Moore expected that he would be given a servant's room, probably on the third floor of the mansion. But he was taken instead to a large and airy room on the second floor complete with an enormous tiled bath.
"Get yourself settled," she said. "If you have any soiled clothing, or something that needs pressing, just leave it on the bed."
A luncheon of roast pork, green beans, applesauce, coffee, and apple pie was served in the dining room. The tableware was silver, the plates were fine china, the napkins and tablecloth linen, and the glassware that elegantly cradled Moore's beer was Czechoslovakian crystal.
After lunch, they drove into Melbourne to the Menzies Hotel. Lieutenant Hon told Moore to drive: "That's the best way to learn the route. If somebody else is driving, your mind goes to sleep."
At the Menzies, Hon told him to park in an area marked, RESERVED FOR GENERAL STAFF OFFICIAL VEHICLES.
"Our boss, Moore, ranks right under the Emperor in the pecking order around here. And this is his car."
"Yes, Sir."
At the elevator bank, where Banning left them, Moore saw that one elevator bore a sign, RESERVED FOR GENERAL MACARTHUR. He hoped that he would get a chance to see him.
That would be something to write and tell Barbara about. Oh, shit! I can't do that, either.