"Was that before or after he flew you under the Golden Gate Bridge?" she responded, gently sarcastic. "That was inexcusable! Stupid enough on his part, and inexcusable to take you with him." He had been following her into the sitting room.
"Dick, this is Sergeant Hart," she said. "Sergeant, this is Senator Fowler." Jesus Christ, a United States Senator is actually getting out of his chair to shake my hand!
"How do you do, Sergeant?" Fowler said. "I've been hearing a good deal about you lately, all of it good. I'm quite an admirer of your commanding officer."
"Yes, Sir."
"Correction," Senator Fowler said, "I'm quite an admirer of Colonel Rickabee. I'm very fond of your commanding officer, but as Mrs. Pickering and I were just saying, he does need a keeper; and according to Rickabee, you're just the man for the job."
"You're putting the sergeant on a spot, Dick," Patricia Pickering said.
"I certainly didn't mean to," Fowler said. "I meant to make the sergeant welcome."
"Thank you, Sir."
"Where are your things, Sergeant?" Patricia Pickering asked.
"Ma'am?"
"Your uniforms. Your clothing."
"Oh. Captain Sessions arranged for me to share an apartment. It's a couple of blocks away. I went there first."
"We were just talking about that, too," Fowler said. "We think it would be better for you and Lieutenant Moore to be in here with the General. Would that pose a problem for you?"
"Sir, I go where I'm told to go. But I don't know what Colonel Rickabee would say. Or General Pickering. Or, for that matter, Lieutenant Moore."
"I don't think Colonel Rickabee will have any objection," Fowler said. "I'll have a word with him. And that should take care of any objections Lieutenant Moore might have. You know him, I gather?"
"Yes, Sir."
"And General Pickering's vote doesn't count," Patricia Pickering said firmly. "There's a small suite next door," she went on, gesturing toward the wall behind Hart. "I've asked them to put a door in. It should be there by the time Lieutenant Moore gets out of the hospital. With a little luck, that will be before my husband does."
"For the time being you can stay in the spare bedroom," Fowler said. "Is that all right with you?"
"Sir, I do what I'm told." Well, I guess if your father owns the hotel, and you want a door put in, they put a door in.
"There's one more thing, Sergeant," Patricia Pickering said.
"One of our stewards, a fine old fellow named Matthew Howe, is retired here in Washington-" What the hell is she talking about?
,-and he is willing-actually, he seemed delighted when I asked him-to look after my husband. He'll be coming in every day to take care of him."
"What Mrs. Pickering is saying, Sergeant," Senator Fowler explained, "is that Howe will take care of General Pickering's linen and pass the canap‚s, leaving you and Lieutenant Moore free to take care of him in other ways."
"Yes, Sir."
"Our first priority, your first priority, is to see that General Pickering does nothing that might hinder his recovery," Senator Fowler said. "Obviously, Mrs. Pickering and I have a personal interest in that. But I would also strongly suggest to you, Sergeant, that he's not going to be much use to The Marine Corps, for that matter to the country, if he winds up back in the hospital. Do I make my point?"
"Yes, Sir."
"And finally," Fowler said, with a vague gesture toward Pick's mother, "Mrs. Pickering is a little concerned that both you and Lieutenant Moore are armed. I have told her that J. Edgar Hoover and the FBI have done their job, and that there is absolutely no danger to General Pickering from the enemy here in Washington."
"Then why do they need guns?" Patricia Fleming asked quickly, rising to the moment. "My God, Dick, Fleming has his old Marine Corps.45 in there in his dresser!" She pointed toward the bedroom.
"Mrs. Pickering," Hart said, "every cop carries a gun. Ninety-five percent of cops never take them out of their holsters from the time they join the force until they retire."
Fowler looked at him with approval; Patricia Fleming looked at him dubiously.
"Have you ever had to take yours from its holster?" she asked.
I can't lie to this woman.
"Yes, Ma'am, I've had to do that twice."
"That's why Rickabee assigned him to Fleming, Patricia," Fowler said.
"You should find that reassuring."
"I find Sergeant Hart very reassuring," she said. "Everybody carrying a gun disturbs me."
"Speaking of the FBI, Sergeant," Senator Fowler said, "I had a chat with Mr. Hoover this morning. He tells me that since they've come up with very little information about the lunatic who flew his airplane under the Golden Gate Bridge, and since no damage was done, and since the FBI has more important cases to work on, the FBI in San Francisco has been instructed to put that investigation on the back burner." Hart saw a faint smile in Fowler's eyes and on his lips.
Jesus Christ, Hart thought, remembering the suicide in women's underwear his father had been dealing with back home, I guess the fix is in everywhere.
" I would be very surprised if that lunatic was ever hauled before the bar of justice," Fowler added. "You know how these things are."
"Yes, Sir."
"And thank you, Sergeant," Patricia Pickering said, "before I forget it, for getting the lunatic off to war before he got in any more trouble." She met his eyes and smiled.
"I'm on an Eastern Airlines flight out of here at 9:30 tomorrow morning. My husband pointed out to me this afternoon that I really should get back to San Francisco. After all, you're here to take care of him, and I have a shipping company to run.
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Over his objections, I am going to the hospital to say goodbye before I leave. I'd be grateful if you would go with me."
"Yes, Ma'am."
"It is my intention, Sergeant, to tell my husband that the Secretary of the Navy personally ordered you to report to him the very first time my husband does something stupid."
"Yes, Ma'am."
"I told Frank Knox," Senator Fowler said, "that I would relay that order to you."
"Yes, Sir."