“Good morning, Mr. Jorgensen!” Miss Irving was forty and determinedly bright and once had been pretty and thought Mr. Altinger was very difficult but
She put the pile of opened letters at Otto’s elbow and laid directly before him a bulky envelope, still sealed. She said:
“It’s another one from that
Otto laughed, for Mr. Blum was an office joke—an elderly fuss-budget who wanted one of the Altinger houses but could never make up his mind where to put it. He said:
“Probably he wants a trailer now—to put the house on,” and Miss Irving laughed trillingly and thought that was
She went, and Otto, after a decent interval, wandered into Altinger’s room, which, as a confidential assistant, he used freely when its owner wasn’t there. It was a pleasant room—sunny and comfortably furnished. And it was sound-proof, because Mr. Altinger could not bear to work with any outside distraction.
Otto opened the letter from the pesky Mr. Blum and found the usual four-page diatribe and quickly decoded it. For convenience, he scribbled the inner message upon a sheet from Altinger’s desk-pad. He then memorized it and burnt the sheet and dropped the ashes into Altinger’s waste-paper basket and picked up an outside telephone.
He found Altinger at the third number he dialled.
“Sorry to trouble,” he said. “But I wished confirmation on the Seattle Number Four contract.”
“It’s okay,” said Altinger’s harsh voice. “Go ahead. Anything else?”
“Nothing,” Otto said. “Except
“Old fool!” said Altinger. “Well—I’ll phone him when I get to the office. I’ll be there anyway in about half an hour.”
But he was there in eleven minutes.
“I don’t quite understand,” Otto said when they were alone. “But you will perhaps. The decoding says: ‘Tipping and Coley Seattle bound Thursday. Nine-thirty p.m. leave San. F. Make utmost endeavour.’”
Altinger swore roundly. He said:
“I knew it! What an infernal nuisance! But there’s nothing for it—it’s order, and there you are!” He looked at Otto with a wolfish grin, “You’ll have to handle part of it.”
“What is it?” said Otto patiently. “Who are Tipping and Coley? And what is there to do?”
Altinger threw himself into his swivel chair and cocked his feet on the desk. He said:
“It’s a nasty job, young Jorgensen. And there isn’t time to plan it properly. Hit-or-miss sort of thing—only we’d better not miss!” He brought his feet down with a slam and leaned on the desk and pointed to the chair facing him.
“Siddown,” he said. “And get a load of it. Tipping and Coley are both Senators. Tipping’s a Democrat, Coley’s a Republican—but they’re both Interventionists—violent. There’s been a scheme cooked up in the White House to give ’em an Investigation Committee: like Dies’ but a whole hell of a lot tougher—and quieter. The Staff Council think they’re very important; that if they really get going they’ll get wise to a lot of things.” His lip curled. “That’s what the Council thinks—so we obey orders. And the orders are to wreck the train. Nine-thirty to-morrow night—ummmm!”
He leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the desk again, looking up at the ceiling in his usual attitude of thought with head on one side and one eye closed.
There was a long silence which Otto broke at last. He said:
“To wreck a train is not to make sure of killing any two particular people on that train.”
Altinger brought his gaze down from the ceiling. “You said it! But you’ve heard of orders, haven’t you? And if we choose the right place and make a right job, it’s thirty to one we get ’em. Shut up while I think.”
He cocked his head and stared one-eyed at the ceiling again—but this time it was not long before he spoke. He said: