Дональд Уэстлейк - The Spy in the Ointment

Well. I’d thought and voiced and even written exactly the same sentiment myself more than once the last thirteen years, but hearing it spoken directly to my face by a total stranger was something else again. Besides, where did he come off knowing so much about me? He wasn’t the FBI. I said, “Well—”

But he had other plans for the conversation. “The J. Eugene Raxford I am concerned with,” he went grandly on, brooking no interruption, “is National Chairman of the Citizens’ Independence Union! May he prosper, may he persevere, may he see his dreams come true!”

It suddenly occurred to me this bird was a uniform salesman. You get that sort of thing when you run a radical movement: people wanting to sell you uniforms. Army surplus weapons, blank signs. They never believe I’m not rolling in Moscow gold. My reaction, therefore, was somewhat cool to Mr. Eustaly’s rhapsodic mention of the organization. I said, in fact, “What about it?”

“Mr. Raxford,” he said, leaning forward and pointing a tapered clean finger at me, “have you ever heard of the American Sons’ Militia?”

“No.”

“The National Fascist Reclamation Commission?”

“No.”

“The Progressive Proletarian Party?”

“No.”

“The Brotherhood of Christ Defense Fund?”

“No.”

“The Sons of Erin Expeditionary Force?”

“No.”

“The Householders’ Separatist Movement?”

“No.”

“The Pan-Arabian World Freedom Society?”

“No.”

“The Eurasian Relief Corps?”

“No.”

“The Gentile Mothers for Peace?”

“What? No!”

“The True Zion Rescue Mission?”

I shook my head.

He smiled at me. He sat back; the cane chair creaked. He opened his topcoat, flipped his scarf ends to left and right, and displayed a shirt front as gleaming white as Mount Snow on a sunny day. An olive-green bow tie surmounted it all, as though marking timber line. The collar was not at all wing; in fact, it was button-down.

“Mr. Raxford,” he said softly, smiling the while, “your Citizens’ Independence Union has one characteristic in common with each of the organizations I just mentioned to you.” I was a little worried as to what he might say next — ‘They’re all nut groups,’ for instance — but I gave him the straight line anyway. “What’s that?” I asked.

“Method,” he said. His smile broadened. “Each of these eleven organizations — yours and the other ten — has its own separate, and perhaps even contradictory, program and goal. The goals are disparate, and in some cases directly opposed one to the other, but the means of attaining the goal is identical in every case . Each of the groups I have mentioned is a — terrorist organization!”

“Terrorist? Terrorist?”

“Each of these organizations,” he informed me, “believes in direct and dramatic methods. Bombs! Bloodshed! Burning! Destruction! Terror!” As he called out each word, his eyes glittered, his goatee grew sharper, his hands gesticulated.

“Now wait a second,” I said, edging the chair backward, “just a second there, just a second.”

“Violence!” declared Eustaly, relishing the word. “Before the new order can be introduced, the old order must be destroyed! That is the common bond among these eleven organizations!”

“Now wait,” I said, getting to my feet and going around behind the chair, “you’ve got me wrong there, my friend. I don’t want to destroy anything, except maybe that mimeograph ma—”

“Oh, of course, of course!” he cried, laughing, slapping his knees, giving me broad winks. “You can’t be too careful, I realize that. What if I were an FBI agent in disguise, eh? And you made damaging admissions to me. What of that? No, you’re very right to deny everything.”

“Here,” I said. “Wait a minute, just let me get—” I hurried over to the table by the window, riffled through the pamphlets there, and finally came up with a fairly neat-looking copy of the one I wanted: What Is the CIU? I rushed back with this and offered it to him. “Just read this,” I said, “you’ll see we’re not at all—”

He brushed it aside, still twinkling and smirking and winking to beat the band, and said, “Really, Mr. Raxford, this isn’t necessary! Let us just accept your protests as stated, and go on from there. You deny any terrorist motivation, any destructive desire. Excellent. Denial acknowledged. Now, if I may be permitted to continue...”

“Mr. Eustaly, I really don’t think—”

“But it is not at all necessary, I assure you. Please! Allow me to continue.”

I considered. Throw him out? Ignore him? Continue to argue with him? But he hadn’t denied any terrorist motivation or destructive desire. If Mr. Eustaly were, after all, some kind of nut — as it was seeming more and more certain he was — my best move would be to humor him.

Besides, it was a distraction from the mimeograph, than which anything was better, even a nut in a velvet collar. So I sat down again, crossed my legs, laced my fingers, rested my inky hands on my inky trouser knee — oh, I tell you, that mimeograph entertained terrorist motivations of its own — and said, “All right, Mr. Eustaly. I’ll listen.”

His smirk now was knowing. “Of course you will,” he said slyly. “Of course you will.” He raised one finger. “Now,” he said. “I told you these organizations I mentioned had one thing in common, but that statement was more dramatic than true. Actually, you all have many things in common, much more than you might initially suppose. You are, for instance, all relatively small and obscure. You are all short of funds. Each of you is located, either entirely or primarily, in the Greater New York area.”

He paused, but I knew it was only for effect, and though I was prepared to humor him I was not prepared to make unnecessary surprised noises for him, so I sat and swung my inky leg and waited for him to get on with it.

Which, at length, he did. “Now,” he said. “I have pointed out that although the ultimate goals of these eleven organizations vary, their immediate goal is identical. That is, destruction. And I offer you, Mr. Raxford, this suggestion: That these eleven organizations could surely wreak far more havoc were they to co-operate with one another, act in concert and according to an overall plan, than they could possibly do if each continued its own way, separate and alone.” He cocked his head, closed one eye, and said, “ N’est-ce pas? ”

“Well,” I said, “it certainly does sound sensible, I’ll admit that.”

“Then you’re interested.”

“Well...”

He smiled genially, and fluttered his fingers at me. “Ah, Mr. Raxford, you’re a careful man, I can see that. But I am not asking you to commit yourself now; of course you will have to be sure I really can deliver this, this coalition .” He smiled at the word. “I am,” he went on, “arranging a meeting for this evening at midnight at the Odd Fellows’ Hall, Broadway and 88th Street, here in Manhattan. The full details of the plan will be outlined at that time, and the leaders of the organizations will have an opportunity to become acquainted.”

Guardedly, I said, “What if I don’t show up?”

He smiled at me in a Mediterranean manner. “Then that will tell me you have made your decision. Agreed?”

Anything to get rid of him. “Agreed,” I said.

“Excellent.” He rose, adjusting his scarf and buttoning his topcoat. “The password,” he said, “will be greensleeves. ” The Mediterranean smile warmed me again. “It has been most enjoyable meeting you at last, Mr. Raxford. I have followed your career with a good deal of interest.”