Ross Thomas - The Seersucker Whipsaw

“Did President Kennedy hold any animosity towards you for working for Mr. Kefauver?”

“A little, but he got over it. After Kefauver won the nomination, Kennedy came to see me. He said, ‘I could have had it with your Western states, Clint. I’ll remember to look you up next time around.’”

“And did he?”

“He looked me up six months later, right after the election. We came to an understanding.”

“I am a great admirer of his. He represented the best of our times and of what your country has to offer. He was one of the few men from whom one could honestly say that one drew inspiration. His death was a personal sorrow to me.”

“It was to a great many,” Shartelle said. “He had the magic they were all looking for. Good magic.”

“Since you are an admirer of Mr. Kennedy, and since you knew him, perhaps you could explain something that has long been puzzling me?”

“I’ll try.”

“Why wasn’t Johnson arrested?”

Shartelle had his cup almost to his lips. He put it down carefully. “I beg your pardon, Chief?”

“What I’m saying is why wasn’t Johnson immediately arrested after the assassination? He was obviously the one who would benefit from Kennedy’s death. His arrest, it seems to me, should have been a matter of course.”

“By whom?”

“By your FBI and your Mr. Hoover,” Chief Akomolo said. “Perhaps in conjunction with your military.”

“You’re not saying it was a plot on Johnson’s part, are you?” Shartelle asked, gazing at Chief Akomolo with what seemed to be delight and admiration.

“Not at all. I’m just saying if I had been in your Mr. Hoover’s shoes I would have clapped some chaps in jail — Johnson, your Mr. MacNamara, Rusk, perhaps the entire Cabinet. I would have suspected something and I certainly would have acted.”

“But the Vice-President becomes President upon the death of the holder of office,” Shartelle said.

“Exactly, and who’s to say that Johnson didn’t hire this Oswald? After all it happened in his home state of Texas. That is enough of a coincidence to arouse the suspicions of even the most naïve mind, Mr. Shartelle.”

Shartelle gazed at the African with open admiration, a wide white grin on his face. “Chief,” he said, “you and me are going to get along just fine. Yes, sir,” he said and nodded his head, still smiling. “Just fine.”

Albertia is shaped like a funnel and its spout is Barkandu, the capital city. Along the thirty-three-mile strip that forms its claim to the sea are some of the finest white sand beaches in the world and some of the most treacherous undertows. In the middle of the strip of sand is a natural deep sea harbor that divides the city geographically and economically. To the north, towards the interior, are the city’s fifty square miles of squalor where the Albertians live on their ninety-sixdollar-a-year average incomes. To the south are the broad boulevards, the neat green lawns, the Consulates, office buildings, hotels (there were four good ones that year), night clubs, foreign-owned shops, department stores, and the Yacht Club.

The site of the Yacht Club was, in the early nineteenth century, the makeshift dock from which a busy slave trade loaded its cargo. The British put an end to the trade — legal trade, anyway — in 1842. The dock fell into disrepair until 1923 when the Yacht Club was built. There were no yachts then, but the name had a nice ring and the district officers could get a cool beer when they came down out of the bush to Barkandu on their semi-annual visits to civilization. The first Albertian was admitted to membership in 1953. He was a doctor who had studied at the University of Edinburgh.

Paul Downer, the Downer in Duffy, Downer and Theims, Ltd., met us at the airport in a chauffeur-driven Humber Super Snipe. He was sweating, even in the air-conditioned comfort of the airport. He wore a white linen suit, already soaked at the armpits, a white shirt, blue knit tie and black shoes. He smoked incessantly.

We shook hands all around. “You know each other, I take it,” I said to Shartelle.

“Sure, Paul and I know each other. We were in the war together, right, Paul?”

“It’s good to see you, Clint,” Downer said.

“You staying long?” Shartelle inquired.

“I’m going back on the evening flight. I got a call from Padraic. He said there’s too much doing in London. He has to have some help. I couldn’t really afford to take the time to come down here — not really. I just did it to help. Politics is not my dish of tea — you know that, Clint.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, I’ve booked you in at the Prince Albert. I thought we’d go there, have lunch, I’d give you a briefing, and then we’d go over to the Consulate and have a chat with Kramer.”

“Who’s Kramer?”

“The Consul General,” I said. “Felix Kramer. He’s been bouncing around Africa since Dulles was Secretary of State. They sidetracked him here in the early 1950’s because he spoke excellent Chinese, Japanese, and a few other Oriental languages.”

“Logical. But I’m not sure I want to meet Mr. Kramer, Paul.”

Downer smiled wisely. “But he wants to see you. Don’t forget, both State and Whitehall are vitally interested in this thing.”

“Now, Paul, old buddy, you and me had better get something straight. I don’t care if the Secretary of State himself wants to cozy up. I’m down here to run a political campaign, and I don’t think Mr. Kramer has too many votes.”

Downer blushed. He had a pink face and it turned a deeper red. He did it all the time. Sometimes he would blush if you asked him for a match. “Goddamn it, Clint, I’ve been smoothing things over for you for the last two weeks. State isn’t too happy about Americans taking a hand in the internal affairs of another country — especially an African one.”

Shartelle drew out his package of Picayunes, took out the last one, looked at the pack regretfully, crumpled it, and tossed it away. “I’m going to miss those,” he said.

“Try the local brands,” I said. “One is called Sweet Ariels. I’ve been told they’re almost as bad.”

Shartelle turned to Downer. “You did say you’re catching the evening plane?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I tell you what. You just drop us off at the hotel and I’ll call Mr. Kramer and Pete and I’ll go on over there and pay our respects. Now I know you probably got a million things to do before you get on that plane so don’t worry about taking us to lunch or anything and I’ll explain things to Mr. Kramer. I imagine he’s a smart old boy and he’ll be able to fully appreciate your situation. And you can tell Pig when you get back that I won’t say anything that will embarrass the firm, or him, or the United States Government, or the D.A.R.”

“Well, maybe I should go with you, Clint. I know Kramer and I know his style.”

“I surely do appreciate your offer, Paul, but like I said, you must have a million things to attend to. I think Pete and I can explain things to Mr. Kramer so that he won’t be too upset about some fellow Americans manipulating the political climate for fun and profit.”

“Maybe I’d better give Padraic a call and—”

“There’s no need to give Padraic a call. Because if you give Padraic a call, then I’m going to be on that evening plane back to London with you.”

Downer mumbled something that passed for assent, turned a shade pinker, and followed us to pick up our bags at customs. A tall, thin young Negro carried them out to the car and put them into the trunk. Or boot, I suppose, since it was a Humber.

“We go for Prince Albert one time,” Downer told the driver. “You’ll have to learn pidgin, Clint,” he said. “They don’t understand anything else.” Shartelle nodded.