Griffin W.E.B. - Honor Bound 02 - Blood and Honor

"Thank you," Clete said.

"Hear, hear," the Old Man said.

Clete sipped his Sazerac, then set it down and opened the brown paper bag, taking from it a pair of binoculars.

"What have you got there?" the old man asked.

"A pair of Bausch and Lomb 8-by-57-mm binoculars," Clete replied. "I just bought them. I'm sure they're stolen."

"What in the world are you talking about?"

"You asked what I have here, and I'm telling you."

"If they're stolen, where did you get them?" Martha asked.

"In a pawnshop on Canal Street."

He saw that the stolen binoculars now had the Old Man's attention. With a little bit of luck, that would end the questioning about the Navy Cross.

"Why do you think they're stolen?" Martha pursued.

The moment Clete saw the binoculars in the pawnshop he knew they were stolen. For one thing, there was a burnished area (freshly painted over) by the adjustment screw where the Navy customarily engraved USN and the serial number. For another, the price was right, and finally the pawnshop proprietor was exceedingly reluctant to provide a bill of sale. He reduced the price even further on the condition that Clete take possession without paperwork.

Instead of a sense of outrage at the theft, Clete felt a certain admiration for the thief. It had been his experience as an officer of the Naval Service that the three most difficult things to steal from the Navy were pistols, binoculars, and aviator chronographs.

When he was in Washington, where he had spent most of the last six weeks, he would not have been at all surprised if some dedicated, and outraged, Marine Corps supply officer had shown up at Eighth and Eye ( Headquarters, USMC, is at Eighth and I Streets in Washington, D.C.)—or for that matter, had burst into OSS Headquarters in the National Institutes of Health Building—and demanded either the return of his Corps-issued Hamilton chronograph or payment therefore, since he was no longer in a flying billet.

The first time he was shot down, he parachuted into the waters off Tulagi and was rescued by a PT boat. As they roared back to the "Canal," her skipper suggested to him that if he put the Hamilton into his pocket, it might be considered "Lost In Combat."

Since a small gift of a government-issued chronograph to a fellow officer of the Naval Service whose vessel had plucked him from shark-infested waters seemed appropriate, Lieutenant Frade took that Hamilton off his wrist and gave it to him, together with his saltwater-soaked .45 Colt automatic and its holster.

He was, of course, issued another Hamilton chronograph and another .45, but only after a dedicated supply officer (literally during a Japanese strafing raid on Henderson Field) offered him the choice of either paying for both, or signing a two-page document swearing, under pain of perjury—the awesome punishments for which were spelled out in some detail on the form—that they had really and truly, Boy Scout's Honor, cross my heart and hope to die, been lost in combat.

He had paid. The Hamilton on his wrist now was still on some supply officer's books somewhere.

"Look here," Clete said. "You can see where someone ground off 'USN' and the serial number."

Martha looked, and then the Old Man looked.

"If you believed them to be stolen, why did you buy them?" the Old Man asked, incredulously.

"I wanted them," Clete explained reasonably. "You can't just walk into the optical department of Maison Blanche and buy them anymore. The Navy takes all that Bausch and Lomb can make."

"The morality of the question never entered your mind?" Martha asked, with a tolerant smile.

"Oh, but it did. Since they had already been stolen, I decided the higher morality was to make sure they were put to use by a bona fide commissioned officer of the Naval Service, such as myself, rather than, for example, by some tout watching the ponies run at the racetrack."

"You have a screw loose, you know that? Your deck of cards is at least four or five short of the necessary fifty-two. A genetic flaw from your father's side," the Old Man said, and then had what he thought was a sudden insight. "You're pulling our leg, right? Taking advantage of an old man and woman who trust you?"

"Pulling your leg about what?"

The Old Man looked at him suspiciously, then changed the subject.

"Tell me about the Navy Cross," he demanded. "The Senator said the citation was very vague."

"You really want to know?"

"No. Not really. Why should I care how my only grandson earned the nation's second-highest award for gallantry?"

"I'd like to know too," Martha said.

"Well, there I was, cruising along at ten thousand feet, with nothing between me and the earth but a thin blonde . . ."

"Oh, God!" Martha said.

"Spare us your vulgar sense of humor, if you please," the Old Man said sternly, but unable to keep a smile from his lips. "You will have to excuse my grandson, Mr. Needham. He frequently forgets we tried to raise him to be a gentleman."

"I'd venture to say, Mr. Howell, that the Major is simply being modest," Mr. Needham said.

"I suppose that's possible," the Old Man said, visibly pleased. "Unlikely, but possible." He changed the subject: "Well, at least we've had the chance to make sure the portrait is technically accurate, haven't we? There was a problem of time. My grandson returns to duty tomorrow."

"Oh, is that so?" Needham replied. "Where are you going, Major? Or isn't a civilian supposed to ask? 'Loose Lips Sink Ships'?"

"Actually, I'm going to Buenos Aires," Clete said. "And, so far as I know, that's not a military secret."

"Buenos Aires?" Needham asked.

"It's in Argentina," the Old Man offered helpfully.

"About as far from the war as you can get," Clete said.

"Thank God for that," Martha said.

"Cletus has been appointed Assistant Naval Attach? at our embassy there," the Old Man said.

"That sounds very interesting," Needham said. "I don't know anything about Argentina, except, you know, what is it they call their cowboys?"

"Gauchos," Clete said.

"And lovely dark-eyed Se?oritas . . ."

"And some lovely blue-eyed Se?oritas," Clete said, thinking of one of the latter in particular.

"Oh, really?" Martha said, picking up on that. "Has your blue-eyed Se?orita got a name?"

"You sound like you've been there before," Needham said, sparing Clete from having to respond to Martha.

"Yes, I have."

"Unfortunately, he was born there," the Old Man said.

"Really?"

Clete gave the Old Man a warning look. The Old Man met his eyes defiantly, but after a moment, backed off.

"I hope you haven't made plans for dinner, Cletus," the Old Man said. "For reasons I can't imagine, Martha just told me she wants to go to Arnaud's."

"No, Sir," Clete said. "I was planning to have dinner here, with you."

"Another indication that you're not playing with a full deck," the Old Man said. "Why in the world would you prefer to have dinner with me, as opposed to having dinner with a young woman very likely to be dazzled by your uniform and medals?"

"Because you are my grandfather, and despite some monumental flaws of your own, I would rather spend time with you than anyone else I can think of except Martha."

The Old Man looked at him. Tears formed in his eyes. He turned and went to the wall and pulled the call bell.

Jean-Jacques Jouvier appeared almost immediately.

"Call Arnaud's," the Old Man ordered, his voice sounding strange. "Tell them I require a private dining room for three at eight. Tell them—understanding this dinner is important to me—they may prepare whatever they wish. Arrange for the car at 7:45. And when you've done that, bring us another round of Sazeracs."

Jean-Jacques nodded and left the room.

The Old Man looked at Clete, then pointed at the uniform tunic on the red leather couch.