A Matter of Honor

Chapter Twenty-six

A female civilian wearing a striped cafeteria uniform brought a tray of coffee and sandwiches into Colonel Benton’s office. The colonel slipped off his military jacket and hung it inside the closet door. Major Staub stood at the window, a half-smoked cigarette slanting in his mouth, watching a squadron of Navy jets heading toward the Potomac.

Benton thanked the young woman and when the door closed, said to the major, “I’m late because Senator Copeland was late, but I wanted to bring him abreast of our operation, convince him everything’s under control. He’s pleased.” The colonel laughed without humor. “In fact, he tried to reassure me that this is just a small-time operation.”

“Copeland is a self-made senile; he was born an old fogey. That man would rather talk than think,” Major Staub said. “But in this case, I believe he’s right.”

“Spare me your amateur aphorisms, or whatever those were,” Benton said, “and come over here and serve yourself, Merrill. I’m in no mood to play host.”

Staub moved to the desk and lifted a slice off several sandwiches before finding one that suited him. He poured himself black coffee and took his lunch back to the window seat.

“Goddamn it,” Benton said impatiently as he rifled the sandwich tray. “I told them no cheese and no egg salad. Whatever happened to watercress and turkey and class? If it isn’t one thing, it’s another.”

“Easy, Dick, easy,” the major said soothingly. He paused as the distant jets hit the sound barrier, sending off a rapid cannonade. “At least you’re winning the big ones. I feel quite optimistic about the current operation. We’ve tracked our man every mile from Chicago right through to Heidelberg. Our assignee on that side of the water monitored last night’s meet. Private Jackson is part of the loop. For the time being we may be observers, but we are distinctly operative. Patience is the name of the game.”

“The point is,” Benton said, “I’m cautious both by nature and experience, and I want to keep this a small-time action, something within the confines of our jurisdiction, entirely under wraps. I made that clear from the beginning. So Stigmuller’s interest jolted me and nobody wants Tarbert Weir sniffing the wind. I don’t want to expand our parameters for any reason, Merrill, not for any irrelevant bullshit whatsoever.”

The colonel sipped his coffee and wished he were lunching alone. He picked up a pad and pencil and began to doodle. He would have liked to be in an isolation tank, freed from all external stimuli, disconnected from his own nervous system, from distractions. His nose itched and he momentarily resented even that demand on his attention. His wife’s recent attitudes, the deeply personal demands on his emotions were draining the energies he so badly needed for his work. When he thought of her even, white teeth, the strain of her smile, he could feel the muscles in his stomach and groin tightening with anger.

“This morning Senator Copeland referred to our problem euphemistically as ‘the minor excesses of a few sergeants,’ ” he said to Staub. “Let’s just hope so. You know my philosophy about rumors — true or not, don’t let ’em get started. I’m more concerned about the allover picture, the suspicions and innuendos, the hearsay that might tarnish the image of the U.S. military man. We’re stockpiling our GIs on foreign soil just as we’re stockpiling nuclear weapons. We’ve got to keep our noses clean.” He sighed. “Now bring me up to date on Stigmuller.”

“Buck Stigmuller is a peripheral part of the big picture,” Major Staub said. “He accepted my report and interpretation on those four murdered GIs and passed the information on, presumably, to General Weir. Neither had further questions.”

“And Chicago, what do you hear from Clarence McDade?”

“I’m in touch with the superintendent at least once a day. The city gave Mark Weir a hero’s sendoff and McDade accepts the fact that the lieutenant’s death, in a sense, also happened to one of ours. He shares our stance of antianarchism and prokinship. The murder of a police officer in any city is a grave insult to the entire populace. McDade’s people are turning Chicago upside down. So far it’s been a dead end, so to speak.”

Benton pressed his lingers against his temples and tried to focus his thoughts. His concentration was splintered because, ridiculously, his rich and handsome wife had been refusing root canal surgery for three months. She thought it would be boring and unnecessary. Benton realized his wife had both a terror of pain and a dread of losing her teeth and he had tried everything he could to get her into a dentist’s office. Now she faced the prospect of losing a pair of front molars and the possible extraction of her upper front incisors. Translated from dental jargon, that meant Ginny Benton would need false teeth.

She had reacted to the news by extending the daily cocktail hour, Pine Valleys over cracked ice, and yesterday had called the farm in Virginia to cancel the spring yearling sale without consulting the colonel. Last night she had spent several hours crying on her side of the bed.

Christ, Benton thought, looking at the pad on which he’d been doodling. Without realizing it, he had scrawled a margin to margin mosaic of one name: Tarbert Weir.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s get to our final problem — Weir.”

“Of course, Captain Jetter has been in touch with you directly about that,” Staub said. “He’s checked in with me several times.”

“Yes,” Benton said, “but I wish he wouldn’t be so goddamned pussyfoot about everything. He signed into the guest house right next door, you know.”

Staub nodded. “Froggie is very aware. He wanted the perfect vantage point. He reports that General Weir is playing golf, riding, wining and dining in seclusion with his lady friend. Greenbrier registration says they expect the general to be their guest for some time. Jetter’s paid off the garage to let him know if the general or his lady calls for the car. On top of that Froggie says he’s aware of heavy boozing, a lot of noise and cursing from the general’s quarters. In short, Scotty Weir is on a jag.”

“Or he’d like the world to believe that,” Colonel Benton said dryly. “I think it would be a mistake to jump to the conclusion that Weir is just one more bereaved parent with normal, sentimental compulsions. He’s complex but he’s always had the personal drive of a Mack truck. Nothing in his dossier points to evasions, blackouts or buck-passing. Mark Weir was murdered. That’s a fact, and I’m concerned about exactly how Scotty Weir is facing that fact.”

“As you say, colonel,” Major Staub said, “but at the moment, the subject seems immobile. And there were reports he was deep into the booze even back in Springfield. Anyone who drinks Tequila Gold is a lush in my book, or a supermasochist at least. I’ll get in touch with Jackson and give him your thinking.”

“I’ll call myself,” Benton said. “I want to be sure there’s no break in our surveillance, none whatsoever. Right now I feel I’m sitting on a pailful of live cats.”

After Staub left, Colonel Benton talked for five minutes to Captain Hays Jetter in guest house E on Carolina Row at the Greenbrier. When he hung up he put his luncheon things on the tray, aligned the files and memos on his desk, then tore off the scribbled sheet from his notepad and threw it into the wastebasket. On second thought, he fished the piece of paper out again and ripped it into a dozen small pieces.