A President In Peril

Chapter Twenty-Six M₃ I₁ S₁ S₁ I₁ V₄E₁ (n) a written message; letter

Before the day was over, I learned more about Jones’s death from a variety of sources in the Police Department and at the Bridewell. First, no suicide note had been found in his cell. Second, his sobbing widow told police after his death that on her visit to him the day before he hanged himself, he told her that because the plan to kill Truman had failed he felt ‘a lot like the Fuehrer must have felt near the end.’ She blamed herself for not reporting the conversation. I shared all this information in the Headquarters press room and phoned my article in to a rewrite man.

I didn’t realize how tired I was until five o’clock rolled around. Apparently I had lost a lot of energy in the days I’d spent lazing around at home, and it would take time to get the old stamina back. I was getting used to the cast, though, and it didn’t bother me on the swaying, bouncing ride home on the Lake Street Elevated.

As I climbed the front steps of our house, the door swung open and Catherine greeted me with a smile. “I’ve been keeping an eye out for you,” she said. “I thought on your first day back at work you should have a proper welcome at the door. Besides, an interesting-looking piece of mail came today and I’m dying to have you open it.”

“You could have opened it yourself, my dear. I have no secrets from you,” I said as I plopped down on the living room sofa after we had kissed.

“I really think you should have the pleasure,” she replied. “Here.”

She handed over an ivory-colored envelope addressed to me in longhand. On the back flap were the words The White House and under that, Washington, D.C.

“Now don’t just rip it open like you usually do with your mail,” she scolded, handing me a letter opener. “This looks like it deserves to be handled gently and with the greatest respect.”

“Oh, all right,” I said, emitting a long-suffering sigh. I made a neat slit and under her watchful eye gingerly pulled out the missive.

It was headed with the same words that graced the envelope. The letter, too, was in longhand, and written by someone who obviously had learned the Palmer Method of penmanship in school.

“I’ll be damned,” I said, showing Catherine the letter.

“I’m not surprised,” she said after reading it. “In a very real sense, he owes his life to you.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe nothing! If you hadn’t been there that night...”

“No, Catherine. If you hadn’t come up with ‘argo’, we might have a different president today.”

“Well, it has all worked out... more or less,” she said, placing a hand on my cast.

“One thing I don’t understand...”

“And what is that?”

“How do you suppose Truman knew my home address?”

“Leave it to a newspaperman to ask a question like that,” she said, laughing. “After all, my darling, he is the President of the United States.”

“And will be for four more years,” I replied, putting my arm around her slim waist and walking with her into the kitchen. I could detect a pleasant aroma wafting from that direction, and was anxious to find out what lay in store at the dinner table.

After that, perhaps a nice, quiet, friendly game of Scrabble.