The Seersucker Whipsaw

Chapter 3

At 10 a.m. Greenwich Mean Time the next day, or 4 a.m., Eastern Standard Time, or 2 a.m., Mountain Standard Time, I picked up Shartelle at the Dorchester in London. We had flown all night after making a close connection in New York. Shartelle was wearing a sleepy look, a light-weight gray suit, a white shirt, and a black knit tie. His white hair was brushed and his gray eyes flickered just slightly as he took in my bowler and carefully furled umbrella.

“I let Duffy wear the Stetson,” I told him. “I try to blend with the background.”

We talked a little at breakfast and then walked the several blocks to the office. Jimmy, the porter, wearing all of his World War II campaign ribbons and then some, welcomed me back. I introduced Shartelle. “Always glad to have an American gentleman with us, sir,” Jimmy said.

“Has Mr. Duffy arrived yet?” I asked.

“Just come in, sir. Been here not more than a quarter-hour.”

Shartelle followed me up the stairs to my office. I introduced him to my secretary who said she was glad to see me back. There were two notes on my desk to return Mr. Duffy’s call. Shartelle glanced around the room. “Either this place is on the verge of bankruptcy or it’s making too much money,” he said.

“Wait’ll you see Duffy’s layout.”

“The only discordant note you got in here, boy, is that machine,” Shartelle said, pointing to my typewriter. It was an L.C. Smith, about 35 years old.

“That’s the touch of class, Duffy figures. It cost the firm ten pounds just to have the damned thing renovated. When he shows clients through the office, he tells them that I wrote my first byline story on it and that I can’t write a word on anything else.”

“You ever use it?”

I sat down behind my U-shaped desk and swung out a Smith-Corona electric portable. “I use this. It’s faster. As I said, I’m a fast writer.”

Shartelle lowered himself into one of the three winged- back black leather chairs that clustered around my desk. Each had beside it a slate-topped cube of solid oiled teak and on those were large, brightly-colored ceramic ashtrays.

“Like that good old man said, you got a carpet on the floor and pictures on the wall. All you need is a little music in the air.”

I pushed a button on the desk. Muzak gave forth softly with something from Camelot. I pushed the button again and it stopped.

Shartelle grinned and lighted a Picayune. “I just noticed one thing,” he said. “You ain’t got a door.”

“The only doors in the place are the front one, the necessary firedoors, the ones that lead to the cans, and four on the women’s stalls. Duffy had all the rest of them removed. He says that anytime anybody wants to see anybody they should feel free to poke their heads in. There are no secrets in Duffy, Downer and Theims. It’s a madhouse.”

As if on cue, the keeper of the madhouse burst in. “Shartelle, goddamn you, how’ve you been?” he demanded. It was Duffy, dressed for the country. He wore a green tweed suit with a weave so loose that you could poke a ten-penny nail through it without making a hole. His shirt was as pale green as it could get without being white and his tie was a black and green wool. Although I didn’t look, I decided that his shoes must be stout brown brogues.

Shartelle uncoiled himself from a black leather chair, shifted his cigarette to his left hand, and slowly extended his right to Duffy. He took his time. A smile that seemed to be of pure delight creased his face as he cocked his head slightly to one side. I was forgotten. Duffy had Shartelle’s undivided attention. It was the Shartelle treatment. There was affection and liking in his gaze, but more important, there was a real and deep personal interest in the man whose hand he shook. Had I been Duffy, I would have bought the bridge and probably taken an option on the ferry.

“Pig Duffy,” Shartelle said, and his white grin widened. “I swear it’s good to see you looking so fit and fine.”

Duffy let the Pig go by, not even flinching slightly. He grasped Shartelle’s right hand with both of his and shook it some more. He threw his head back and narrowed his blue eyes. “Nine years, Clint. I was trying to remember just where it was, as I drove in this morning. Chicago, the Stockyards Inn.”

“July twenty-two.”

“Four in the morning.”

“Suite 570.”

“By God, you’re right!” Duffy let go of Shartelle’s hand. “You haven’t changed a bit, Clint. Did you have a good flight? My boy here take care of you all right?”

“Mr. Upshaw is the soul of courtesy. And, I might add, a crackerjack salesman. I’m here.”

Duffy flicked his blue eyes at me. “How’re you, Pete?”

“Just fine.”

“Did you give Clint all the details?”

“Just the highlights.”

“He mentioned thirty thousand pounds,” Shartelle said with his warm smile. “That was the brightest highlight of all. What are you doing messing around in Africa, Pig? Ain’t that a little out of your territory?”

Duffy rallied. “When I heard about this, I thought the same thing, Clint. I thought, ‘Padraic, you have enough on your plate the way things stand. You haven’t time to give it the guidance it really needs.’ And then I tried to think of someone who could bring off the campaign.” He paused, bit his lower lip reflectively, and glanced downwards. His voice softened, and took on a measure of quiet awe. “I decided that there was only one man — not in England, not in the States, but just one man in the world. And that was Clint Shartelle.” He raised his eyes, looked at Shartelle directly and said humbly, “So I asked Clint Shartelle to help me out.” He paused again and then added a line — almost as a throwaway, but not quite — “And more important, to help out Africa.”

Shartelle shook his head slightly from side to side. It was the gesture of frank appreciation that the concertmaster pays the performance of the virtuoso. His voice was as soft as Duffy’s, and the honeysuckle seemed to bloom as he said, “Put that way, Padraic, no man could refuse.”

Duffy brightened, grabbed Shartelle by the arm, and steered him towards the forever-open door. “I’ve got the whole morning open for you, Clint. We’ll have a bit of a natter, and then you’ll meet the candidate. He flew in two days ago and is leaving this afternoon, but you’ll have a chance to get acquainted at lunch.” Duffy turned his head. “Come on, Pete.” I took it as a nice afterthought.

We walked down the hall past Duffy’s two secretaries to where The Hatrack guarded his doorless entrance. The Hat- rack was a statue made of welded scrap metal. It stood seven feet high on an onyx base and was supposed to be representative of the Crucifixion. And at least that was its real name. The main crosspiece looked for all the world like the corrugated bumper from a 1937 DeSoto, the kind once held at a premium by the hot rod crowd in Los Angeles. Slightly tight and Philistinish after a particularly good lunch, I once had hung my bowler on it. Duffy wouldn’t speak to me for a week, but since then everyone called it The Hatrack. Shartelle gave it an appreciative glance as we moved into Duffy’s office.

It wasn’t an office exactly; it was more of a huge livingroom that smelled of leather from the hexagonal pieces of quarterinch-thick cowhide that served as wallpaper. There was a view of the square and the Embassy, a fireplace with a fire in it, some highly comfortable chairs and a huge oaken coffee table made, Duffy claimed, from the butt end of an ancient giant wine cask. Here and there, placed strategically on small individual shelves that jutted from the walls, were the products of the major clients: a box of instant tea, a package of tissues, a bottle of ale, a model of a jet airliner, a miniature of a bank, a model automobile, a package of cocoa, and a cigarette package. Each had its own niche and to get it, the billing had to top three million pounds a year. There was no desk, but a telephone was handy to Duffy’s chair, which sat in a corner behind the immense wine-cask coffee table.

Duffy took his seat and gestured Shartelle and me to chairs. Shartelle gave the room a long and careful appraisal. Then he nodded his head. “You’ve done right well by the English folks, I’d say,” he told Duffy.

“We’re growing, Clint, expanding a little every year.”

We were interrupted by Wilson Davis, the art director. He didn’t knock. He just walked in and stuck a layout under Duffy’s nose.

“Hello, Pete,” Davis said to me.

“How are you, Wilson?” I asked.

“If he ever makes up his mind what he wants, I’ll be all right.”

“Giving you a hard time?”

“This is the fourth rough. The fourth, mind you.”

“Now that’s more like it, Wilson,” Duffy said. “Now that’s something that you could say bears the DDT imprint.”

“It isn’t bad,” Wilson admitted.

“All right, then proceed.”

“You’re not going to change your mind again?”

“No. That’s the basis of the campaign I promised. That’s the one I’ll deliver.”

Wilson picked up the rough from the coffee table and left.

“It’s like that all day,” I told Shartelle. “The DDT open door policy.”

“Saves time, really,” Duffy said. “Does away with morale problems. That young man is a talented art director — the best in London and as good as you’ll find in New York. He wants to see me so he walks in. He doesn’t have to work his way past a half-dozen secretaries or assistants. He doesn’t have to wait a half-hour outside a closed door, wondering if I’m talking about him. He just walks in, states his business, and a minute later walks out. His time is worth about five guineas an hour. I estimate that this method saves a half- hour of his waiting time plus another half-hour of what I call fuming time when he gets back to his own shop.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Shartelle said, “and as long as you brought money up, I think maybe I’d better remind you of my usual terms.”

“Third now, third halfway through, and a third the week before it’s all done. Right?”

“Plus expenses,” Shartelle said.

Duffy picked up the telephone and dialed a single number. “Would you find out whether Mr. Theims has countersigned the check for Mr. Shartelle yet? Fine, bring it in.”

One of Duffy’s secretaries brought in the check. Duffy read it and handed it to Shartelle. “Ten thousand pounds.”

Shartelle glanced at it and slipped it into an inside breast pocket. He drew out his package of Picayunes and lighted one. “Pig, old buddy,” he said, “just what do you want me to do to earn this money?”

Duffy stared at Shartelle with his china blue eyes, gripped the arms of his chair, and leaned forward slightly. “This is the biggest one of your career, Clint. The most important one. Whitehall has its eyes on this one and so does State. I’ve been to Albertia, Clint, and it’s fantastic. It’s the opportunity to carve out a bastion of democracy in Africa. It’s the chance to establish your reputation as one of the world’s foremost political strategists. But most important, to me — and I know to you — it’s the opportunity to elect a good man to office.”

“Your client?” Shartelle said.

“Chief Akomolo.”

“I guess you heard about Renesslaer,” Shartelle said. “They’re craving to elect a good man to office, too. Alhaji Sir Alakada Mejara Fulawa — my, that is a pretty mouthful!”

The blue eyes of my leader grew cold. “Renesslaer’s got Fulawa? Who told you?”

“Some friends in New York. Not very good friends at that. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard.”

Duffy turned to me. “Did you know?”

“Shartelle told me.”

Duffy picked up the phone. “Bring your book,” he snapped.

A secretary came in. I don’t know where he got them, but there seemed to be a new one every week. After one day, they seemed to know all about the agency and all about the people in it. Then they would quietly disappear to be replaced by someone equally efficient.

“Cable Trookein, New York: HEARTELL BIG R CONNING SKYCHIEF OPERATION PAWPAWLAND. WHY WE UNKNOW? SEND FULL REPORT PROSCARFACE SOONEST ENDIT DUFFY.” The way he barked, it came out all caps.

“No regards?” the secretary asked.

“Hell, no!” Duffy said.

“Let’s see, now,” Shartelle said, “Big R would be Renesslaer. Skychief would be old Alhaji Sir. Pawpawland, I reckon, would be Albertia. Who’s Scarface?”

“That’s Chief Akomolo,” I said. “It’s his code name because of his tribal markings.”

Shartelle chuckled softly. “You wear the secret code ring, Petey?”

“We need a name for Clint,” Duffy said.

“How about Shortcake?” Shartelle suggested with a straight face.

“Damn good. Put it on the list,” Duffy told the secretary.

“What’re you called, Pete?” Shartelle asked.

“Scaramouche,” I said and shrugged.

“How ’bout you, Pig?”

“I’m Hiredhand.”

“Is it necessary?”

“Yes and no. It wouldn’t fool any intelligence operation, but it keeps the casually curious from lifting information that they might sell or gossip about. It’s just a minor precaution really.”

“It sure as hell wouldn’t fool any of the bright boys from Renesslaer.”

Duffy smiled pleasantly. “No it wouldn’t, Clint. That’s going to be your job.”

“Just so we get everything nice and clear, Pig, I hope you’ve told the candidate about the ground rules. First, I run the campaign — from buttons to banquets. Second, I don’t handle money.”

“I know and the candidate knows,” Duffy said. “The money’s taken care of. All you have to do is find ways to spend it.”

“I’m usually pretty good at that.”

“Now here’s a thing I want to ask you: can you handle the opposition?”

“Renesslaer?”

“Just.”

Shartelle rose and walked over to the window. He looked out for a while and then moved so he could examine the miniature of the bank. “They’re a right capable bunch,” he said. “I’d be the last to poor-talk them. But since neither of us is going to be playing at home, I might have a slight edge. You’ve got a research staff?”

Duffy nodded. “One of the best.”

“You can count on Renesslaer having the best, so what you’ve got is second best. But you can turn it loose, if need be?”

“It’s at the Chief’s disposal — and at yours.”

“Way I understand it, this is going to be a three-way race: Chief Akomolo, old Alhaji Sir Prettyname, and somebody else. Who’s the somebody else and how much clout has he got?”

“Dr. Kensington Kologo,” Duffy said. “He’s from the Eastern section of Albertia. The doctor is real: he earned his M.D. at the University of Pennsylvania in 1934.”

“What’s he got?”

“About a third of the country’s population in his region. He also has the iron range plus some tin which gives him a large following among the trade unionists and the more radical younger crowd.”

“Sounds like a good base. Does he worry Chief Akomolo?”

“Not as much as Fulawa does.”

“Have you checked out whether he’s got an agency handling his campaign? I’d sure hate to get out there and find I was being double-teamed by Renesslaer and Doyle Dane.”

“It’s not an agency exactly,” Duffy said and watched Shartelle’s face intently.

“What is it?”

“The CIA.”