“We had better stop stirring now.” Rosalie Forest spoke. “Dinner will be soon. We have to get this soup up there in time for it.” The three of them each managed to get a grip on the big kettle and started hauling it toward the main building.
I was right behind them. I circled around to the front of the structure, entered, and went straight up to President Dickson’s rooms. He was waiting for me. We went down to dinner together.
“Did you find out anything, Karl?” he asked me as we descended the staircase.
“Could be,” I told him. “Don’t eat the soup,” I added.
“I don’t care for any [expletive deleted] soup,” he told the serving girl when we were seated at table. “Let there be no mistake about that.”
“But we-all made it ’specially foah you, sugah,” Marsha Twitchell coaxed him. “Didn’t we, girls?”
“I have a memo to that effect, Mr. President,” Dotty Whiskers assured him maliciously. “Unshredded,” she added.
“Aft er all my loyal years to have even my soup cast aside,” Rosalie Forest sniveled.
Dickson, however, held firm. He passed the soup by.
A steaming pot-roast was brought in. It had been sliced with a precision worthy of a work of art. Dickson studied it with admiration. “My compliments to the chef, he told the serving girl. “Tell the fat Jap I want to see him personally.” As the girl went out, he turned to me. “This fat Jap cook I got used to work for Elvis Greco. But something that big-mouthed [characterization omitted] Greek said offended him, and he quit. So I hired him at the White House.”
“What did Mr. Greco say that offended him?” I asked.
“Search me. Maybe one of those Polack jokes the Veep likes to tell. I don’t know, though -” President Dickson scratched his head. “This fellow doesn’t look Polish.”
I could see that for myself as a stout Oriental entered the room. He accepted Dickson’s compliments on the pot roast impassively. Then he thanked him a bit flatly and returned to the kitchen.
“Have some [expletive omitted] pot roast, Karl.” The President indicated for the serving girl to hold the platter for me.
“You first, Mr. President.”
“No, you first, Karl.”
“But I insist, Mr. President.”
“No! I insist, Karl!”
It was an impasse. “Why do you insist, Mr. President?” I inquired.
I live with the constant threat of assassination, Karl. This [expletive omitted] may be poisoned Now its a matter of executive privilege to have you taste the pot roast first.”
“Mr. President,” I reasoned desperately, “suppose the meat is poisoned. Suppose I taste it. Suppose it kills me. Then who would there be to protect you if that happened?”
“You have a point there, Karl. On the other hand, if I taste it and it kills me, who will there be for you, to protect? You’ll be out of a [unintelligible] job, Karl.
“I have a suggestion, Mr. President. Let's let a third party taste the meat.”
“A very good idea, Karl. But who?” Dickson surveyed the table.
“I ate the soup!” Rosalie Forest ruled herself out.
“It gave me the runs!” Dotty Whiskers bolted the table.
“Ah have always been dependent on the kindness of columnists.” Marsha Twitchell batted her eyes warningly.
Dickson’s eyes moved on around the table to his wife, Nat. “Remember what you said, darling, when they forced you to abdicate,” she reminded him. “’I have found it impossible to carry the heavy burden of responsibility and to discharge my duties as I would wish to do, without the help and support of the woman I love.’ ”
Dickson’s gaze continued past Nat to daughter Muley. “Daddy! Daddy! You’ve been more than a father to me,” she warbled. “You’ve been more than a dad. You’re the best pal I had . . .”
“We want Dickson!” Pisha turned a handspring the length of the table. “Fight, team, fight!
“Dickson uber alles!” Hans und Fritz saluted in chorus.
At last Nicholas Dickson’s gaze came to rest at the very foot of the table. A pudgy young man sat there quivering and sweating. Dickson’s finger pointed at him, singling him out. ”
“Who do you think should taste the meat, Don? Dickson asked squinting at the head of the pin about to impale the fly.
“No comment!” Don Zigzag’s voice was shrill.
“How about you, Don?”
“That statement is inoperative!” Zigzag cringed and pleaded.
“Watch him hang there, twisting slowly, slowly in the wind!” Fritz leered.
“Taste the [expletive deleted] pot roast, Don.” Dickson smiled like a razor blade. “That’s an order.”
“I wish I was back in Disneyland!” Don Zigzag moaned. But he obediently tasted the pot roast. A moment later he fell to the floor, writhing. “It’s poisoned,” he gasped. “I’m going to die.”
“Nonsense, Don.” Dickson was reassuring. “We both know there’s no limit to the amount of mistreatment you can stand. That’s why you’re so valuable to me. Just shove your finger down your throat like always, and by morning, you’ll be good as new.”
“Yes, Mr. President. Thank you, Mr. President.” Don Zigzag shoved his finger down his throat. “God bless you, Mr. President.”
“Karl.” The former President turned to me. “Perhaps you’d better have a talk with that fat slant.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
I went out to the kitchen. I was too late. The Japanese chef was on his knees in front of the oven. He clutched an electric knife by the hilt in both hands. “I go to join my honorable ancestors!” he announced. He pressed the button activating the knife and plunged the throbbing twin blades deep into his midsection.
That’s what comes from seeing too many World War Two movies on the “Late Show,” I reflected. “Who put you up to this?” I asked as the two vibrating blades cut deeper into his middle.
“Hara-kiri seals my lips!” With a final thrust he finished the job. The electric knife gave a last little whir and was silent. The secret of who was behind his poison attempt on the life of the former President died with him.
I went back into the dining room and told them what had happened. It sort of put a damper on the rest of dinner. Until the dessert, that is.
“You’ll never guess what it is, daddy.” Nat Dickson gave her husband her broadest 4-H grin.
“Now let me see-—” Dickson pondered coyly.
“Guess, daddy, guess!” Pisha and Muley chorused, clapping their hands.
“Apple pie,” Dickson teased, knowing better.
“It’s as American as apple pie, daddy,” Pisha told him.
“But it isn’t apple pie,” Muley added.
“Guess again! Guess again!” Nat Dickson liked this game they were playing. It was even more fun than “Beat the Clock.”
“Could it be . . . [Dickson paused, a politician’s pause, building the suspense] could it be . . . ice cream?” he guessed finally.
“You peeked, daddy!” Nat was almost tearful at the idea of the game ending so soon. “You went and bugged the kitchen!”
“Not my father!” Muley defended him stoutly. “My father would never do anything like that. I’ve lived with the man for over twenty years, and he’s never bugged the kitchen even once to my knowledge.”
“But what kind, daddy?” Once again Pisha tried to save the day with her instinct for public relations. “What kind of ice cream?”
“I’m not the first President to bug his own kitchen!” Nick Dickson was still brooding over Nat’s accusation. “Johnson, Truman, Lincoln . . .”
“I don’t think they had bugs in Lincoln’s day, Mr. President,” Rosalie Forest reminded him.
“Lincoln used to sneak into the pantry and eavesdrop!” Dickson told her. “[Expletive deleted]! That’s a well-known historical fact!”