“I’m sorry that Kramer is out, but I’m damned glad you could drop by this afternoon and I hope I haven’t interfered with your schedule.” He had a smooth baritone.
I let the spokesman of our team do the talking. If Coit was with the CIA, he could match wits with the professional country boy and may the best liar win. I decided to root for Shartelle.
Giving his elegant vest a tug, Shartelle replied that Mr. Coit surely hadn’t interfered with our schedule, that it was still in the making, and because of the nature of our business in Albertia, it was right kind of him to spare us a few moments. As Political Affairs Officer, he might give us some tips that could save us needless drudgery and fruitless quests. It was, the way Shartelle laid it on, as nice a glob of sandy mortar as I’d yet seen him pat into place.
Coit sat through it all, his hands folded on the empty desk in front of him, his eyes fixed on Shartelle, his fine head nodding every now and then to signal the speaker that he was coming through nicely. Coit was a professional listener. If he had turned the act on for me, I would have talked all day, beginning with the time when I was three and they had stolen my tricycle. It was blue with a bell on the handle bars and studded metal plates on the rear axle that a small passenger could stand on.
But Shartelle didn’t even tell Coit about his daddy or the LaSalle with the busted block. He just stopped talking and began smiling. It was one of those silences when you feel you should clear your throat or shift your chair or mention the weather. But I had no cue so I looked around the office which had an autographed picture of the President beaming grimly down from one wall. I had the feeling that it was General Services Administration issue and was on of thousands dispatched to embassies and consulates all over the world the day after Kennedy was shot. You could tell from the size of the office and the furniture how much Coit made in a year, but you could tell nothing about him. The personal touches — a painting, a piece of statuary, or a jug full of flowers — were all missing.
Finally Coit got up and walked a few feet to a window and peered out through the Venetian blind. I couldn’t tell what the view was. “I appreciate your confidence, Mr. Shartelle,” he said to the venetian blind. “And I must confess that I don’t envy you the task that lies ahead.”
“Mr. Coit, if I couldn’t place confidence in a representative of a United States Embassy or Consulate, I think I would be living in a rather shabby world,” Shartelle said.
Coit nodded a grave nod and resumed his seat at his desk. “I’ve only been here a few weeks, but my job has required me to make an intensive study of the Albertian political scene. The more I study it, the more convinced I become that of all the developing nations south of the Sahara, this country is almost alone in its readiness and ability to accept the full challenge that self-rule imposes.”
He paused and extracted a silver cigarette case from his inside coat pocket. He was wearing a pale blue worsted mohair tropical suit, a white shirt with a tab collar that had a gold pin stuck through it underneath the small knot of his blue and red striped tie.
Coit opened the cigarette case and extended it to Shartelle who shook his head and then to me. I took one on the theory that it was probably an American cigarette and that he would be happy that someone liked him enough to trust his taste in smokes. It was filtered, but I tore the top off and placed it in the ashtray. Coit didn’t seem to notice or mind.
After he and I had our cigarettes going, he began to tell us again why we should sign the fraternity’s pledge cards. “As a political scientist—” He broke off to smile his deprecatory smile. “At least that’s what that Master’s from Johns Hopkins says I am, I have more than a passing interest in those who engage in realpolitik. So your name, Mr. Shartelle, is a familiar one to me. And I also remember, quite well, in fact, Mr. Upshaw’s brilliant series from Europe in the troubled times of ’fifty-six. I think we can talk among ourselves as professionals in the political realm, although I consider myself an observer, a student, if you would, rather than an actionist.”
It was a long speech and during it Shartelle had hooked his thumbs into his vest, cocked his head slightly to one side, and studied a corner where the ceiling met the walls. He nodded emphatically whenever Coit came to a period. I found it a disconcerting response.
“You see, gentlemen,” Coit went on, “you have the opportunity to bring to the Albertian voters the chance to decide the future of their country. You can present them with a clear-cut, well-delineated picture of the issues involved. If you succeed, you will have performed a tremendous public service.”
Shartelle kept his thumbs in his vest. His chair was tilted back now, and his eyes were still on the far high corner of the room. “Your remarks are most kind, Mr. Coit, and I’m glad you’ve elevated our job of rounding up the necessary votes to such an exalted mission. It makes me proud, but I hope not too proud, because pride’s a sin as you well know. So just in case we don’t make the issues as clear-cut as you’d like them, I’d like to share the credit — or the blame — with the boys who are going to be handling Chief Akomolo’s opposition... Dr. Kologo and Sir Alakada.”
Shartelle kept on staring at the corner so perhaps he didn’t see the hair cracks in Coit’s composure. Or perhaps he did, because he gave it another exploratory tap.
“There are other outside forces involved in this, you know. One of them is the biggest agency in the world — in the political sense anyhow. It’s worked the Far East, Europe, the Balkans, the Middle East...” He paused. “South America.”
I watched Coit. The composure was flaking a bit. His mouth was slightly open. His hands were worrying a ballpoint pen.
“It’s quite an agency to go up against,” Shartelle said, still tilted back in his chair, still studying the top of the room. “You’re familiar with—” He paused again, this time to light a cigarette. Coit almost squirmed. “You’re familiar with... Renesslaer?” When Shartelle spoke the name he brought the chair down on its front legs and the metal caps banged nicely on the gray linoleum floor. Coit jumped. Not much, but it was a jump. It was hard to tell whether it was because of the noise of the Renesslaer name. He stared at Shartelle.
“Renesslaer?”
“Right. That’s the agency I was talking about. They’re big all over the world, you know, and they’re going to handle old Alhaji Sir Alakada etcetera up north.”
“I’ve heard of them,” Coit said. His tone was stiff. He didn’t seem to care anymore whether we liked him or not. “Are you sure of this?”
“Oh, quite sure,” Shartelle said. “I’ve been told the deal’s all signed and sealed. The boys from Renesslaer ought to be drifting through here any day now and then you’ll have to give them that nice little talk of yours about their chance to delineate the issues. They like stuff like that.”
Coit said nothing. His hands were now pressed palm up against the bottom of his desk drawer. You could see the muscles bulge in his neck. They were as visible as the bitter dislike in his eyes. He knew then that Shartelle knew. Worse, he knew that Shartelle had been playing with him. Cubebing him, Shartelle called it for some reason I could never understand and was too proud to ask about.
Shartelle got up and stuck out his hand. “Mr. Coit, it has been a pure pleasure to have had this little talk with you. I just hope that we’ll measure up to your expectations.”
“We’re certainly going to try,” I said nicely and shook his hand.
But he was a pro. Unless you had been watching carefully, you wouldn’t have noticed the hair cracks. They were all gone now. He smiled at us, walked over to the door, and held it open. “Gentlemen, I hope we can meet again soon. You have been most informative. I’ll watch your progress — and that of the Renesslaer firm — with much interest, I assure you.” We started out and Coit said: “By the way — is there — or have you heard of, any agency handling Dr. Kologo in the east?”