He drove Otto hard but himself harder. He kept an entirely legitimate business operating all over the country and made it succeed and worked upon it for an average of seven hours a day. He slept for another seven and thus had ten more which, after allowing a minimum for other personal activities, he dedicated to his labours for the Reich. Because it was his nature to be intensely secretive, he was at first as uncommunicative as possible with Otto, but as the weeks slipped by and time pressed upon him and he found that never, under any circumstances, would Otto, either in regard to the business of the firm or the business of the Fuehrer, let him down, he began increasingly to admit his lieutenant to fuller confidence. Once started on this path, he seemed to gather speed with every day, taking a sort of pleasure in keeping nothing back—so that by mid-June Otto was in possession of so much knowledge that he could have carried on the work of the ‘unit’ without a break. He knew the names and persons of the three hundred and fifty men who made up the permanent body, and the names of other key men who could be called upon for help when necessary, each of them able to provide other men for certain work at certain times. He knew the details of every ‘attack’ to come in the chain of which he had been told, and the approximate dates of each one. He knew even the names and addresses and signs of every other unit commander in the country and the names, all illustrious, of the four men who, with Carolyn Van Teller, formed the Staff Council for America. He knew all these things and a mass of further detail.
He was asked for his first report on Altinger exactly a month after he arrived in San Francisco, when he was well on the way to all the knowledge. He had a letter from his benefactress, a friendly, kindly inquiring note which wondered how her protégé was coming along and incidentally mentioned that her good friend (and incidentally a countryman of Nils’), Mr. Gunnar Bjornstrom, would be at the Mark Hopkins’ for a week or so: would Nils, like a dear boy, call upon old Mr. Bjornstrom and ask whether there was anything he could do for him?
Nils saw Mr. Bjornstrom—a withered, kindly, cheerful old gentleman. Mr. Bjornstrom gave him a drink and borrowed a pencil from him and asked him the time and was very courteous and entirely satisfactory. Otto reported to Mr. Bjornstrom.
“Altinger,” said Otto, “is a brilliant man. His work is good, and will get better. He is telling me everything by pieces and I will know it all soon. But—yet—I do not know what he thinks about himself when . . . after victory. It is too soon for me to know. He is an egoistical man. Very. But I do not know yet to what extent this carries him. I think that I can find out—but not yet.”
Mr. Bjornstrom seemed satisfied. He gave Otto another drink and they went to the theatre together.
Miss Irving, who was Altinger’s San Francisco secretary, brought the morning mail in to Otto.
“Good morning, Mr. Jorgensen!” Miss Irving was forty and determinedly bright and once had been pretty and thought Mr. Altinger was very difficult but ever so much better since Mr. Jorgensen had taken so much of the work off his shoulders. She also thought that Mr. Jorgensen was ever so good-looking and so nice. She would, quite honestly, have deemed anyone insane who suggested that either Mr. Altinger or Mr. Jorgensen were anything more than the industrious businessmen they seemed.
She put the pile of opened letters at Otto’s elbow and laid directly before him a bulky envelope, still sealed. She said:
“It’s another one from that pesky old Mr. Blum! But I didn’t quite like to open it because he’s marked it ‘Personal’ and underlined it!”
Otto laughed, for Mr. Blum was an office joke—an elderly fuss-budget who wanted one of the Altinger houses but could never make up his mind where to put it. He said:
“Probably he wants a trailer now—to put the house on,” and Miss Irving laughed trillingly and thought that was such a funny idea.
She went, and Otto, after a decent interval, wandered into Altinger’s room, which, as a confidential assistant, he used freely when its owner wasn’t there. It was a pleasant room—sunny and comfortably furnished. And it was sound-proof, because Mr. Altinger could not bear to work with any outside distraction.
Otto opened the letter from the pesky Mr. Blum and found the usual four-page diatribe and quickly decoded it. For convenience, he scribbled the inner message upon a sheet from Altinger’s desk-pad. He then memorized it and burnt the sheet and dropped the ashes into Altinger’s waste-paper basket and picked up an outside telephone.
He found Altinger at the third number he dialled.
“Sorry to trouble,” he said. “But I wished confirmation on the Seattle Number Four contract.”
“It’s okay,” said Altinger’s harsh voice. “Go ahead. Anything else?”
“Nothing,” Otto said. “Except another letter from Blum—he now wishes to find a site some place halfway between here and the Oregon border.”
“Old fool!” said Altinger. “Well—I’ll phone him when I get to the office. I’ll be there anyway in about half an hour.”
But he was there in eleven minutes.
“I don’t quite understand,” Otto said when they were alone. “But you will perhaps. The decoding says: ‘Tipping and Coley Seattle bound Thursday. Nine-thirty p.m. leave San. F. Make utmost endeavour.’”
Altinger swore roundly. He said:
“I knew it! What an infernal nuisance! But there’s nothing for it—it’s order, and there you are!” He looked at Otto with a wolfish grin, “You’ll have to handle part of it.”
“What is it?” said Otto patiently. “Who are Tipping and Coley? And what is there to do?”
Altinger threw himself into his swivel chair and cocked his feet on the desk. He said:
“It’s a nasty job, young Jorgensen. And there isn’t time to plan it properly. Hit-or-miss sort of thing—only we’d better not miss!” He brought his feet down with a slam and leaned on the desk and pointed to the chair facing him.
“Siddown,” he said. “And get a load of it. Tipping and Coley are both Senators. Tipping’s a Democrat, Coley’s a Republican—but they’re both Interventionists—violent. There’s been a scheme cooked up in the White House to give ’em an Investigation Committee: like Dies’ but a whole hell of a lot tougher—and quieter. The Staff Council think they’re very important; that if they really get going they’ll get wise to a lot of things.” His lip curled. “That’s what the Council thinks—so we obey orders. And the orders are to wreck the train. Nine-thirty to-morrow night—ummmm!”
He leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the desk again, looking up at the ceiling in his usual attitude of thought with head on one side and one eye closed.
There was a long silence which Otto broke at last. He said:
“To wreck a train is not to make sure of killing any two particular people on that train.”
Altinger brought his gaze down from the ceiling. “You said it! But you’ve heard of orders, haven’t you? And if we choose the right place and make a right job, it’s thirty to one we get ’em. Shut up while I think.”