somewhere. At one of the Washington parties,or in the newspapers. Her face was unmistakable; it was the sort of facethat a man never forgets once he glimpses it--thin, puckish, withwide-set grey eyes that seemed both somber and secretly amused, a full,sensitive mouth, and blonde hair, exceedingly fine, cropped close abouther ears. She was eating her breakfast, a rolled up newspaper by herplate, and as she looked up, her eyes were not warm. She just stared atShandor angrily for a moment, then set down her coffee cup and threw thepaper to the floor with a slam. "You're Shandor, I suppose."
Shandor looked at the paper, then back at her. "Yes, I'm Tom Shandor.But you're not Mrs. Ingersoll--"
"A profound observation. Mother isn't interested in seeing anyone thismorning, particularly you." She motioned to a chair. "You can talk to meif you want to."
Shandor sank down in the proffered seat, struggling to readjust histhinking. "Well," he said finally. "I--I wasn't expecting you--" hebroke into a grin--"but I should think you could help. You know what I'mtrying to do--I mean, about your father. I want to write a story, andthe logical place to start would be with his family--"
The girl blinked wide eyes innocently. "Why don't you start with thenewspaper files?" she asked, her voice silky. "You'd find all sorts ofinformation about daddy there. Pages and pages--"
"No, no-- I don't want that kind of information. You're his daughter,Miss Ingersoll, you could tell me about him as a man. Something abouthis personal life, what sort of man he was--"
She shrugged indifferently, buttered a piece of toast, as Shandor feltmost acutely the pangs of his own missed breakfast. "He got up at sevenevery morning," she said. "He brushed his teeth and ate breakfast. Atnine o'clock the State Department called for him--"
Shandor shook his head unhappily. "No, no, that's not what I mean."
"Then perhaps you'd tell me precisely what you _do_ mean?" Her voice wasclipped and hard.
Shandor sighed in exasperation. "The personal angle. His likes anddislikes, how he came to formulate his views, his relationship with hiswife, with you--"
"He was a kind and loving father," she said, her voice mocking. "Heloved to read, he loved music--oh, yes, put that down, he was a _great_lover of music. His wife was the apple of his eye, and he tried, for allthe duties of his position, to provide us with a happy home life--"
"Miss Ingersoll."
She stopped in mid-sentence, her grey eyes veiled, and shook her headslightly. "That's not what you want, either?"
Shandor stood up and walked to a window, looking out over the wideveranda. Carefully he snubbed his cigarette in an ashtray, then turnedsharply to the girl. "Look. If you want to play games, I can play gamestoo. Either you're going to help me, or you're not--it's up to you. Butyou forget one thing. I'm a propagandist. I might say I'm a very expertpropagandist. I can tell a true story from a false one. You won't getanywhere lying to me, or evading me, and if you choose to try, we cancall it off right now. You know exactly the type of information I needfrom you. Your father was a great man, and he rates a fair shake in thewrite-ups. I'm asking you to help me."
Her lips formed a sneer. "And _you're_ going to give him a fair shake,I'm supposed to believe." She pointed to the newspaper. "With garbagelike that? Head cold!" Her face flushed, and she turned her backangrily. "I know your writing, Mr. Shandor. I've been exposed to it foryears. You've never written an honest, true story in your life, but youalways want the truth to start with, don't you? I'm to give you thetruth, and let you do what you want with it, is that the idea? No dice,Mr. Shandor. And you even have the gall to brag about it!"
Shandor flushed angrily. "You're not being fair. This story is going topress straight and true, every word of it. This is one story that won'tbe altered."
And then she was laughing, choking, holding her sides, as the tearsstreamed down her cheeks. Shandor watched her, reddening, anger growingup to choke him. "I'm not joking," he snapped. "I'm breaking with theroutine, do you understand? I'm through with the lies now, I'm writingthis one straight."
She wiped her eyes and looked at him, bitter lines under her smile. "Youcouldn't do it," she said, still laughing. "You're a fool to think so.You could write it, and you'd be out of a job so fast you wouldn't knowwhat hit you. But you'd never get it into print. And you know it. You'dnever even get the story to the inside offices."
Shandor stared at her. "That's what you think," he said slowly. "Thisstory will get to the press if it kills me."
The girl looked up at him, eyes wide, incredulous. "You _mean_ that,don't you?"
"I never meant anything more in my life."
She looked at him, wonderingly, motioned him to the table, a farawaylook in her eyes. "Have some coffee," she said, and then turned to him,her eyes wide with excitement. The sneer was gone from her face, thecoldness and hostility, and her eyes were pleading. "If there were someway to do it, if you really meant what you said, if you'd really _do_it--give people a true story--"
Shandor's voice was low. "I told you, I'm sick of this mill. There'ssomething wrong with this country, something wrong with the world.There's a rottenness in it, and your father was fighting to cut out therottenness. This story is going to be straight, and it's going to beprinted if I get shot for treason. And it could split things wide openat the seams."
She sat down at the table. Her lower lip trembled, and her voice wastense with excitement. "Let's get out of here," she said. "Let's gosomeplace where we can talk--"
* * * * *
They found a quiet place off the business section in Washington, one ofthe newer places with the small closed booths, catering to people wearyof eavesdropping and overheard conversations. Shandor ordered beers,then lit a smoke and leaned back facing Ann Ingersoll. It occurred tohim that she was exceptionally lovely, but he was almost frightened bythe look on her face, the suppressed excitement, the cold, bitter linesabout her mouth. Incongruously, the thought crossed his mind that he'dhate to have this woman against him. She looked as though she would becapable of more than he'd care to tangle with. For all her lovely facethere was an edge of thin ice to her smile, a razor-sharp, dangerousquality that made him curiously uncomfortable. But now she was nervous,withdrawing a cigarette from his pack with trembling fingers, fumblingwith his lighter until he struck a match for her. "Now," he said. "Whythe secrecy?"
She glanced at the closed door to the booth. "Mother would kill me ifshe knew I was helping you. She hates you, and she hates the PublicInformation Board. I think dad hated you, too."
Shandor took the folded letter from his pocket. "Then what do you thinkof this?" he asked softly. "Doesn't this strike you a little odd?"
She read Ingersoll's letter carefully, then looked up at Tom, her eyeswide with surprise. "So this is what that note was. This doesn't wash,Tom."
"You're telling me it doesn't wash. Notice the wording. 'I believe thatman alone is qualified to handle this assignment.' Why me? And of allthings, why me _alone_? He knew my job, and he fought me and the PIBevery step of his career. Why a note like this?"
She looked up at him. "Do you have any idea?"
"Sure, I've got an idea. A crazy one, but an idea. I don't think hewanted me because of the writing. I think he wanted me because I'm apropagandist."
She scowled. "It still doesn't wash. There are lots ofpropagandists--and why would he want a propagandist?"
Shandor's eyes narrowed. "Let's let it ride for a moment. How about hisfiles?"
"In his office in the State Department."
"He didn't keep anything personal at home?"
Her eyes grew wide. "Oh, no, he wouldn't have dared. Not the sort ofwork he was doing. With his files under lock and key in the StateDepartment nothing could be touched without his knowledge, but at homeanybody might have walked in."
"Of course. How about enemies? Did he have any particular enemies?"
She laughed humorlessly. "Name anybody in the current administration. Ithink he had more enemies than anybody else in the cabinet." Her moutht
urned down bitterly. "He was a stumbling block. He got in people's way,and they hated him for it. They killed him for it."
Shandor's eyes widened. "You mean you think he was murdered?"
"Oh, no, nothing so crude. They didn't have to be crude. They just lethim butt his head against a stone wall.