"I came here, Mr. Flynn," I told him, "because one of your men practically put a gun at my ribs in front of the State Department. What do you want? A ticket to a prize fight? A good write-up in the papers? Tell me what it will cost me and I'll pay within reason. I didn't know that the Irish had got control of the Secret Service or I would have mailed the money ahead—in cash, of course, no checks, all small bills not consecutively numbered."
Flynn scowled out the window in the general direction of the White House. I dropped some more cigarette ash on the carpet.
Suddenly he whirled to me. "We're here to protect the President," he snapped, "and we don't propose to take any lip from you."
I said nothing. Then I noticed the flag over the White House at half-mast.
"Why's that flag at half-mast, Mr. Flynn," I asked.
"Because the President's dead."
"Was he murdered?" I asked.
"He was not! He died of natural causes, but we don't go for people plotting to kill any President, even if he's dead. Our job depends on it."
I rubbed out the stub of my cigarette on the corner of his mahogany desk and lighted another one.
"Since Roosevelt wasn't murdered, what am I here for?" I asked. "I'm a perfectly respectable New York business man. I'm registered at the Willard and my wife can identify me. I have plenty of other references, if you need them. The F.B.I., say, or General Wakely in Counter Intelligence. If you have anything to ask me, I'll be glad to try to answer questions, but I'm damned if I propose to sit here and let myself be accused of something I never dreamed of doing."