“Nothing,” Wolfe said. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind if this chair were properly constructed and of a proper size. I suggest, if the discussion is to be at kindergarten level, that we all sit on the floor.”
“Not a bad idea. We may come to that.” Fife turned to Shattuck. “When did you get the letter?”
“In the mail Saturday morning,” Shattuck told him. “Plain envelope of course, address typed, marked personal. Postmarked New York, Station R, 7:30 p.m. Friday. My first impulse was to turn it over to the F.B.I., but I decided that wouldn’t be fair to you fellows, so I telephoned Harold — Colonel Ryder. I was coming to New York today anyway — speaking at a dinner tonight of the National Industrial Association — and we agreed this was the way to handle it.”
“You haven’t — you didn’t take it up with General Carpenter?”
“No.” Shattuck smiled. “After that performance when he appeared to testify before my committee a couple of months ago — I didn’t feel like crossing his path.”
“This is his path.”
“I know, but he’s not patrolling this sector of it at this moment—” Shattuck’s eyes widened— “or is he?”
Fife shook his head. “He’s stewing in Washington. Or sizzling. Or both. So you’re turning the letter over to us for investigation. Is that it?”
“I don’t know.” Shattuck hesitated. He was meeting the general’s eyes. “It came to me as chairman of a Congressional committee. I came here — to discuss the matter.”
“You know—” Fife also hesitated. He went on, choosing words: “You know, of course, I could merely say military security is involved and the question cannot be discussed.”