The Last Heroes (Men at War 1)

She had a very nice walk, he thought.

The Willard Hotel Washington, D.C. 7:40 P.M., June 4, 1941

Richard Canidy got out of the limousine and walked up the stairs to the lobby of the Willard. He was wearing one of Jim Whittaker’s dinner jackets and one of Jim’s stiff shirts; because it was about a size too small at the neck, he was sure it would leave his skin irritated and sore by the time he could get rid of it.

He went to a bank of house phones and asked to be connected with Mrs. Mark Chambers. The phone rang four times before a soft Southern voice answered it.

‘‘Yes?’’

‘‘Mrs. Chambers, I’m Dick Canidy. Anytime you’re ready, I’m in the lobby.’’

‘‘I’ll be down in just a minute,’’ she said. ‘‘How will I recognize you?’’

‘‘I look like a waiter,’’ he quipped, and immediately regretted it. ‘‘I’ll recognize you. Mr. Whittaker said you were a tall and lovely blonde.’’

‘‘Oh my,’’ she said, and hung up. Canidy thought he shouldn’t have said that either.

Chesty Whittaker had in fact not described her as a ‘‘tall and lovely blonde’’ but somewhat less kindly as ‘‘your typical Southern magnolia blossom, Dick. I’m sure you know the type. Blond and helpless. ‘Po’ l’il ol’ me.’ Too afraid of the big city to get in a cab and come out here by herself. Hence the limousine. But I promised her husband that I would watch over her, so you’re elected to fetch her and take her home.’’

‘‘My pleasure,’’ Dick had said.

‘‘No, not your pleasure, I’m afraid. But I will owe you.’’

‘‘My pleasure to be of service, then,’’ Canidy said.

Chesty Whittaker had squeezed his arm then in gratitude and friendship.

Three minutes later, Mrs. Mark Chambers got off the elevator. She did look Southern. He was sure it was her even before he walked up and asked, ‘‘Mrs. Chambers?’’

‘‘Sue-Ellen,’’ she said, giving him her hand. She looked right into his eyes, and he found that disconcerting. ‘‘Mr. Canidy?’’

‘‘Dick,’’ he said.

‘‘It was so nice of you to come all the way here and get me.’’

‘‘My pleasure.’’

And she was tall and lovely, he thought. Probably thirty or so.

‘‘I hate to be a burden on Mr. Whittaker,’’ she said, taking his arm. Innocently, he believed, she pressed her breast against his arm as they made their way across the lobby and down the stairs.

‘‘Mr. Whittaker is looking forward to having you in the house,’’ Canidy said, and thought: You have all the makings of a gigolo, Canidy. Charm oozes from your every pore.

‘‘My husband was delayed on business in New York,’’ she said.

‘‘So Mr. Whittaker told me.’’

He got into the old Rolls beside her. In the closed car, her rich perfume became powerfully evident. It was surprisingly wicked perfume for ‘‘your typical Southern ‘po’ l’il ol’ me’ ’’ magnolia to wear.

At the house there were cocktails, and then dinner was announced. Chesley Haywood Whittaker sat at one end of the table, and at the other was a New York lawyer named Donovan. Sue-Ellen Chambers as guest of honor sat beside Whittaker, and Canidy sat beside Sue-Ellen. Cynthia Chenowith sat on the other side between the other guests, who were British and Canadian. One of the Englishmen, on hearing that Canidy was in the Navy, introduced himself as a sailor himself, Commander, Royal Navy Reserve, Ian Fleming.

Canidy liked Donovan, a fascinating man, full of sparkle and energy and a longtime Whittaker buddy. He had met Donovan a dozen times before in New Jersey. Donovan was called Colonel Donovan, even though he had long ago taken off his colonel’s uniform, which was adorned with the blue, silver-starred ribbon of the Medal of Honor, won while he was commanding the ‘‘Fighting 69th’’ Infantry Regiment in the American Expeditionary Force in France.

He was a stocky, white-haired, charming, yet intense man, the only man Canidy knew who had won the Medal of Honor. As a result of his Navy experience Canidy had come to understand something of what command was all about. Canidy could see instantly that this man Donovan was one hell of a commanding officer. He possessed that rare talent that caused other men to eagerly carry out orders they would not accept from someone else. It wasn’t just that he was persuasive. It was a much, much rarer talent than that (FDR had it): Donovan was a man you just couldn’t say no to.

Canidy could also tell—from some of the amused but admiring glances he from time to time shot at the colonel— that Commander Fleming held opinions about Donovan similar to his own. When Canidy made a comment to that effect to the commander, Fleming laughed. ‘‘Oh yes, Lieutenant, ’’ he said, pronouncing it Leftenant, ‘‘I know exactly what you mean. I’ve had considerable dealings of late with Colonel Wild Bill Donovan.’’

‘‘I’d like to hear about those,’’ Canidy said.