They gave him dead silence to reply. Every one of them knew that Bill had quit us-or had been fired. He grinned at me, and answered, “Good morning, Mister Bon forte. I’m with the Krein Syndicate.”
I knew it was coming then; I tried not to give him the satisfaction of letting it show. “A fine outfit. I hope they are paying you what you are worth. Now to business- The written questions first. You have them, Penny?”
I went rapidly through the written questions, giving out answers I had already had time to think over, then sat back as usual and said, “We have time to bat it around a bit, gentlemen. Any other questions?”
There were several. I was forced to answer “No comment” only once-an answer Bonforte preferred to an ambiguous one. Finally I glanced at my watch and said, “That will be all this morning, gentlemen,” and started to stand up.
“Smythe!” Bill shouted.
I kept right on getting to my feet, did not look toward him.
“I mean you, Mr. Phony Bonforte-Smythe!” he went on angrily, raising his voice still more.
This time I did look at him, with astonishment-just the amount appropriate, I think, to an important official subjected to rudeness under unlikely conditions. Bill was pointing at me and his face was red. “You impostor! You small-time actor! You fraud!”
The London Times man on my right said quietly, “Do you want me to call the guard, sir?”
I said, “No. He’s harmless.”
Bill laughed. “So I’m harmless, huh? You’ll find out.”
“I really think I should, sir,” the Times man insisted.
“No.” I then said sharply, “That’s enough, Bill. You had better leave quietly.”
“Don’t you wish I would?” He started spewing forth the basic story, talking rapidly. He made no mention of the kidnaping and did not mention his own part in the hoax, but implied that he had left us rather than be mixed up in any such swindle. The impersonation was attributed, correctly as far as it went, to illness on the part of Bonforte-with a strong hint that we might have doped him.
I listened patiently. Most of the reporters simply listened at first, with that stunned expression of outsiders exposed unwillingly to a vicious family argument. Then some of them started scribbling or dictating into minicorders.
When he stopped I said, “Axe you through, Bill?”
“That’s enough, isn’t it?”
“More than enough. I’m sorry, Bill. That’s all, gentlemen. I must get back to work.”
“Just a moment, Mr. Minister!” someone called out. “Do you want to issue a denial?” Someone else added, “Axe you going to sue?”
I answered the latter question first. “No, I shan’t sue. One doesn’t sue a sick man.”
“Sick, am I?” shouted Bill.
“Quiet down, Bill. As for issuing a denial, I hardly think it is called for. However, I see that some of you have been taking notes. While I doubt if any of your publishers would run this story, if they do, this anecdote may add something to it. Did you ever hear of the professor who spent forty years of his life proving that the Odyssey was not written by Homer-but by another Greek of the same name?”
It got a polite laugh. I smiled and started to turn away again. Bill came rushing around the table and grabbed at my arm. “You can’t laugh it off!” The Times man-Mr. Ackroyd, it was-pulled him away from me.
I said, “Thank you, sir.” Then to Corpsman I added, “What do you want me to do, Bill? I’ve tried to avoid having you arrested.”
“Call the guards if you like, you phony! We’ll see who stays in jail longest! Wait until they take your fingerprints!”
I sighed and made the understatement of my life. “This is ceasing to be a joke. Gentlemen, I think I had better put an end to this. Penny my dear, will you please have someone send in fingerprinting equipment?” I knew I was sunk-but, damn it, if you are caught by the Birkenhead Drill, the least you owe yourself is to stand at attention while the ship goes down. Even a villain should make a good exit.