Free The Seersucker Whipsaw by Ross Thomas Page B

in Albertia, it was right kind of him to spare us a few moments. As Political Affairs Officer, he might give us some tips that could save us needless drudgery and fruitless quests. It was, the way Shartelle laid it on, as nice a glob of sandy mortar as I’d yet seen him pat into place.
    Coit sat through it all, his hands folded on the empty desk in front of him, his eyes fixed on Shartelle, his fine head nodding every now and then to signal the speaker that he was coming through nicely. Coit was a professional listener. If he had turned the act on for me, I would have talked all day, beginning with the time when I was three and they had stolen my tricycle. It was blue with a bell on the handle bars and studded metal plates on the rear axle that a small passenger could stand on.
    But Shartelle didn’t even tell Coit about his daddy or the LaSalle with the busted block. He just stopped talking and began smiling. It was one of those silences when you feel you should clear your throat or shift your chair or mention the weather. But I had no cue so I looked around the office which had an autographed picture of the President beaming grimly down from one wall. I had the feeling that it was General Services Administration issue and was on of thousands dispatched to embassies and consulates all over the world the day after Kennedy was shot. You could tell from the size of the office and the furniture how much Coit made in a year, but you could tell nothing about him. The personal touches—a painting, a piece of statuary, or a jug full of flowers—were all missing.
    Finally Coit got up and walked a few feet to a window and peered out through the Venetian blind. I couldn’t tell what the view was. “I appreciate your confidence, Mr. Shartelle,” he said to the venetian blind. “And I must confess that I don’t envy you the task that lies ahead.”
    â€œMr. Coit, if I couldn’t place confidence in a representative of a United States Embassy or Consulate, I think I would be living in a rather shabby world,” Shartelle said.
    Coit nodded a grave nod and resumed his seat at his desk. “I’ve only been here a few weeks, but my job has required me to make an intensive study of the Albertian political scene. The more I study it, the more convinced I become that of all the developing nations south of the Sahara, this country is almost alone in its readiness and ability to accept the full challenge that self-rule imposes.”
    He paused and extracted a silver cigarette case from his inside coat pocket. He was wearing a pale blue worsted mohair tropical suit, a white shirt with a tab collar that had a gold pin stuck through it underneath the small knot of his blue and red striped tie.
    Coit opened the cigarette case and extended it to Shartelle who shook his head and then to me. I took one on the theory that it was probably an American cigarette and that he would be happy that someone liked him enough to trust his taste in smokes. It was filtered, but I tore the top off and placed it in the ashtray. Coit didn’t seem to notice or mind.
    After he and I had our cigarettes going, he began to tell us again why we should sign the fraternity’s pledge cards. “As a political scientist—” He broke off to smile his deprecatory smile. “At least that’s what that Master’s from Johns Hopkins says I am, I have more than a passing interest in those who engage in realpolitik . So your name, Mr. Shartelle, is a familiar one to me. And I also remember, quite well, in fact, Mr. Upshaw’s brilliant series from Europe in the troubled times of ’fifty-six. I think we can talk among ourselves as professionals in the political realm, although I consider myself an observer, a student, if you would, rather than an actionist.”
    It was a long speech and during it Shartelle had hooked his thumbs into his vest, cocked his head slightly to one side, and studied a corner