Assignment — Stella Marni by Edward S. Aarons

anger was directed at Durell. "Sam, this is too much. I don't understand what's eating you. Mr. Blossom has been with the FBI for much longer than you have been with us. His record is spotless. His percentage of case convictions stands higher than that of any other man in his district. There has never been the slightest criticism of his methods or his personal habits. Your remarks are too serious to be dismissed lightly." McFee swung to Blossom. "I apologize for Durell. Do you have any objections if I take him with me back to Washington?"
    Blossom looked down at his hands, flat on the table, and shook his head. "We want the information he possesses. He is a material witness to the murder tonight He's also made serious charges against me, impugning my integrity in this case. I want that cleared up. An apology from you, General, is hardly enough."
    Tom Markey cleared his throat. "I think, gentlemen, we have all gone overboard with our tempers. I have known Sam Durell for many years. I realize he is upset because his friend is seriously injured, perhaps dying. I'm sure he will give us everything he can to help settle the matter when he has had time to think it over."
    "Don't apologize for me, Tom," Durell said. His anger, he knew, was now suicidal. He knew that the best thing to do was to shut up, keep quiet, let it all ride for now. But he couldn't help himself. He had the greatest respect for the FBI and the unselfish men who devoted their lives to internal security. He knew that Blossom was one exception in thousands. He knew that, in a way, Stella Marni had confused his thinking as much as she had twisted Blossom's perspective in the case. There was no reason why he should believe Stella against Blossom. Yet he did. He could not help himself. Every ounce of rational thinking and training urged him to co-operate, to apologize, to work with these men and do what he could, to turn in Stella Marni and go back to Washington with McFee and forget it. But it was impossible. He knew the dangers of a wild crusade for vengeance, but this went beyond a desire to satisfy himself personally about Art, if Art should die.
    It was the girl.
    He could see her, sense her, and feel her, and hear again the desperation in her words, whispering to him. There was a feeling in him of something left undone, of something still to be explored and settled between himself and Stella Marni. It had been something beyond her despair and terror and beauty, something he could not explain. How can you explain what makes you walk by a hundred women and suddenly feel yourself come alive at a single meeting of the eye, at the glimpse of a proud face, a knowledge of the way one walked, alive with pulses singing and a feeling of being incomplete suddenly, unless you could be with this particular one, this one out of all the hundreds?
    He felt as if Stella Marni had somehow possessed him.
    And knowing this, he suddenly felt less bitter toward Blossom.
    The conference went on for twenty more minutes. Durell tried to be more amenable. But what he had learned from Stella and the few leads he intended to follow he kept to himself. The tensions at the board table relaxed slightly, and Dickinson McFee's quiet manner contributed to it as much as Durell's change of attitude. Blossom was not in the least satisfied; neither was Tom Markey, his second in command. There was a telephone call from Senator Hubert at the end of all the talk, and Blossom listened and replied perfunctorily while McFee seemed to be thinking of something else, and then Blossom pushed the phone away and stood up.
    "That's all for now, gentlemen. Durell, you're to go back to Washington with the General and stay out of it. Understood?"
    Durell nodded.
    "Well need a statement from you, of course," Blossom was cool and businesslike now. "That will be enough, for the present, provided you don't meddle in this any further."
    McFee stood up. "I'll take Durell with me."
    They left the hospital building a few