Rex Stout by The President Vanishes

the Maryland Avenue Garage?”
    “Yes, sir. More than three years. Four years in August.”
    “How many trucks have you?”
    “Well … six Reos and the two little Fords.”
    “Where have you been since eight o’clock tonight?”
    “Tonight?”
    “Last night.”
    “At the home of a friend of mine, Mr. L. A. Dippel.”
    “Doing what?”
    “We were playing pinochle.”
    Wardell looked aside as the door opened. Chick Moffat entered, crossed to the desk and laid on its glass top a dark blue .38 revolver and a box of cartridges. He said, “It’s loaded.—What now?”
    “Sit down. You’ve been pretty helpful.” Wardell turned back to Adolf Kempner. “Playing pinochle until three o’clock in the morning?”
    “Yes, sir. When we get started … we’re quite fond of it. I got to my rooms—I’m not married—at half-past three, and found this gentleman waiting for me.”
    Wardell turned to Chick Moffat. “Didn’t anyone know where he was?”
    No, Chick said; another with him on the assignment had gone off to try to pick up the trail, and at ten o’clock, when news came that the truck had been found, and the other clerks and employees who had been unearthed had sworn to complete ignorance regarding it, a dozen men had joined in the hunt for Kempner. A dozen more were looking for the missing driver. Chick had remained at the rooms, and at three-thirty Kempner had walked up and stuck his key in the lock.
    Wardell said to the manager: “A young man named Val Orcutt makes your deliveries to the White House. Why?”
    “Why?” Sleepiness had resigned the field on the round face, and alarm was uppermost. “Why … because I tell him to.”
    “Why did you pick on him? Because he’s a member of your organization?”
    “Of course he’s a member of our organization, naturally …”
    “I don’t mean Callahan’s. I mean, because he’s a Gray Shirt?”
    Adolf Kempner blinked and his mouth opened. He shut it again, as the import of the questions seeped through, and his round face took on an unexpected quality of dignity and composed resentment. “That’s a lie,” he said quietly. “None of our boys are Gray Shirts. I am not. What are you driving at?”
    “I’d like to know.” Wardell kept his eyes fastened. “Where is Val Orcutt now?”
    “I don’t know. At home asleep, I suppose he is.”
    “He isn’t. He hasn’t been there since he left this morning. When did you see him last?”
    “Why, I saw him …” The manager was suddenly silent, then suddenly he exclaimed, “My God!” and stared at Wardell with horrified eyes.
    Wardell said, “Well?” And with sharper impatience, “Well?”
    “Wait a minute.” Kempner was pleading. “Just wait a minute.” He swallowed. “This is how it was. At twentyminutes to nine Val left for the White House. I always check that order out myself to avoid any chance of error. We always make a special trip for it, we don’t want to run any risk of getting other orders mixed with it, but we send a big truck—you understand that, it wouldn’t look well, a little Ford delivering provisions to the White House. We appreciate the advantage of people seeing our fine big truck going there every day. At a quarter past nine, I was back in the office then with the mail, Val phoned me. He told me that he had jumped out of the truck onto something and turned his ankle, and would have to lay off for the day.”
    Wardell nodded. “Your stenographer has told me of that call. So that’s what Val Orcutt said?”
    “Yes. Yes, sir. My God, he must be at home …”
    “He didn’t return to the store?”
    “No. I offered to send for the truck, but he said he would take it to the garage since it wasn’t needed at the store.… I thought in the afternoon I should telephone his home to ask how he was but I didn’t get around to it …”
    “You didn’t telephone the garage to ask about the truck?”
    “No, why should I? Val is a trustworthy boy, it never occurred to