LATER THAT SAME EVENING, Mr. Price convened an emergency meeting of the council of the Chamber of Commerce. Council members met in the back room of the chamber, where a mahogany desk, long enough to seat the seven council members as well as the president, had been a fixture of the chamber since its founding in 1873. Carved into the top were the initials of each of the presidents who had served. “SWP” was at the bottom, number sixteen.
At precisely seven o’clock, Mr. Price raised the gavel and struck it hard against the mahogany. “I, Sullen Waterford Price, Esquire, sixteenth president of the chamber, hereby call this emergency meeting to order.” He puffed on his fat cigar. “Gentlemen, we have ourselves a grave problem.”
The council members nodded and whispered to each other, acknowledging that yes, there certainly must be a problem to discuss. However, none knew just what that problem happened to be. No matter, though; the Council members had unwavering confidence in their leader, and if Mr. Price said there was a problem, then a problem there most definitely was. That was the way of it, as always had been.
Mr. Price struck the gavel down once more. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please.”
The men quieted down immediately. If only Dixie were so obedient.
“Gentlemen, it has come to my attention that there is a businessman in town, one who calls himself an American but has ties to Nazi Germany, and perhaps to Hitler himself,” said Mr. Price.
Puff.
Puff.
The men gasped and looked at each other, returning to whispers and grumbles about the audacity of such a traitor.
“Who?” said Mr. Merr, scratching his graying sideburns. “Who is this man?”
“Name him,” said Mr. Marks. “Tell us, please.”
“Yes, name him,” shouted the others.
Mr. Price sucked on his cigar like a pacifier, relishing the moment as well as his fine tobacco, and then let the name Hermann Baum pass from his lips.
“Baum?” said Mr. Merr. “The new restaurateur?”
Mr. Price nodded. “One and the same.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Mr. Travers, who was the oldest of the council members.
“I know,” said Mr. Price. “This was as much of a shock to me.”
Puff.
Puff.
Puff.
The men were raising their voices and talking on top of one another as they tried to make sense of what Mr. Price was saying. The council members knew of Hermann Baum, and had some of the same friends, but none of them knew him personally. None of them, that is, save Mr. Travers.
“Now, wait a moment,” said Mr. Travers. “I have known Hermann for years. He’s been an Elk as long as he’s lived in Hagerstown, and I just don’t think that it could be possible that he’s . . . that he’s . . . well, that he’s what you say he is. With all due respect, of course, Mr. Price.”
Mr. Price tapped the ashes from his cigar into his marble ashtray and held it firmly between his fingers. “Of course, Mr. Travers, I do respect your opinion on most matters. But you may want to refrain from making any further statements until you see what I’m offering as proof.” He reached into a drawer to the right of his chair and pulled out the paper that Mr. Stannum had given him. Then he stood, lifting the paper with both hands as if the words written on the page were weighted with lead. Starting at the far end of the long desk, he stopped briefly at each council member’s seat so that every man could observe the evidence.
“What does it say?” asked Mr. Merr.
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Pearson, shaking his head. “Does anyone here read German?”
“I’m sure I do not,” said Mr. Gaines. He pounded his fist against the mahogany desk, insulted that such a question could be posed in present company.
Mr. Travers put on his round eyeglasses and studied the paper. He cleared his throat. “Then if no one knows what this document says, what does it prove, exactly?”
Mr. Price remained calm. “Gentlemen, pardon me for saying so, but you are all being as naïve as schoolchildren. You are missing the point entirely.” He laid the paper carefully at his seat and then leaned on the desk in front of Mr. Travers. “It makes no difference what this says. The facts are these: This document, in German, was found in the possession of Mr. Hermann Baum, a man who, upon repeated attempts to contact him, refuses to answer any of my questions about his birth country or how he has come upon his considerable assets, such as a new restaurant requiring substantial construction and that employs nearly twenty people, including coloreds. Just what are we supposed to make of that, Mr. Travers?”
Even if Mr. Travers had a reply—which he did not—he wouldn’t have had an opportunity to respond, because Mr. Price had a great deal more to say. “Has anyone seen today’s newspaper?” Mr. Price picked up his copy of the Daily Mail, which he had brought with him from home, unfolded the front page, and read aloud this headline: “‘Nazis Arming in Danzig, House of Commons Told.’” He threw the paper at Mr. Travers. “Read for yourself. Hitler is sending in weapons to the Free City, and let me assure you, friends, if he takes Danzig, he will take Poland next. There will be no stopping him.”
“But you are talking about Europe,” said Mr. Merr. “What stake does America have in this?”
Mr. Price picked up his cigar once again. “Mr. Merr, what do you think will stop Hitler and the Axis powers from attempting to conquer us, once they have conquered Europe? It’s no secret that Hitler is recruiting spies in cities all over the world, even in America.”
Puff.
Puff.
“A spy?” said Mr. Travers. “Is that what you are saying Hermann is? Is that what you are accusing him of? Surely you don’t think . . .”
“Baum is without a doubt a German name,” offered Mr. Gaines.
“It is indeed,” said Mr. Price.
“As are Mueller and Hoffman, and a dozen other surnames in town,” said Mr. Travers. “Are you accusing all of them of the same thing?”
“Right you are, Mr. Travers,” said Mr. Price, “but both Mr. Mueller and Mr. Hoffman have been interviewed and are deemed acceptable, honorable businessmen, and—not to mention—supporters of mine.” He cleared his throat. “And when you consider all of the other facts I’ve laid out before you, I don’t see how you could doubt the danger that Mr. Baum poses to this town, to all of our businesses, and to our families.”
Mr. Gaines held up the paper with the German words. “Why, this could be instructions from Hitler himself to do us all in!”
“What are we going to do?” asked Mr. Merr. “Should we go to the authorities? Alert J. Edgar Hoover?”
“Hoover would take care of him, all right,” said Mr. Gaines.
“Perhaps in time,” said Mr. Price. “But I am quite confident that this matter can be handled locally. If I may make a suggestion.” He reached into the drawer beside his chair once again and removed a stack of flyers. “It really is quite simple. If we make it clear to Mr. Baum that his business is not welcome here, that he is not wanted, then he will have no choice but to leave.” He divided the stack of flyers by seven and handed a pile to each council member. “The surest way to rid yourselves of the rat in your basement is to make the basement, shall we say, undesirable to the rat.”
Puff.
Puff.