The moment he was gone, the first C.I.D. man jumped into Major Major’s office through the window and wanted to know who the second C.I.D. man was. Major Major barely recognized him.
“He was a C.I.D. man,” Major Major told him.
“Like hell he was,” said the first C.I.D. man. “I’m the C.I.D. man around here.”
Major Major barely recognized him because he was wearing a faded maroon corduroy bathrobe with open seams under both arms, linty flannel pajamas, and worn house slippers with one flapping sole. This was regulation hospital dress, Major Major recalled. The man had added about twenty pounds and seemed bursting with good health.
“I’m really a very sick man,” he whined. “I caught cold in the hospital from a fighter pilot and came down with a very serious case of pneumonia.”
“I’m very sorry,” Major Major said.
“A lot of good that does me,” the C.I.D. man sniveled. “I don’t want your sympathy. I just want you to know what I’m going through. I came down to warn you that Washington Irving seems to have shifted his base of operations from the hospital to your squadron. You haven’t heard anyone around here talking about Washington Irving, have you?”
“As a matter of fact, I have,” Major Major answered. “That man who was just in there. He was talking about Washington Irving.”
“Was he really?” the first C.I.D. man cried with delight. “This might be just what we needed to crack the case wide open! You keep him under surveillance twenty-four hours a day while I rush back to the hospital and write my superiors for further instructions.” The C.I.D. man jumped out of Major Major’s office through the window and was gone.
A minute later, the flap separating Major Major’s office from the orderly room flew open and the second C.I.D. man was back, puffing frantically in haste. Gasping for breath, he shouted, “I just saw a man in red pajamas come jumping out of your window and go running up the road! Didn’t you see him?”
“He was here talking to me,” Major Major answered.
“I thought that looked mighty suspicious, a man jumping out the window in red pajamas.” The man paced about the small office in vigorous circles. “At first I thought it was you, hightailing it for Mexico. But now I see it wasn’t you. He didn’t say anything about Washington Irving, did he?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Major Major, “he did.”
“He did?” cried the second C.I.D. man. “That’s fine! This might be just the break we needed to crack the case wide open. Do you know where we can find him?”
“At the hospital. He’s really a very sick man.”
“That’s great!” exclaimed the second C.I.D. man. “I’ll go right up there after him. It would be best if I went incognito. I’ll go explain the situation at the medical tent and have them send me there as a patient.”
“They won’t send me to the hospital as a patient unless I’m sick,” he reported back to Major Major. “Actually, I am pretty sick. I’ve been meaning to turn myself in for a checkup, and this will be a good opportunity. I’ll go back to the medical tent and tell them I’m sick, and I’ll get sent to the hospital that way.”
“Look what they did to me,” he reported back to Major Major with purple gums. His distress was inconsolable. He carried his shoes and socks in his hands, and his toes had been painted with gentian-violet solution, too. “Who ever heard of a C.I.D. man with purple gums?” he moaned.
He walked away from the orderly room with his head down and tumbled into a slit trench and broke his nose. His temperature was still normal, but Gus and Wes made an exception of him and sent him to the hospital in an ambulance.
Major Major had lied, and it was good. He was not really surprised that it was good, for he had observed that people who did lie were, on the whole, more resourceful and ambitious and successful than people who did not lie. Had he told the truth to the second C.I.D. man, he would have found himself in trouble. Instead he had lied, and he was free to continue his work.
He became more circumspect in his work as a result of the visit from the second C.I.D. man. He did all his signing with his left hand and only while wearing the dark glasses and false mustache he had used unsuccessfully to help him begin playing basketball again. As an additional precaution, he made a happy switch from Washington Irving to John Milton. John Milton was supple and concise. Like Washington Irving, he could be reversed with good effect whenever he grew monotonous. Furthermore, he enabled Major Major to double his output, for John Milton was so much shorter than either his own name or Washington Irving’s and took so much less time to write. John Milton proved fruitful in still one more respect. He was versatile, and Major Major soon found himself incorporating the signature in fragments of imaginary dialogues. Thus, typical endorsements on the official documents might read, “John, Milton is a sadist” or “Have you seen Milton, John?” One signature of which he was especially proud read, “Is anybody in the John, Milton?” John Milton threw open whole new vistas filled with charming, inexhaustible possibilities that promised to ward off monotony forever. Major Major went back to Washington Irving when John Milton grew monotonous.