Or, at least, to begin the process of undermining the status of Hans Richter as national hero and the influence of Gretchen Richter as a principal organizer of the Committees of Correspondence, which would have a very anti-German effect.
That was what the pamphlet was really about. Anti-Semitism was purely coincidental.
Frau Haggerty and Herr Holloway seemed somewhat happier after this illuminating exegesis. Not a lot. Dismissing the flyer in regard to Frau Dreeson, Holloway returned to his diatribe against Clara Bachmeierin and Veda Mae resumed her complaints against Mitch Hobbs, his Kraut girlfriend, and Lutheran church services at MaidenFresh Laundries.
By the end of supper, Jacques-Pierre had la migraine. Badly.
Headache or not, he could still think clearly enough. It was not good that Mrs. Haggerty had said these things. If she continued to say them in public, it might cause questions. Bring people to ask where she had encountered the ideas.
Jacques-Pierre began to consider retirement. Seriously.
For the second time in his life.
The first time, Velma Hardesty had caused the thought to cross his mind.
He started to make plans to leave Grantville. Quite quickly, if necessary.
Not yet, however. There were still a few things to be done, such as arranging for the disposal of some records and papers. Records and papers in regard to Mauger's channeling the money that had financed the demonstration at the hospital that had gone so miserably awry. For the time being, they were safe enough where they were, in Madame Haggerty's enclosed back porch. She rarely used that part of her house and, unlike most Grantvillers, was far too cantankerous to have taken in boarders. But disposal was turning out to be more difficult than it might seem. He was almost certain that he was under surveillance.
Perhaps Holloway could be of assistance. Dumais understood that he would be remaining in Grantville for another three weeks before starting his next assignment.
Chapter 54
"Do something revolutionary," Ron recommended. "The Committees of Correspondence approve of doing revolutionary things. We're in the middle of a nationwide purge or something. So kiss me good night here in the hall, instead of going out on the sidewalk. The temperature is dropping and you'll get your ears cold again."
Missy thought about it. Right inside her own house? That would . . . change things, somehow.
As a kind of temporary compromise, she put her arms around his waist and her face against his. "Could you talk to your manager Kautz in the morning?" she asked. "I know that your dad trained him and that he knows what he's doing, but he doesn't seem to be into sharing. It's as if he's convinced that 'we hold these truths to be self-evident.' Can you persuade him that if he rolls over dead one of these days, they won't be so self-evident to anyone else now on the payroll? Your dad isn't really in a position to come all the way back here, just to train someone else."
"I'll give it a try."
He took his hand and moved her chin. "You'll get your nose cold, too, if you don't kiss me right here. And your feet wet and very cold. The rain is changing to sleet."
The impish electrons that had been residing in her kneecaps and hip sockets all winter perked up at the thought of being able to take advantage of a kiss that would take place in a warm, dry, and generally comfortable environment for a change. With the result that the requested kiss not only occurred, but incorporated what amounted to a crotch grind.
"Wow," Ron said. "Very enticing. A new addition to the repertoire. Where has this been before?"
"If you think I would do that outdoors where people could see us . . ."
"I'm crazier than you think I am." Ron moved his hands down where they could encourage the electrons to do it again. "Wish I didn't have to go get some work done."
There was another distinct pause before the front door opened and closed.
Missy came back into the living room and looked at her parents, who were valiantly attempting to give the impression that they hadn't heard every word. Not to mention counted the duration of every interval between the words. And that they had been born middle-aged.
Chad finally gave it up as futile.
"What's with the self-evident truths?" he asked.
"We're working on a formal procedures manual now. They've been winging it without one. Most of the staff is pretty cooperative."
"But some of it isn't." Chad grinned. "Business as usual. But why his business and not mine?"
"I don't know, exactly." Missy stood there. "Actually, a lot of the stuff that I learned Saturday mornings, over the years, racketing around in your office, has been pretty helpful. I guess I should say 'Thanks.' "