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EZRA POUND 333
appoint the lawyer as their power of attorney to receive their
monthly checks, which were split three ways.
When Rankin looked into the case, he found that the lawyer
had been serving as power of attorney for forty patients at St.
Elizabeths, all war veterans receiving as much as two hundred dollars
apiece. He was able to free thirty-eight of them, but despite the
flagrancy of the case, he was unable to have the lawyer disbarred.
This revelation was of little benefit to Ezra, and I continued to
trudge around Capitol Hill for some months before it finally
dawned on me that neither he nor I had any representation there.
My efforts soon brought retribution of a sort. One evening, I heard
a light rap on my door, and opened it to see my mousy little
landlady standing there. She was one of those frail old things who
inhabit our cities and who whisper through the parks before noon
like dried oak leaves pushed by the wind.
"Oh, you're home!" she said.
"Yes, I am," I replied.
"There's some gentlemen here wanted to see you," she stammered
and fled. Behind her I saw lurking two dark figures, like
assassins. She probably had brought them up to go through my
things, supposing that I had gone out for supper, as I usually did at
that hour.
The two men pushed into my room, looking contemptuously at
its cheap secondhand furniture, which the landlady had picked up
from the Salvation Army. There was only one chair, so I could
not ask them to sit down. They glared at me and simultaneously
flipped open their wallets, exposing some sort of badge like the
ones that children get from breakfast food companies.
"EFF BEE EYE," said one of them ominously. His companion
nodded sagely, confirming his statement.
"You the fellow that goes out to see Pound?" one of them asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Know anything about him?" asked the second man sharply.
"He—he writes poems," I gasped.
"Very dangerous man," said the first agent. "Whaddya go out
there for?"
"You been stirring up some trouble," said his companion