Cockran smiled. It was a good sign that two good Irish Catholic boys could share jokes over what had been an exceptionally ugly organized campaign of anti-Catholic bigotry in the 1928 presidential election where the very Protestant Hoover had defeated the very Catholic governor of New York, Al Smith. Cockran mentally amended that as he was one not-so-good Irish Catholic boy. Nevertheless, anti-Catholic bigotry bothered him more than it should, having experienced it first hand. He had grown up in the middle of Long Island‘s Gold Coast amid all the millionaire mansions which had sprung up around the turn of the century, Prostestants inhabiting them all. Make that almost all. Not the Cedars, Cockran‘s boyhood home at Sands Point. But it hadn‘t been a mansion, just a large comfortable old shingle house on 300 acres. Not that different really from the house of their neighbors, the Theodore Roosevelts, in nearby Oyster Bay.
As a boy, he‘d never experienced any overt anti-Catholic prejudice. That would not have been well-mannered and Protestants were nothing but well-mannered on the outside, no matter how black their little hearts were on the inside. Besides, with Theodore Roosevelt as his sponsor, his father belonged to as many exclusive clubs as he wished, the token Irish Catholic who had more friends among the British aristocracy than most of the other members. It was not until Cockran discovered girls that he first encountered anti-Catholic bigotry. He had been surprised. His pretty mother who died in childbirth and whom he only knew from photos had been a Protestant. An Episcopalian no less. As a result, Cockran had not become a religious man despite his father‘s devotion to the church. Once his father had assured the 7 year old Cockran that his mother was indeed in heaven and the good priests and nuns were dead wrong when they said that only members in good standing of the one true church could go to heaven, he had concluded that if the priests and nuns were wrong on something as important as that, what else could they be wrong about?
All the girls he dated were Protestant because there were few Catholic girls to date on the Gold Coast. Unless you considered the servants, but Cockran didn‘t move in those circles and his father had warned him sternly about that anyway. The good breeding and manners of his father‘s Protestant neighbors in the Gold Coast, however, had a limit. Don‘t try to marry their daughters. Well, Cockran hadn‘t been trying to marry anyone but he certainly had been trying, with considerable success, to get inside Emily Farnsworth‘s blouse where he had spent a delightful summer. They were in love as only teenagers can be and he was crushed at the end of the summer when she broke off the relationship.
Emily was actually embarrassed to tell him why but he persisted. Which is when he learned that Emily‘s father had forbade her to see Cockran any more because he was afraid she was getting too serious. And he didn‘t want his nearly seventeen year old virginal daughter getting serious about a Catholic because, if the worst happened, she couldn‘t marry him. Far better—and safer—to become serious about an Episcopalian boy, preferably one whose father was as wealthy as, if not more so than, George Farnsworth.
Cockran had been hurt and confused. After all, he protested, he wasn‘t even a good Catholic. But soon-to-be debutantes on the Gold Coast did not disobey their fathers, not if they‘re expected to have the coming out party to which their birthright entitled them.
So he and Emily had reluctantly parted that summer and had in fact remained good friends, indeed more than that, but that was another story. His father told him not to worry about it. Don‘t give anyone else the power to make you unhappy, he had said. Still, once his father died, he had promptly resigned, without comment, from all the clubs where he and his father had been the only Catholic members. Life was too short to spend it among bigots.
Still, there could be bigots on both sides as he had discovered in Ireland when he met the beautiful, hot-tempered colleen who was Nora Morrisey. After she learned that he had only dated Protestant girls and listened to him complain about their parents‘ bigotry, she had laughed.
“And wouldn‘t you be sounding just as bigoted towards the Prods as my parents?”
“What do you mean?” Cockran had asked, confused at the question. They were the bigots, not him. And then Nora had explained. She was dating a British officer, much to her parents‘ chagrin and it was not because he was a Brit with a double-barreled name. No, it was because he was not a member of the one true, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church. In short, he was a Protestant, Church of England. It was their first date but Cockran was already in love and she had parried his questions about her British suitor.
“He‘s nice enough to me, sweet really. But he‘s such a pompous prig to my friends. You‘ve got a month until I see him again, Mr. American, so if I decide you’re worth seeing again, it will be in spite of your religious intolerance.” Nora had said with that laugh that always melted his heart. Reflexively, Cockran had started to protest and then stopped. He was out to win her love, not an argument. His father hadn‘t raised a fool.
“I told Al we had to keep quiet about the Pope‘s tunnel, but he just wouldn‘t listen,” Cockran said, as he and Donovan walked over to a less-populated corner of the room to continue their conversation. “What are your plans now, Bill? Are you back in New York to stay?”
“Frank Raichle and some of our boys from the Antitrust Division have thrown in with me and we‘ve opened law offices in both Washington and New York. We‘re going to build a top-notch international law firm, Bourke, and we want you with us.”
Cockran paused but, before he could respond, he felt pressure on his left arm as Anne Dawson moved in behind him and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“You boys stop talking shop. There will be no business discussed at my party. Colonel Donovan, go find your lovely wife before someone steals her away. Bourke, you come with me,” Anne said, as she began to lead him away. Before she could do so, Donovan said “Call me, Bourke. Let‘s have dinner tomorrow. I‘m saving a place for you in my firm.”
“I‘m in Montreal all day. How about a late supper at the Stork Club?” Cockran replied.
Donovan gave him a thumbs up as Anne Dawson continued whispering in his ear, “She‘s over there, with that pompous ass, Philip Cromwell. You must go rescue her.”
“Rescue whom?” Cockran asked.
“Mattie. Martha McGary. The photo-journalist, silly. Isn‘t that why you really came?”
7:45 p.m.
It wasn‘t Mattie McGary who needed rescuing, Cockran thought as he watched Philip Dru Cromwell IV raise his hands as if in defense from the shapely red-haired woman facing him. She was wearing a royal blue silk rep dress with an accented waistline. Her hair was cut fashionably short, in layers, giving her a tousled look similar to the famous aviatrix Amelia Earhart.
As she turned at Anne‘s request to meet Cockran, he was not prepared for her striking looks. “Bourke Cockran.” he said pronouncing his name “Burke” as his father had before him. “Pleased to meet you.” Her face was brown with the sun, as if she spent much of her time in the outdoors, a light dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks which she had made no effort to conceal with makeup. White teeth flashed as she smiled, her large green eyes focused on him as she extended her hand to his. She wasn‘t a classic beauty but Cockran was mesmerized. He knew he was staring but he must have said something because she laughed and said, “And to think Anne told me that you were a quiet and shy Irish boy, Mr. Cockran. Perhaps you can help resolve a point of dispute between me and Mr. Cromwell,” she said, nodding in Cromwell‘s direction. I told him American money had unnecessarily prolonged the Great War. He didn‘t agree. What do you think?” Her voice was soft with the barest trace of a Scottish accent.
Mattie paused. “Excuse me. I apologize. Have you two met?”
“We‘ve not met, Professor Cockran,” Cromwell said, “but I have enjoyed your articles on war reparations. Can‘t say I agree with them, but you argue your points well.”
Cockran‘s eyes narrowed slightly. Was it possible Cromwell didn‘t recognize him? He took Cromwell‘s p
roffered hand and answered Mattie‘s question. “If I were a partner at J.P. Morgan or at Wainwright, I might disagree with you, Miss McGary. But the truth is undeniable. Without their financing the British and Goldman Sachs doing the same for the Germans, the war would have been a lot shorter and we would never have gotten in. It‘s really that simple.”
“Exactly my point, Mr. Cockran. You have been most helpful. Thank you,” Mattie said, flashing him a wide smile.
Before Cockran could mumble his thanks, Mattie had already turned back on Cromwell, restarting a discussion from which she obviously needed no rescue.
“But, Miss McGary, everyone financed the munitions industry during the war. While it‘s true we and a lot of other firms helped Morgan finance British war loans before we got in, it proved to be the right thing to do,” Cromwell responded.
“Nonsense!” Mattie snapped. “You Americans made a bloody fortune from us and the only reason you won‘t support ending German war reparations now is the money you‘re making off your German investments. The Germans have taken most of their American funds and passed them on to France and Britain, who turn around and give it back to the Americans to pay off your loans to them. So you make a tidy profit coming, going and at all stops in between.”
“Well, not exactly...” Cromwell began, but Mattie interrupted before he could finish. Cockran was enjoying this more and more. He knew who Cromwell was even if the older man didn‘t recognize him. Washington was far in the past but what he knew of Cromwell, he didn‘t like. Go get him, girl, he thought as he silently cheered Mattie on.
“Exactly what is inaccurate about my observations? Would you like facts and figures?”
“I‘m sure you have them my dear but, if I‘m not mistaken, you work for the International News Service?”
“Sure, and a lot more besides.”
“And INS is owned by Mr. Hearst?”
“You bet. The best boss I ever had.”
“Well, Miss McGary, I know Mr. Hearst quite well,” he said in a tone which, Cockran thought, invited you to draw the inference that she did not. “I know from several conversations with him on the subject that he does not share your views.”
Mattie paused and, uncharacteristically for her it seemed to Cockran in the few minutes he had known her, appeared to carefully choose her next words.
“I am,” she said distinctly, “quite familiar with Mr. Hearst‘s views on America getting involved in the war and on the role of Wall Street financiers in encouraging entry into that war. I can assure you, Mr. Cromwell, that Mr. Hearst shares my views precisely on those two subjects. I also know his present views on Allied repayments of their war debt. He is peculiarly persuaded by facts. And once I have those facts, Mr. Cromwell, you may be certain Mr. Hearst will print them. And do you know why?” Mattie asked.
“I‘m sure you will educate me,” Cromwell responded.
“Circulation, Mr. Cromwell. Circulation. Merchants of death, like you and your company, are the only ones who really profit from repayment of Allied war debt. Once I prove that—and I will—our readers will love it, so the Chief will love it, too,” said Mattie. “Now, let‘s talk about all those tombstones. Isn‘t that what you Yanks call them?”
Cromwell paused and appeared startled, raising a quizzical eyebrow. Mattie filled the void adding, “No, not that kind. I‘m talking about all of the secondary positions Wainwright & Cromwell have taken in a wide variety of note, bond and stock offerings in Germany and elsewhere in Europe.” She began to recite what had all the appearances of a very long list.
Cromwell visibly stiffened and raised his hand as if to silence her. Mattie ignored the gesture and continued reciting the list until Cromwell interrupted, his voice tightly controlled. “Miss McGary. This is a private gathering and hardly the time or place for me to give an interview to the press. I have an engagement elsewhere at 9:00 p.m. Perhaps some other time.”
“How about tomorrow? I‘m free if you are.”
“I regret, Miss McGary, that my schedule is very busy. Please contact my secretary ….”
“I‘ve been trying to do that for the past two weeks, Mr. Cromwell, but your schedule is always busy. That‘s why I asked Anne to invite you here tonight. I believe her response was ‘Whatever for? He‘s such a bore. I‘ve got someone for you to meet who‘s so much more.‘ And I see now that she was right. Thank you, Mr. Cromwell, for talking with me. I have all I need from you for my story. ‘When confronted with these facts, Mr. Cromwell declined to comment and once again ducked an interview with this correspondent.’”
Cromwell replied with ill-concealed hostility. “That would be a mistake, Miss McGary. I strongly suggest you reconsider,” he said, his tone unmistakably conveying the unspoken if you know what’s good for you. Cockran bristled at this. Not that he needed it but it gave him one more reason to dislike Phillip Dru Cromwell IV.
Mattie said nothing and turned abruptly on her heel, stuck her arm through Cockran‘s and said, “Come on, Mr. Cockran. Let‘s see if Anne was right about you.”
“Please call me Bourke,” Cockran replied as they walked away.
“And I‘m Mattie. Anne‘s a dear, but don’t you find parties like this so frightfully tedious? Lawyers. Bankers. The stock market. Is that all you Americans ever talk about?”
“A fair appraisal of most Americans, but not Anne Dawson. The bankers and lawyers she invites to please her husband. The writers and artists she invites to please herself.”
“I know, I know. I‘m just being wicked. I talked to Georgia O‘Keefe earlier, and she‘s a dear. Hopper was supposed to be here, too, Anne told me, but he is unwell. Have you seen his new piece, The Lighthouse at Two Lights at your Museum of Modern Art?”
“Not yet, I‘m afraid. Modigliani‘s show is the only one I have seen this year.”
“Really? Too pretentious for me. What else have you been doing this summer?”
“I’ve spent most of my time working on a book. My publisher wants it by December.”
Mattie bored in like the journalist she was and soon had Cockran telling her stories of his secret meetings with Michael Collins during the war, passing on Churchill‘s messages, Collins’ replies, the truce, the treaty negotiations, and the anguish Collins felt at the civil war forced upon Ireland by militants who refused to accept the voice of the people and the English who would not give him the time to work it out peacefully. Cockran even told her what was otherwise a closely guarded confidence known only to his publisher and John Devoy—the secret journals sent posthumously by Collins to Cockran’s father and the fire after his father’s funeral which destroyed all but six of them. With every word he spoke, he brought the story closer to Nora‘s death. He kept trying to change the subject and inquire after Mattie‘s career as a photo-journalist, but she was too tenacious to let him go. A damn good journalist, he thought.
“Do you ever wish you could do something like that again?” she said, suddenly.
Cockran hadn‘t anticipated the question. “Do what again?”
“Get involved. Make history. My goodness, you helped create the Irish Free State. What a great story. Don‘t you want to do something like that again?”
“No,” Cockran answered firmly and he wasn‘t about to tell her why. He actually had once felt that way himself. Not making history exactly, but helping it along, giving it a nudge. Indeed, that was the story he was writing that summer, the story of how he had brought Michael Collins and Winston Churchill together. It hadn‘t been his idea. His father had instilled in him a healthy mistrust of politics, politicians and governments. No, the person who had persuaded him to get involved and make history was that stunning blue-eyed, red-haired girl from Galway who became his wife and who also was eager to “make history”. Cockran had not been persuaded easily. He was a journalist then, having left the law. He didn‘t want to make history, he wanted to report it and write its first draft, preferably exposing corrupt politicians. But he was in love and Nora was an exceptionally persuasive
person. Now she was dead and he could not help thinking that if he had never introduced Winston to Michael Collins, she might still be alive. Yet it had been Nora who eagerly urged him to do so.
Cockran blinked and realized Mattie had been talking to him while he had drifted off. “Excuse me,” he said, “my mind was elsewhere. I didn‘t catch what you said.”
Mattie smiled. It was a beautiful smile and Cockran could see he was forgiven.
“Don‘t worry, I do it all the time. What I asked was why not? Making history is fun.”
“Not to me,” Cockran said, attempting to close the subject.
“Why not?” Mattie said. “I think it‘s exciting.”
“That’s not my idea of excitement.…” Cockran trailed off, catching himself before he mentioned Nora. Damn but this woman was aggressive. “Listen, Mattie, you have me talking too much. My throat’s dry and my glass is empty. How about another drink?” he said, offering her his arm which she accepted as they moved in the crowded room towards the bar.
In front of the white-coated bartender, Cockran asked Mattie what she wanted. She replied, “scotch and water. Johnnie Walker Red.” Cockran placed an order for two.
They made their way back across the room, and Cockran led her down the hallway towards the kitchen in the rear of the apartment, where he stopped, opened a door, and ushered her into a small book-lined room with four leather chairs and a small writing desk. “We’ll find some peace in here,” Cockran said, closing the door behind them. “Greg is fussy about whom he lets in his library, but I think he’ll make an exception for us.”
Mattie resumed their conversation where they had left off but, perhaps sensing Cockran’s reticience over Ireland, got him talking about his careeer as a journalist before he was posted to Ireland. Twenty minutes later, he raised his hand in a gesture of silence. Any minute now, she could return to the topic of Ireland and he didn‘t want to go there. He glanced down at his wristwatch, and said, “It’s 8:30, Miss McGary, later than I realized. I must leave by 9:00, or 9:30 at the latest. The night train to Montreal leaves at 11:30, and we’ve not talked at all about you. Aren’t a lot of your stories dangerous to cover? And exactly what is the difference between a journalist, a photographer, and a photo-journalist like yourself? You certainly had Cromwell on the defensive, and yet you obviously aren’t carrying a camera tonight.” Cockran said, as he looked at Mattie’s figure which stood silhouetted against the room’s lone window.
The DeValera Deception Page 5