Nan’s concern increases exponentially when, on the tenth of August she leaves The Capitol Biograph, stops at a newsstand, buys a “late extra edition,” and scans the headlines. Congressional hearings have pushed Harding off the front page.
Meanwhile, here at home, things seemed to be going from bad to worse for many of the President’s closest friends. Men he had given his trust. Just imagine how this must have been eating at him, the poor dear. There were now two hearings at the same time, that in the Senate, and a brand new one in the House.
The thirteen congressmen of the House Judiciary Committee, Oscar Keller presiding, glare down from an elevated dais at Harry Daugherty, seated at the witness table, smoothly fielding questions. Behind him, the hearing room is packed.
Keller is getting nowhere. “Have you any idea, Mr. Attorney General, how securities in a German munitions firm in negotiations with the government found their way to a bank owned by your brother?”
“To quote the Bible, Mr. Chairman —,” begins Daugherty, prompting Congressman Weeks to mutter to Congressman Fish, “May God strike him dead.”
“— I am not my brother’s keeper,” continues Daugherty. “How my brother chose to run his bank is entirely his affair.”
“Your brother,” Keller asserts, “apparently chose to run his bank into the ground, taking thousands of depositors with him.”
“Most regrettable, most regrettable. But as I say . . .”
Keller cuts him off. “If I may, sir —” Congressman Hayes in the seat adjacent slips Keller a document. “How is it,” continues Keller, referring to Hayes’ note, “that a cigar maker who prior to Prohibition used an average of 480 gallons of alcohol to process tobacco, last year received permission from your office to draw 520,000 gallons? That’s enough booze to . . .”
Across the road, just outside the Senate building, Roxie Forbes pulls her Cord convertible into a center stall of a restricted parking zone as if it had been explicitly set aside for her. She flounces out. Overhead, the capital’s mid-August sun blazes vindictively, but Roxie wears evening makeup and a mink jacket.
Thanks to a subpoena from Walsh, the Wheeler Committee finally has itself a witness who is eager to perform. Half-draped over the witness table, occasionally taking a drag from her pearl cigarette-holder, Roxie leaps at Walsh’s uncharacteristically sympathetic questions. “I’m not sure where my husband is, sir. Gay Pane, last time I heard, living up a storm.” She dabs a tear with her silk green and purple handkerchief. “Leaves me stuck here. In dire poverty.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Forbes,” says Walsh. “It must be very difficult for you . . .”
“All I did was marry the man. My one mistake. Now I’m left in the lurch with just a car, this old coat, and every creditor in Washington hounding me!”
While Roxie turns on the tears for the Senate, in the House, Congressman Hayes is turning up the heat on Daugherty. “Did you not summarily reassign the attorney handling the prosecution to Guam, just before trial was to commence?”
Daugherty shakes his head. “Uh, I have no specific details on that case. Generally we send our attorneys wherever they are most needed at a particular time . . .”
“Can you at least tell this committee, however approximately, the number of war profiteers your office has actually sent to prison? A hundred? Twenty? Five? Two?”
“Sorry, sir, not off the top of my head. Congressman Hayes, you must understand, the federal courts are crowded . . .”
By contrast, Roxie Forbes seems able to recall precise details for Walsh at every turn. “That month — July of ‘22 we’re talking about — Charlie received enough champagne to fill our swimming pool.”
“Any idea who sent it?” asks Walsh.
“Yeah. Out in California, Charlie had the V.A. build this hospital for alcoholic veterans. Right in the middle of a vineyard, if you can believe that. Some little old wine-maker must have been real appreciative.” Roxie leans forward. The committeemen study her intently. Scores of state secrets might well be hidden in her cleavage. “Then there were those suitcases of cash. Tell the truth, I never in my life seen a thousand dollar bill — till I hitched up with Charlie. Haven’t seen none since, either. Right now I’d settle for a ten spot . . .”
Congressman Hayes keeps the pressure on Daugherty. “Please just answer the question, Mr. Attorney General. It was really quite simple and straightforward. How many . . .?”
“I’m not able to tell you at this time, Congressman.”
“What is your present relationship to one Jess Smith — offices at — 1625 K Street? Could you just possibly tell us that, sir?”
No answer.
“That’s Smith Mr. Daugherty. Jess Smith.”
Congressman Weeks mutters to Congressman Fish. “Rat’s in a corner now.”
“He’s an old rat,” replies Fish. “Lotsa holes to run to.”
Finally, Daugherty responds. “I decline to answer, sir.”
“On what conceivable grounds?” demands Congressman Keller.
“National security, Mr. Chairman — and to protect the integrity of the office of the Attorney General — and to protect the President.”
The ceiling falls in. Keller hits the gavel and shouts over the roar of voices. “All right! Quiet! Quiet!”
To no avail.
40.
The mail is blessedly slow to Alaska, and the territorial press largely indifferent to events in faraway Washington, thereby giving Harding about a half-week’s respite from the growing avalanche of bad news. But homeward bound, the presidential yacht is still a good day from its destination of Seattle when just before dinner, a U.S. Navy seaplane catches up, cuts across the sunset and lands alongside. Harding watches gloomily from his cabin window as the cargo door behind a wing drops open. Two marines scurry out to the edge of the yacht’s deck, extend a pole to the seaplane and hook a leather pouch marked with the presidential seal. Harding sighs and shakes his head as the pouch is hoisted aboard.
The 10:00 p.m. bells find Harding on deck, alone, pacing in a circle. Since departing Alaska he’s developed a cough, and every so often, pauses to lean on the railing and clear his lungs. Then, too restless to stop for more than a few seconds, he returns to his pacing.
Harding’s butler appears. “Er, excuse me, Mr. President.”
“Ah, yes, Dirkson.”
“Just wondering if there’s anything more . . .”
“You should have turned in hours ago. I’m fine. You have a good night.”
“Yes, sir. Good night, Mr. President.” He turns to leave.
“Dirkson, may I ask — who’d you vote for in the last election?”
“Well I wanted to vote for you, Mr. President.”
“Wanted to?”
“Oh yes, sir. Seemed clear to me you were the best man.”
“But — but you didn’t.”
“When I got down to the voting booth they said I didn’t pass the lit-ra-cy test. I thought I’d done pretty well, but that’s what the man said.” Dirkson pauses. “He was a white man.”
“I see. I’m sorry, Dirkson.”
“Sure glad you got in anyway, Mr. President.”
“Mm. Then — I haven’t let you down.”
“Oh no, sir, Mr. President. Not one bit.”
“Well . . . thank you, Dirkson. Appreciate it. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
He leaves. Moments later, Harding has a paroxysm of coughing.
On the foredeck, Sawyer hears the cough and follows it to its source. “Don’t like the sound of that, Warren.”
“Well, yer up late, Doc,” Harding replies, as he recovers his breath.
“Never mind me. Shouldn’t you be trying to get some rest? I understand tomorrow’s a big one.”
“Can’t sleep. Not even with those phenobarbs.”
&
nbsp; “Worse than on the train.”
Harding nods, leans on the railing, and looks out into the darkness.
“No square wheels on the boat,” observes Sawyer.
“No. No square wheels.” Harding is silent for a long moment. Then he straightens up decisively and turns to Sawyer. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to order Albert Fall to resign. I’ve wired him to meet us in San Francisco next week. I want to tell the sonofabitch face to face.”
“He ought to have had the grace to quit weeks ago.”
“Yeah. Seems he’s still insisting he’s done nothing wrong.” He sighs deeply. “My enemies I can handle, Doc. It’s my friends, my goddamn friends —!”
He begins to cough again, greatly alarming Sawyer. “Let me get those pills . . .”
“No, I’m okay. It’s all this damn fresh air.” Harding recaptures his wind, and sits down tentatively at the end of a deck chair. “Al’s not the worst of it, Doc. Not by a long shot.” He takes a breath and lets it out slowly. “Received some transcripts — flown in this evening . . . Christ, I’m so tired. Wish I could sleep. Just go to sleep . . .” Another cough.
“It’s awfully chilly out here, Warren. You really should come inside.”
Harding shakes his head. “I feel trapped in that itty-bitty cabin.” He slides back and settles into the deck chair. “Let me have that blanket, will you, Doc? See if I can’t catch a few winks. Right here.” He shakes his head. “You know, I’ve always thought, if you accommodated people, showed them every possible kindness, things would work out. That’s what I believed. All my life. Pathetic . . .”
He closes his eyes.
The darkened corridor of the senatorial office building is otherwise deserted as a pair of gloved hands artfully pick the lock of a door titled sen. francis walsh. The door swings open and the janitor from the Baltimore Sun enters, flips on a flashlight and begins rifling the files. Then he turns to the senator’s safe.
There is late-night activity in an office on K Street as well. Jess, in a marginally controlled panic, is feeding papers and ledgers into the fireplace as fast as the flames will consume them.
The phone rings.
Jess picks up. Hears nothing. “Yeah?” He listens. “Hello?” A click at the other end, then a dial tone. Jess slams down the receiver and dumps everything remaining into the fire, all in a heap.
Moments later, he sails out the front door, rushes down the steps, and hurriedly begins across the road to his car, parked several spaces ahead of a yellow Stutz roadster. It is nearly 4:00 a.m., and K Street is as quiet as death.
Suddenly Jess is startled by the sound of galloping hooves as a driverless horse-drawn Purity Milk wagon shoots out of the darkness and bears down on him. He tries scrambling back on the curb but the frightened horse, blinders on, seems to swerve straight for him. A flying hoof wallops Jess in the head. The wagon jumps the curb, crushing Jess’ chest under a wheel, then tilts over, careening against the iron fence of the K Street house, milk bottles scattering and smashing everywhere. The horse, broken free of its harness, gallops on down the street.
Once again, all is quiet.
Jess lies face up in a puddle of milk, a small concentric pool of blood oozing from his scalp. His broken wrist lies at an odd angle across his sightless eyes, wristwatch still ticking. Timex.
41.
Harding, looking especially grim, Florence, Hoover, Sawyer, and Special Counsel Travis, huddle together in a Packard limousine as it speeds through sparse midday traffic toward Seattle’s coliseum. A Secret Serviceman covers each running board.
“Some sort of freak accident,” Travis explains. “A runaway milk wagon . . .”
“I can’t believe it,” says Harding, shaking his head. “A goddamn milk wagon! Everything’s going to hell. By God, when I get back to Washington . . .!” A cough cuts him short. Subsiding, he turns to Travis. “Hear from the Attorney General yet?”
“No, Mr. President,” says Travis, “we’ve still not been able to reach him.”
“I’ll bet we’re not the only ones,” growls Sawyer.
Mencken watches with the rest of the press corps from behind a velvet rope as a haggard and winded Harding, his entourage, and its Secret Service guardians, together negotiate the coliseum’s front steps, today a thicket of little American flags and clusters of cheering, waving citizens, barely held in check by a thin line of uniformed police.
A reporter from the Seattle Herald turns to Mencken. “Christ, he looks like death warmed over.”
“Yeah,” sighs Mencken. “This is a strange country when it comes to Presidents. Practically worship them, for openers. Expect them to perform miracles. Then when they can’t, we kill ‘em.”
The presidential party reaches the entranceway. Harding pauses to catch his breath. The crowd, pressing good-naturedly against the police restraints, is warm, enthusiastic, and supportive.
But there are dissenters. “When you gonna clean house, Warren?” shouts one.
“You tell a man by the company he keeps,” adds another.
A third asks loudly: “Where’s the government auction this week, Mr. President — the Lincoln bedroom?”
The surrounding crowd jostles and shushes the three dissidents, but Harding’s heard them well enough; their words continue to sting like a slap in the face as he and his small group continue inside.
The coliseum, packed past capacity, waits eagerly as Harding, perceptibly shaky only to those in the front rows, mounts the mike-studded podium. Hoover, Hughes and Florence take their seats on stage just behind him.
Harding’s arrival at the bank of microphones elicits thunderous applause and brings the crowd to its feet. After a few moments, he holds up his hands for quiet. The audience keeps clapping. Harding smiles and waits, discreetly coughing once into his hand.
In living rooms across America — urban, suburban and rural — families large and small bunch around their Philco’s and Stromberg-Carlsons, listening along with the President to the applause. Nan too, sits by the radio in her Washington apartment, awaiting the sound of Harding’s voice. Her pulse quickens as she hears him say, “My fellow Americans —.”
The applause finally dies away, the audience settles expectantly in their seats, and Harding, the seventh draft of his speech in hand, begins, his voice strained.
“Every President strives, however imperfectly, to pick the best possible people to help him do his job. You’d be quite amazed, I think, at the enormous number of worthy folk knocking on his door, all hoping for a government job. I never knew how many Hardings there were in the United States, or how many distant cousins I had. Till I got elected.”
Laughter from the audience.
“Seems every one of them is available for public service.”
More laughter. Harding coughs a little, then continues.
“I’m happy to report that up in Alaska I caught a bit of a cold. At last I have something I can give to everybody.”
That brings down the house.
After a few moments, Harding holds up a hand. When the laughter and applause finally subside, his tone has changed, and his voice has recaptured some of its old resonance. “The federal government is enormous, as you know. And with so many posts to be filled, from time to time the wrong person gets appointed.” He pauses. “Sorry to say, we’ve all been hearing some serious accusations leveled against certain prominent White House officials.”
Several of those listening in back of the main floor and in far corners of the balcony cup their ears.
“I must tell you, no one’s been more distressed by this than your President. After all, I’m the one who gave them their jobs. Well I promise: in short order we’ll have the charges sorted out. Fact distinguished from allegation. Then we’ll kick any rotten apples right onto the street. I plan to do it personally. My foot.” He points. “This one right here.”
Even seasoned members of the press are applauding and laughing now. A reporter from the Saturday Evening Post wonders out loud, “Who the hell’s writing his stuff?”
“I think he is,” replies Mencken.
Harding’s countenance darkens. “But I dare say, some of what you’ve had to listen to ‘bout me has been even rougher. Downright nasty. Courtesy of a few old Senate colleagues of mine.”
In her Washington apartment, Nan puts down her knitting. Never in a public speech has she heard Harding speak so personally.
“Listen to these noxious naysayers,” continues Harding, “and you start to get the idea that my proposals for a better world are ill-conceived. Poisonous. A real bad deal for America. Well, if you will allow, here’s what your President believes to be a real bad deal.”
Harding pauses. The audience falls absolutely still.
“It’s when rival nations compete in costly, escalating preparation for each other’s destruction. When, on a planet of some six hundred million souls, some eighty-nine quarrelsome countries, there’s no impartial world court to which they might turn so as to settle disputes — no international ‘justice of the peace’ to help decide who’s right and who’s wrong — short of war. It’s when . . . it’s when . . .”
Harding cannot catch his breath. Ashen-faced, he drops his speech — the papers flutter to the floor just by Hoover’s feet. Harding grabs the lectern for support, a crushing pain in his chest.
In Washington, Nan is puzzled by the silence.
Hoover scoops the sheets up and hurries over to Harding. “Mr. President . . . !”
Harding’s spasm passes. He reaches for the speech, and whispers, “I’m okay, thank you, Herbert. Should never have eaten both those crabs last night.”
“Will you be . . . ?”
Harding nods. An intensely apprehensive Hoover returns to his seat, but manages a nod and smile for Florence.
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