by Allen Drury
“By Thursday,” Senator Munson said, “it might be better to skip it, because just about then, I imagine, is when Seab will be displaying his full bag of tricks and Bob may not be looking too good just at that particular moment. It might be best if you didn’t have to say anything about it right then. But what excuse will you give for skipping it? If there isn’t one, they’ll think it’s health.”
“Why will they think it’s health?” the President demanded with some exasperation in his voice. “Do I really look as bad as all that?”
“You look fine,” Senator Munson said calmly, “and I’m quite sure nobody thinks you aren’t. But I still think it would be best to have an excuse.”
“Oh, well,” the President said airily, “I can call a meeting of the National Security Council. That’s always a good cover-up for almost anything, you know, and there’s always plenty that needs talking about. Yes, I think that’s what I’ll do. I’ll tell Pete to announce it at his four o’clock briefing this afternoon. Also, there’s another thing, anyway: the White House Correspondents’ annual banquet is Thursday night, and that’s as good an excuse as any for not meeting them. Say!” he said suddenly. “Maybe I can give them a surprise or two in my little talk at the banquet.”
“Mr. President,” Bob Munson said in a genuinely enthusiastic tone, “that’s a real inspiration. They won’t be expecting it, and—”
“That’s right,” the President said, his voice quickening as he picked up the idea and ran with it, “you know that little rigmarole they always go through about it’s all off the record and ‘There are no reporters present here tonight?’ Well tonight, gentlemen—” and Senator Munson could visualize his head coming up with an air and the challenging gleam flashing into his eyes—“Well, tonight, gentlemen, I’m going to exercise a President’s prerogative and change your rules, just temporarily. Tonight, gentlemen, there are reporters present, so get out your pencils and get set, because I have something to say. Certain crafty, petty men, operating behind the cloak of their ancient privilege in the United States Senate, are engaged in a massive conspiracy to—Oh, ho, ho, Bob! I’ll tell ’em!” And a laugh of pure relish that didn’t sound tired at all any more came over the line to the Majority Leader’s ear. He chuckled.
“That’s perfect,” he said. “Just perfect. And it ought to be timed just about right for the hearing, too.”
“Tell me I’m losing my touch!” the President said scornfully.
“I didn’t. I wouldn’t dream of it. In the meantime, sit tight and we’ll plug along up here and try not to let Bob have too hard a time.”
“Good,” the President said, back to business. “When are you coming to see me?”
“I’ll see you at the banquet,” Senator Munson said. “Maybe we can talk then.”
“We’ll plan on it. Thanks for everything, Robert.”
“It’s a pleasure. If it weren’t I wouldn’t be in this business.”
Looking down the table from his outpost at the end of it, the senior Senator from South Carolina could observe with some satisfaction that his colleagues were just a little on edge as the hearing got under way. Johnny DeWilton was fidgeting about in his chair, trying to find a comfortable base for his ample foundation; Orrin Knox was fiddling absent-mindedly with his papers; Arly Richardson was looking restlessly about the room, and John Winthrop was showing his sure sign of tension, a slow and thoughtful rubbing of his right index finger up and down the bridge of his nose. Only the chairman, Seab perceived, looked at least outwardly calm, and the sight reminded him that Brig had always been one he could neither cow, browbeat, or intimidate. It had been so from the first day the Senator from Utah had come to the Senate, young and idealistic and eager to learn: it was so now seven years later when he was still young and idealistic and had learned a great deal. Polite and attentive and respectful and calm he had been when he first met Seab, and polite and attentive and respectful and calm he was toward him to this day. Browbeating and intimidation didn’t work there, Seab knew, but politeness and a sort of cordial banter always did. The key to handling Brig, who was a gentleman, was to treat him as a gentleman. Senator Cooley decided that he would conduct himself circumspectly throughout as far as the chairman was concerned, and would play the rest by ear. So it was that he arrested his first impulse to speak when the chairman called for a discussion of procedure and waited calmly for the decision which might bring forth from him any one of several plans of action, depending upon what the decision was.
“My own thought,” Senator Anderson said, “is that we should perhaps start with the senior Senator from South Carolina, Mr. Cooley, who has asked to be present with us and participate in our proceedings; then hear the nominee, Mr. Leffingwell; then hear such witnesses as the Senator from South Carolina may wish to present; and then recall the nominee to answer whatever material is then in the record that he or we may deem to require or”—and his tone became rather dry—“be worthy of, an answer. The Chair is, however, quite willing to entertain any amendments to that idea if anyone cares to offer them. Senator Knox?”
“Well, Mr. Chairman,” Orrin said tartly, “nice as it is to hear the distinguished Senator from South Carolina, I am wondering if there is anyone in the room who has any doubts as to his sentiments in this matter? It is my feeling,” he went on, as the press looked amused and a little murmur of laughter flickered across the audience, “that in the interests of expediting this matter, which I think nearly all of us want to do, we might, in a manner of speaking, consider that the opinions of the Senator from South Carolina have been read and placed in the record. Unless he has something of unusual interest to offer—which of course he may, Mr. Chairman, for we all know he is a tough and determined campaigner—it’s my view that there isn’t very much to be gained by a rehearsal of old grievances.”
At this there was a slight spattering of applause from the audience and the chairman rapped sharply for order.
“The Chair will advise the audience,” he said with some vigor, “that demonstrations of approval or disapproval are not permitted. This is a serious matter, so let’s treat it as such. Senator Winthrop?”
“I’m inclined to agree with the Senator from Illinois,” Winthrop of Massachusetts said. “Up in my country they have a sayin’ that when you spill a bucket of”—he started to say “slops,” then thought better of it—“of milk, there isn’t much doubt what’s in it. It seems to me, with all respects to my old and dear friend from South Carolina, that he’s been spillin’ the milk on this subject for quite a few years now.”
Again there was a ripple of laughter, and Arly Richardson and John DeWilton said “Mr. Chairman!” as one.
“One vote for Orrin,” UPI whispered. “Maybe this is the beginning of Seab’s downfall,” the New York Herald Tribune whispered back. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” AP snorted.
“I believe the regular order,” Brigham Anderson observed calmly, “would be to recognize the Senator from Arkansas.”
“Well, Mr. Chairman,” Arly said in a tone that he made increasingly indignant as he went along, “I must say I fail to understand the logic or the courtesy of the Senators from Illinois and Massachusetts. I for one am sure the distinguished Senator from South Carolina has much to offer us in this matter, and I am a little shocked, I will say, Mr. Chairman, just a little shocked, at the cavalier way in which Senators would brush aside one of their fellow Senators in this manner. Senators should remember, Mr. Chairman, that what they do to someone today may be done to them tomorrow; this is one of the oldest rules of the Senate, Mr. Chairman, even though it is an unwritten one, and I think it should be remembered. I do hope my dear friends from Illinois and Massachusetts will reconsider what appears to be their decision on this and give our beloved friend from South Carolina a chance to have his say.”
“I didn’t say he couldn’t have his say,” Orrin Knox interjected bluntly. “If the Senator doesn’t think the Senator from South Carolina will have his say no matter a
t what point he appears on the program, he just doesn’t know the Senator from South Carolina, that’s all.”
“My statement stands, Mr. Chairman,” Arly said straight ahead, not looking at Orrin Knox beside him.
“Let it stand,” Orrin said shortly.
“Well, Senators,” Brigham Anderson said matter-of-factly, “shall we get on with this? Senator DeWilton, I believe you wanted to be recognized?”
“Yes, I did,” Johnny DeWilton said, his face flushed and his silvery hair quivering, looking rather like a cockatoo in a snit. “My sentiments are exactly those of the Senator from Arkansas, Mr. Chairman. Exactly. I fail to see why the Senator from South Carolina shouldn’t be allowed to speak first and present his case. I want him to. That’s my position, Mr. Chairman.”
“Thank you, Senators,” Senator Anderson said calmly. “Perhaps we should hear the sentiments of the gentleman in question.” He leaned forward and looked down the table; his voice took on a friendly conversational tone. “Can you hear me, Seab?” he asked. Again there was laughter, and this time he did not rap quite so hard for order. Senator Cooley waved and gave a sleepy grin.
“I can hear you fine, Mr. Chairman,” he said gently. “Just fine. Is there some matter you all want to question me about?”
“What would you like to do, Senator?” Brig asked with a smile. “Would you like to speak now, or forev—or speak later?”
“God, this is getting jolly,” the Baltimore Sun remarked in some disgust to the New York Times. “Old Home Week,” the Times agreed.
“Well, Mr. Chairman,” Senator Cooley said softly, “if you all will recall, I am not a member of this subcommittee. I am here strictly on your sufferance, Mr. Chairman, and so I don’t feel it would be proper for me to attempt in any way to influence you all. I wish to thank, however,” he added thoughtfully, “my friends from Arkansas and Vermont for their great courtesy to an old man. It does my heart good, Mr. Chairman, it truly does, to find such courtesy still present in the Senate in these troubled days.”
At this, as Seab knew full well he would, Orrin Knox made an indignant movement and started to say something, then changed his mind.
“Of course, Mr. Chairman,” Senator Cooley suggested gently, “it could be put to a vote, I suppose, if you are in doubt.”
“That’s right, Mr. Chairman,” Arly Richardson said quickly. “Let’s have a vote.”
Senator Anderson looked annoyed, which he was for having let himself fall so easily into so obvious a trap; and Seab knew from his expression that the vote was going to go the way he wanted it to, for as of that moment he had no witnesses, no prepared statement, and no real idea as yet of exactly how he would proceed.
“Very well,” the chairman said in a tone of mild disgust, “let’s have a motion and a vote.”
“I move the senior Senator from South Carolina be heard first and be allowed to proceed in his own way,” Senator Richardson said promptly.
And just as the Senator from South Carolina was sure they would, Senator Richardson and Senator DeWilton voted Aye, Senator Knox, Senator Winthrop, and Senator Anderson voted No, the motion was defeated, and he was relieved of an immediate appearance he was not prepared for and had no intention of making.
“All right,” Brigham Anderson said firmly as the room broke into an excited buzz. “Mr. Leffingwell, will you come forward, please, give your name to the official reporter, and be sworn.”
If only, Harley Hudson thought as he paced nervously up and down his office in the Old Senate Office Building and glanced outside resentfully at a gray and drizzly day teetering on the edge of spring, if only he could find out something definite about something from somebody. It wasn’t that he wanted to know everything about everything, just a little about a little; but here he was, doing his best to co-operate with the President and the Majority Leader, trying to be as helpful as he could on the Leffingwell nomination, and all he got was crumbs, just crumbs. It was true that his first attempt at helping, his conversation with Paul Hendershot of Indiana, had turned out rather disastrously in the debate on Friday, but that wasn’t his fault and they all knew it. Paul had just been in one of his moods, the ornery old bastard, and then, too, Harley suspected, Seab had probably put him up to it, anyway. Certainly it wasn’t the Vice President’s fault that his attempt at mollification and amelioration had gone awry; and he wasn’t disposed to take the blame for it. But he hadn’t heard a word since from the Majority Leader, and when he had run into him in the hall a little while ago Bob had only looked preoccupied and given him a very cursory greeting that hardly seemed adequate to their old friendship and long working alliance in politics. As for the President—well, Harley was very much tempted to call, but he was afraid that if he did he might get shunted off by some secretary and then the President wouldn’t call back, and that would be too humiliating. He would just have to wait, he supposed rather forlornly, until the call came voluntarily from the other end. One heartbeat away from the Presidency, he thought bitterly, and for all practical purposes ten million miles away from the President. By God, it wasn’t fair.
These musings, which were not much different from similar musings he had indulged in many times before, were, he realized beginning to make him feel tense and upset and he knew he shouldn’t let himself get into that state. Not that he had anything to worry about concerning his own health—he wondered about the President, though; Bob had been so elusive about it on Friday, and Harley wondered nervously if there had been anything definite behind it—but after all, it was only one heartbeat, in truth, and he should keep calm about it, because if anything happened to that heartbeat and then anything happened to his heartbeat, the Speaker would succeed to the Presidency and Harley was damned if he was going to turn the country over to that crafty and self-satisfied gentleman. He might be worried about his own position, he might have feelings of inadequacy, he might be fearful of what would happen if the President died, but by God, he wasn’t that fearful. The job was his, the Constitution said so, and nobody was going to take it away from him, by God.
Just at that moment the phone did ring and he jumped guiltily, for he had gone on instantly to reflect that of course the only one who could take it away from him in that eventuality was the Lord Himself and the phone call in its unexpected sharpness seemed almost like an admonitory reminder from on high that he had jolly well better remember the fact. But when he picked it up it was to hear one of his secretaries announcing calmly that the Secretary of State was in the outer office and would like to see him. “Show him in,” he ordered and sat down hurriedly behind his mammoth desk, where he began reading thoughtfully through the only paper on it, a copy of the Senate Calendar of legislative business which he had read a thousand times before. When Howard Sheppard was ushered in he glanced up with a look of quick alertness that didn’t fool the Secretary very much and rose with an air of expansive greeting.
“Well, Howie,” he said, “this is a pleasant surprise. It’s always good to see you.”
“Mr. Vice President,” Howie said formally, “you’re looking well.”
“I’m feeling well, Howie,” the Vice President said comfortably. “I’d say you weren’t looking so bad yourself. You must be beginning to anticipate that retirement a little.” And then, like the Majority Leader, he realized that this was a delicate subject, flushed a little, and changed it abruptly.
“Sorry we missed you at Dolly’s the other night,” he said. “We went to La Salle du Bois beforehand and Ethel ate not wisely but too well, as you can do at that excellent place, and so we left earlier than we’d planned. I hear Bob Munson and the others got into quite a hassle with our ambassadorial friends. Were you there?”
“No,” Howard Sheppard said rather sharply. “It’s getting so nobody ever tells me anything anymore.”
“Well, now, Howie,” the Vice President said comfortably, “I don’t think there’s any reason for you to feel that way. I’m sure it all developed very spontaneously and there probably wa
sn’t time to invite you. I wasn’t invited either, for that matter.”
“Oh, well,” the Secretary said with an off-hand moroseness. “But I’m the Secretary of State.”
The Vice President looked decidedly miffed, and when he replied it was with a certain sharp enjoyment he would not otherwise have shown.
“Not for long, Howie,” he said crisply. “Not for long.” Then he added, as his annoyance grew with the full impact of the Secretary’s casual dismissal, “What brings you to me this morning? I’m in sort of a hurry.”
“It’s the Russians and the Indians,” Howie Sheppard said, oblivious to the effect of his previous remark—No wonder the President’s firing him, Harley thought. He’s certainly no diplomat!—and looking rather puzzled by the tidings he was bearing.
“What about them?” the Vice President inquired, his annoyance going rapidly as he thought he perceived a chance to be helpful. After all, Howie couldn’t help his mood; it was tough to be ignored and fired. Nobody could fire him, he reflected complacently.
“They want to see you,” the Secretary said.
“See me?” the Vice President asked blankly. “What on earth for?”
“I don’t know,” Howard Sheppard said. “All I know is that Vasily Tashikov came in to see me late Saturday afternoon and asked me to set up an appointment for him. At nine o’clock this morning Krishna Khaleel dropped by and asked the same thing. I didn’t get the feeling they’d consulted each other about it. I think they both just got the same idea at the same time.”
“What idea?” Harley Hudson asked sharply; the Secretary looked bland, and less puzzled.
“The idea to see you,” he replied calmly.
“But why should they want to see me?” the Vice President asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Howard Sheppard told him suavely, and Harley decided he was a good diplomat, after all. He decided his own course should be complete frankness.