by Allen Drury
With a final wondering shake of his head for one of the phenomena of the age, the senior Senator from Illinois turned and walked all alone back down the long corridor past the Rose Garden to the East Gate, a conveniently passing cab and a very thoughtful ride to Capitol Hill.
“There comes Orrin,” the Washington Post said in the gallery above.
“Looks awfully sober,” UPI observed.
“Yes,” the Herald Tribune said. “I guess we’d better try to get him off the floor and talk to him.”
“He wouldn’t say anything at the White House,” AP said. “And he won’t say anything here,” predicted the Times. Accurately.
At three fifty-nine the senior Senator from South Carolina concluded an address which, they all agreed, had been one of his most dramatic, and sat down, looking scarcely a whit more tousled and rumpled than he had when he stood up; though he had banged his desk twenty-six times, upset two glasses of water, startled Courtney Robinson of New Hampshire out of a sound sleep on three different occasions, and caused exactly thirty-nine notations of [Laughter] to be made in the Congressional Record. In between the [Laughter] there had been a most damaging speech against Robert A. Leffingwell, and it was in full awareness that he had his work cut out for him that the senior Senator from Arkansas thoughtfully sought recognition from the Chair. He was not experienced in the ways of politics for nothing, however, and without a moment’s hesitation he went straight to the question that was exciting them all, on the floor and in the galleries.
“Mr. President,” he said, “the distinguished senior Senator from Illinois has just come from a conference with the President on this matter now before us. I wonder if the Senator cares to tell us what word the President had for him to convey to the Senate at this time?”
For a moment the Senator from Illinois, who appeared to be in a deep dark study, seemed not to have heard; but just as Rob Cunningham of Arizona leaned over to jog his arm and catch his attention he stood up with a sudden impatience.
“I will say to the Senator, Mr. President,” he said, “that my conversation with the President was a private affair. It did not involve any ‘word for the Senate,’ as he so cleverly puts it.”
“Perhaps the Senator can tell us then, Mr. President,” Arly said smoothly, “since there is great interest in this body about it, what word did he have for the Senator?”
“I don’t think it’s any of the Senator’s business, Mr. President,” Orrin said, “but since he asks so politely I will tell him that the President’s word for the Senator from Illinois was just exactly what it is for all Senators: Confirm Bob Leffingwell.”
“And how did the Senator respond to that, Mr. President?” Arly pursued blandly. “With his customary violent indignation? Is there a roof still on the White House? Are the grounds intact? Does brick still stand on brick? More importantly, is the President still alive after broaching so naughty a suggestion?”
“The President is still alive,” Orrin said shortly. “And again I have to commend the Senator on his cleverness. He positively scintillates this afternoon. I wonder if it will do his cause any good?”
“Let me ask the Senator, Mr. President,” Senator Richardson said calmly, “following his talk with the President is he still one hundred per cent, absolutely, irrevocably, and forever opposed to this nominee?”
And at this, dismaying his friends and sending a sudden stir of interest through the Senate, the senior Senator from Illinois hesitated. It was not a very long hesitation, perhaps three seconds, but it was long enough to give Arly Richardson his advantage.
“I see the Senator pause, Mr. President,” he said softly. “Are we to take it, then, that the Senator is modifying his views in the wake of his talk with the President?”
“I didn’t say that,” Orrin objected rather lamely.
“No, Mr. President,” Senator Richardson said. “The Senator did not have to say it. His hesitation said it for him. And now, Mr. President,” he said, dropping it abruptly with bland skill and going smoothly on, “let us examine this famous episode of the witness Gelman, the cell in Chicago, and the duplicity of the nominee. What does this interesting tale really mean, and how much weight should we attach to it? It seems to me, Mr. President—” And he was off, while Senator Knox sat slowly back in his seat and Lafe and Seab exchanged a puzzled glance and across the room a little buzz of whispers and talk began to drift.
And that was what you got, he thought bitterly, for agreeing to talk to that seducer in the White House. You couldn’t come near him without being corrupted by his cleverness, without having your own will and determination sapped in some subtle degree, without yielding at least a little to what he wanted. Now they all thought, he knew, that he was beginning to give in. He could see Paul Hendershot of Indiana buzzing like an old woman with Walter Turnbull of Louisiana; Ed Parrish of Nevada, Porter Owens of Montana, and Shelton Monroe of Virginia were in an excited huddle casting glances his way, and above in the press gallery he could see the hurried little conferrings, the brisk scurrying up the steps to send stories, the rumors, and the speculation flowing like a visible tide. Damn him, damn him, he thought just before honesty reasserted itself, for doing this to me.
But then honesty returned and he told himself with a wry anger that of course it was his own damned fault for even hesitating when Arly challenged him. That was where the fault lay, not with the President who in his customary fashion had simply dangled temptation and left it to the tempted to make the decision whether or not to accept it. He should have fired back something tart and pointed and firm to his friend from Arkansas, and the seeping doubt about his intentions that now pervaded the atmosphere of the chamber would not have developed. And yet if he had done that—not that he intended in the slightest to yield to the President’s persuasions, but supposing he did—if he had done that, it might have foreclosed too abruptly and finally the possibility that he might—that he might—
That he might what? Give in to him? Take his evil offer? Did he really intend to do that? And if he was so sure he did not then why had he hesitated? Why had he not made the quick reply that would have been characteristic? Why had he not acted like Orrin Knox? Why had he betrayed himself?
Well, he knew why; because he wanted to be President, and this was the surest way to do it, as sure as anything in life and politics could be. The President had been entirely correct in his analysis of his own position; he was still the strongest man in the party and the country, he was indeed in a position to dictate the next candidate; and the party was in good shape, the candidacy would be no futile project or empty honor, they were good for another four to eight years before the tide turned again.
Accepting this bargain, the handwritten voucher he held in his pocket, a piece of paper before which even his most determined enemies would bow, would put him in the White House; of that he was as sure as the President was. And that was why Orrin Knox had not acted like Orrin Knox, if truth were known; because there came a point, even with him, at which the imperatives of ambition gained triumph over the dictates of conscience, no matter how strong that conscience might be.
Or did they? Did they really? He looked again about the room where many people were looking at him, and he thought for a moment of what Orrin Knox had been and what Orrin Knox was supposed to be; and there came to him with a fearful clarity the question: Is it really worth it? Is it worth it to give up the image of Orrin Knox, ambitious but no trimmer, for the image of Orrin Knox, ambitious and a trimmer? Is even the White House worth that kind of bargain?
For several more minutes he thought about this, staring down at the papers on his desk, no longer listening to Arly, no longer conscious of the staring eyes, the whispering tongues, the speculation flickering over the surface of the Senate. He was still thinking about it when a page placed under his eyes a card bearing the name of the National Chairman and the scrawled message, “Orrin: Can I see you? Urgent.”
He realized then that this time the President wasn’
t going to let temptation do its own work but was going to help it along as much as he could; and since this made his own decision even harder, for it indicated that this was not an empty gesture but something his opponent sincerely intended to go through with, he sighed heavily and nodded at the boy.
“I’ll be out,” he said.
In the big reception room off the back lobby near the Vice President’s office he worked his way through the crowd of constituents, government officials, and other visitors who wait for Senators each day and walked toward the National Chairman, who had thoughtfully appropriated two isolated chairs in a corner by the window.
“Jim,” he said directly, “what’s on your mind?” The National Chairman smiled with an expansive joviality.
“I just had an invitation to convey to you, Orrin,” he said, “and I thought I’d be formal about it and deliver it in person.”
“Well, that’s nice,” Senator Knox said, “I appreciate that. I hope it lives up to its build-up.”
The National Chairman laughed heartily.
“Old prickly Orrin,” he said affectionately. Then he sobered a little and added thoughtfully, as though he were seeing it on a campaign poster in mind’s eye, “Honest Orrin.”
“Okay,” Senator Knox said with an impatience he managed to keep good-natured, “stop being coy and let’s have it.”
The National Chairman grinned and slapped him familiarly on the knee, a gesture he managed to sustain without flinching. A long past of knee slaps, back claps, easy jokes, and loud-mouthed, facile laughter stretched back down the years for the National Chairman. He had never, you might say, known anything else.
“Well, Orrin,” he said, “the situation is this. We’re having a two-day meeting here next week, as you know, and we were all set to have the President give us a speech at our final banquet and wind it up with a bang. But he just called me a little while ago and said he didn’t think he’d be able to make it. He’s going to Key West on Sunday, he said, and so he suggested we get a substitute. In fact,” the National Chairman said in a rather puzzled voice, “he suggested you.”
“You sound delighted,” Senator Knox said, and the National Chairman had the grace to laugh.
“Well, we are,” he said. “I’m just a little surprised, that’s all. I didn’t know you two were that close.”
Senator Knox laughed too.
“You’ve no idea,” he said.
“Will you do it?” the National Chairman asked. “We’d really be very glad to have you. It’s a good opportunity, as you know.”
“Yes, Jim,” Orrin said dryly, “I know. Did he say anything to you about Leffingwell?”
The National Chairman smiled knowingly.
“Oh, no,” he said. “He wouldn’t.”
“That’s right,” Senator Knox agreed. “He wouldn’t. Well, I tell you what, Jim. Suppose we wait until this thing is finished and then I’ll call you on Friday and let you know what I decide. That would still be time for you to get somebody else if I should bow out, wouldn’t it?”
“It would,” the National Chairman agreed, “but I don’t think I’d pass it up if I were you, Orrin, and had any—any plans. He was quite emphatic about wishing you to do it, and that might indicate—something—quite-interesting, don’t you think?”
“Who knows?” Senator Knox said. “Who knows? Thanks for coming up, Jim. I’ll let you know Friday.”
“Right, Orrin,” the National Chairman said. “We’ll be hoping you can make it. I know it would please him, too.”
“And that’s important,” Orrin Knox said in a tone the National Chairman couldn’t interpret.
“Oh, it is, Orrin,” he said heartily. “Yes, it is.”
At five-thirty, Senator Richardson having completed his speech after three sharp brushes with Lafe Smith, two with Seab, and one with Bessie Adams, the Majority Leader obtained the floor briefly.
“Mr. President,” he said, “if Senators will give me their attention, it is my purpose to hold the Senate in session rather late tonight in order that we may dispose of as many speeches as possible in the hope that we can get a final vote on this nomination by sometime tomorrow night. I want to put Senators on notice that we will probably run as late as eleven or eleven-thirty tonight, so I hope they will adjust their programs for the evening accordingly.”
“Mr. President,” Powell Hanson said, “if I might address a question to the distinguished senior Senator from Illinois, does he plan to make an address tonight?”
There was a sudden attentiveness to hear the answer as Orrin stood up slowly and looked about the chamber. The question was forcing him toward a decision, and he welcomed it for that.
“I will say to the Senator that it is my intention,” he said, although it really hadn’t been until he said it. “I expect to state my position in this matter briefly sometime shortly before we adjourn tonight. I would expect this would be sometime around ten o’clock according to the Majority Leader’s tentative schedule.”
“I thank the Senator,” Powell Hanson said. “Then we can plan to be here, for I know many Senators are very anxious to hear what the Senator has to say.”
So am I, thought Orrin dryly, though he didn’t say it aloud. Instead he nodded, said, “I thank the Senator,” and sat down.
And thus he had committed himself to a deadline in making up his mind, and that, he knew, was a good thing. It would serve to clear away a lot of wasted thoughts and wasted time and force him to reach a decision in reasonable order. He could see as he looked about the floor that Lafe and Seab were watching him questioningly, and he shook his head in a way that baffled them both. It must have baffled the Majority Leader too, for in a moment he came casually over.
“I think I’ll have the restaurant send dinner to my office upstairs,” he said. “Why don’t you and Lafe and Seab join me?”
“Yes,” he said gratefully, for this too was forcing his hand, and he understood what the invitation conveyed, that Bob understood, possibly half guessed, the exact problem confronting him and thought a quiet dinner with old friends might help. And so it would, for he honestly wanted their views.
“Ask Stanley and Warren, too, will you?” he said, and the Majority Leader nodded.
“About six-fifteen,” he said.
“Right,” Senator Knox said, and went to make the telephone call he had been putting off until the pattern of events shaped itself a little more clearly for him. It was clear now, and he said, “I suppose you’ve been wondering why I didn’t call earlier.”
“I wondered,” she said, “but I thought you’d probably let me know when you got around to it. What did he offer you?”
“The White House,” he said. She gave a startled little laugh.
“He is desperate, isn’t he?” she said. “Are you going to take it?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m having dinner with Bob and the others up here in Bob’s office and I suppose we’ll talk it over. I was thinking after that maybe you’d like to come up and get me and we’ll take a drive for a little while and think about it.”
“Where shall I meet you?” she asked.
“I’ll try to slip away and get over to the House side,” he said. “Pick me up in the archway under the main steps over there about eight-thirty.”
“I’ll be there,” she said.
“You always are,” he said. “See you later.”
In the broadcasting booth of the Senate radio-television gallery the practiced and experienced commentator who a few nights before had illuminated the complexities of Brigham Anderson for a puzzled nation briskly shook off the effects of three martinis at the nearby Carroll Arms Hotel and prepared to illuminate those of Orrin Knox. The signal came and with accustomed ease he rolled it out and laid it on the line.
“Here in this historic old Capitol building,” he began, “where so many great men have served and so many great causes have been decided, an exciting drama of personalities and power is being played out on this clear s
pring evening. Here the fate of Robert A. Leffingwell, nominee for Secretary of State, is being decided; here too, perhaps, the future of Orrin Knox, United States Senator from Illinois.
“Certain it is that all thoughts here are centered, just as all eyes are focused every time he enters the Senate chamber, upon this vigorous, volatile, commanding lawmaker who twice has unsuccessfully sought the presidency and is considered by Washington observers to be the strongest potential candidate for the office again next year. This afternoon the Senator, a bitter opponent of Mr. Leffingwell, met in secret conclave with the President in the White House; this evening the Senator, a strangely-not-so-bitter opponent of Mr. Leffingwell, has the capital guessing as to his true intentions.
“Does he mean to reverse his field, after working so hard and so diligently to defeat the President’s chosen nominee—now that this nominee in the wake of sensational charges by Senator Cooley” (which the commentator smoothly did not enumerate) “is perhaps seriously vulnerable? Does he plan to abandon his crusade—nay, almost vendetta—against Mr. Leffingwell and turn surprisingly to his support? There are rumors, and his actions in these past few hours have lent them weight.
“Not so bitter is the Senator now; not so violent is his rage against the nominee. Not yet has he given the firm, unshakeable, affirmative statement of opposition that all his friends and supporters have been waiting for. There has been occasion; he has let the occasion slip. Doubt and puzzlement and in some cases dismay among the enemies of Mr. Leffingwell have been the consequence.
“Thus as the first day of debate moves toward its close, with a final vote promised for tomorrow night, Washington wonders what it was that the President-who-is said to the President-who-would-be. Was there some offer of special assistance for Illinois conveyed in that secret talk at the White House? Was there, even, some offer of assistance to Orrin Knox in his ambition to enter the White House, not as the invited guest of another but as the guest of the American people, President in his own right?