“I may need you to,” said Harry mysteriously.
“Why?” asked Jimmy.
“It’s just a hunch,” replied Harry, “no more, but once it comes to deciding those few precious votes, Mr. Cooke will be the man to watch, not Barbara Hunter.”
“But he won’t try anything with four of us standing over him,” said Jimmy, “not to mention all those staring down from the gallery.”
“And he wouldn’t dream of doing so,” said Harry. “He’s one of the most punctilious officials I’ve ever dealt with, but he detests Mrs. Hunter.”
“For any particular reason?” asked Fletcher.
“She’s been on the phone to him every day since this campaign began, demanding statistics on everything from housing to hospitals, even legal opinions on planning permits, so my bet is he’ll not relish the idea of her becoming a member of the Senate. He’s got quite enough to be worrying about without the likes of Barbara Hunter taking up every spare moment of his time.”
“But, as you said, there’s nothing he can do.”
“Nothing that’s illegal,” said Harry. “But should there be any disagreement over a vote, he will be asked to arbitrate, so whatever he recommends, just say ‘Yes, Mr. Cooke,’ even if you think at the time it favors Mrs. Hunter.”
“I think I understand,” said Fletcher.
“I’m damned if I do,” said Jimmy.
Su Ling checked the dining-room table. When the front doorbell rang, she didn’t bother to call up for Nat, because she knew he was rereading The Cat in the Hat. “Read it again, Dad,” Luke always demanded when they reached the last page. Su Ling opened the door to find Tom clutching a bunch of parrot tulips. She gave him a big hug, as if nothing had happened since they last met.
“Will you marry me?” asked Tom.
“If you can cook, read The Cat in the Hat, answer the door and set the table all at the same time I’ll give serious consideration to your proposal.” Su Ling took the flowers. “Thank you, Tom,” she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “They’ll look beautiful on the dining table.” Su Ling smiled, “I’m so sorry about Julia Kirkbridge, or whatever her real name was.”
“Never mention that woman to me again,” said Tom. “In future, our dinners will just be the three of us, a ménage à trois; sadly without the ménage.”
“Not tonight,” said Su Ling. “Didn’t Nat tell you? He’s invited a business colleague to join us. I assumed you knew all about it and I, as usual, was the only person he informed at the last minute.”
“He didn’t mention anything about it to me,” said Tom as the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” said Nat, as he came bounding down the stairs.
“Now, promise me you won’t talk shop all evening, because I want to hear all about your trip to London …”
“How nice to see you again,” said Nat.
“It was just a short break,” said Tom.
“Let me take your coat,” said Nat.
“Yes, but did you manage to see any theater?”
“ … yes, I saw Judi …” began Tom as Nat ushered his guest into the living room.
“Let me first introduce you to my wife, Su Ling. Darling, this is Julia Kirkbridge, who, as I’m sure you know, is our partner in the Cedar Wood project.”
“How nice to meet you, Mrs. Cartwright.”
Su Ling recovered more quickly than Tom. “Please call me Su Ling.”
“Thank you, and you must call me Julia.”
“Julia, this is my chairman, Tom Russell, who I know has been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Good evening, Mr. Russell. After all Nat has told me about you, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you too.” Tom shook her hand, but couldn’t think of anything to say.
“A glass of champagne, I think, to celebrate the signing of the contract.”
“The contract?” mumbled Tom.
“What a nice idea,” said Julia. Nat opened the bottle and poured three glasses, while Su Ling disappeared into the kitchen. Tom continued to stare at the second Mrs. Kirkbridge as Nat handed them both a glass of champagne.
“To the Cedar Wood projéct,” said Nat, raising his glass.
Tom just managed to get out the words, “The Cedar Wood project.”
Su Ling reappeared, smiled at her husband, and said, “Perhaps you’d like to bring our guests in for dinner?”
“Now, I think it’s only fair, Julia, that I should explain to my wife and Tom that you and I have no secrets.”
Julia smiled. “None that I can think of, Nat, especially after signing a confidentiality agreement concerning the details of the Cedar Wood transaction.”
“Yes, and I think it should stay that way,” said Nat, smiling across at her, as Su Ling placed the first course on the table.
“Mrs. Kirkbridge,” said Tom, not touching his lobster bisque.
“Please call me Julia; after all we have known each other for some time.”
“Have we?” said Tom, “I don’t …”
“That’s not very flattering, Tom,” said Mrs. Kirkbridge, “after all, it was only a few weeks ago, when I was out jogging that you invited me for a drink and then to dinner at the Cascade the following evening. That’s when I first told you about my interest in the Cedar Wood project.”
Tom turned to Nat. “This is all very clever, but you seem to have forgotten that Mr. Cooke, the auctioneer, and our chief teller, have all come into contact with the original Mrs. Kirkbridge.”
“The first Mrs. Kirkbridge, yes, but not the original,” said Nat. “And I have already given that problem some considerable thought. There is no reason why Mr. Cooke should ever meet Julia, as he retires in a few months’ time. As for the auctioneer, it was you who did the bidding, not Julia, and you needn’t worry about Ray because I’m going to move him to the Newington branch.
“But what about the New York end?” said Tom.
“They know nothing,” said Julia, “other than that I have closed a very advantageous deal.” She paused. “This is lovely lobster bisque, Su Ling. It’s always been my favorite.”
“Thank you,” said Su Ling as she cleared away the soup bowls and returned to the kitchen.
“And, Tom, can I just say while Su Ling is out of the room, that I would prefer to forget any other little indiscretions that are rumored to have taken place during the past month.”
“You bastard,” said Tom, turning to face Nat.
“No, to be fair,” said Julia, “I did insist on being told everything before I signed the confidentiality agreement.”
Su Ling returned carrying a serving dish. The smell of roast lamb was tantalizing. “I’ve now worked out why Nat asked me to serve exactly the same meal a second time, but I’m bound to ask, how much more do I need to know if I’m to keep up this charade?”
“What would you like to know?” asked Julia.
“Well, I’ve worked out that you’re the real McCoy, and therefore must be the majority shareholder of the Kirkbridge company, but what I’m not sure about is, did you at your husband’s request jog over building sites on a Sunday morning and then report back to him?”
Julia laughed. “No, my husband didn’t expect me to do that, as I already have an architecture degree.”
“And may I ask,” continued Su Ling, “did Mr. Kirkbridge die of cancer and then leave the company to you, having taught you everything he knew?”
“No, he’s very much alive, but I divorced him two years ago, when I discovered he was siphoning off the company’s profits for his personal use.”
“But wasn’t it his company?” asked Tom.
“Yes, and I wouldn’t have minded so much if he hadn’t been lavishing those profits on another woman.”
“Would that woman by any chance be around five foot eight, blond, like expensive clothes, and claim to hail from Minnesota?”
“You’ve obviously met her,” said Julia, “and I expect it was also my ex-husband who called you from a bank in San Francisco
claiming to be Mrs. Kirkbridge’s lawyer.”
“You’ve no idea where the two of them are at the moment, by any chance?” asked Tom. “Because I’d like to kill them.”
“Absolutely no idea,” said Julia, “but should you find out, please let me know. Then you can kill her and I can kill him.”
“Anyone for crème brûlée?” asked Su Ling.
“How did the other Mrs. Kirkbridge answer that question?” inquired Julia.
Members of the public were leaning over the balcony observing every move, and Mr. Cooke seemed to want everyone in the hall to witness what was going on. Fletcher and Jimmy left the senator to join Mrs. Hunter and her representative inside the horseshoe.
“There are,” said Mr. Cooke, addressing both candidates, “seventy-seven disputed ballot papers, of which I believe forty-three are invalid, however there remain difficulties over the other thirty-four.” Both candidates nodded. “First I am going to show you the forty-three,” said the returning officer, placing his hand on the larger of the two piles, “which I consider to be invalid. If you agree, I shall then go through the remaining thirty-four that are still in dispute,” his hand transferring across to the smaller pile. Both candidates nodded again. “Just say no if you disagree,” said Mr. Cooke, as he began to turn over the ballot papers in the larger pile, only to reveal that no vote had been registered on any of them. As neither candidate put up any objection, he completed this part of the exercise in under two minutes.
“Excellent,” said Mr. Cooke, pushing those ballot papers to one side, “but now we must consider the crucial thirty-four.” Fletcher noted the word crucial, and realized just how close the final result must be. “In the past,” continued Mr. Cooke, “if both parties were unable to agree, then the final decision would be left to a third party.” He paused.
“If there is any dispute,” said Fletcher, “I am quite happy to abide by your decision, Mr. Cooke.”
Mrs. Hunter didn’t immediately respond and began whispering to her aide. Everyone waited patiently for her response. “I am also happy that Mr. Cooke should act as the arbitrator,” she finally conceded.
Mr. Cooke gave a slight bow. “Of the thirty-four votes in the disputed pile,” he said, “eleven I believe can quickly be dealt with, as they are what I would call, for lack of a better description, the Harry Gates supporters.” He then laid out on the table eleven votes that had “Harry Gates” written across the ballot paper. Fletcher and Mrs. Hunter studied them one by one.
“They are obviously invalid,” said Mrs. Hunter.
“However, two of them,” continued Mr. Cooke, “also have a cross against Mr. Davenport’s name.”
“They must still be invalid,” said Mrs. Hunter, “because as you can see, Mr. Gates’s name is clearly written across the paper, making them invalid ballots.”
“But …” began Jimmy.
“As there is obviously some disagreement on these two ballots,” said Fletcher, “I’m happy to allow Mr. Cooke to decide.”
Mr. Cooke looked toward Mrs. Hunter and she nodded reluctantly. “I concur that the one with ‘Mr. Gates should be president’ written across it is indeed invalid.” Mrs. Hunter smiled. “However, the one that has a cross by Mr. Davenport’s name with the added comment, ‘but I’d prefer Mr. Gates,’ is in my view under election law, a clear indication of the voter’s intention, and I therefore deem it to be a vote for Mr. Davenport.” Mrs. Hunter looked annoyed but, aware of the crowd peering down from the gallery, managed a weak smile. “Now we can turn to the seven votes where Mrs. Hunter’s name appears on the ballot.”
“Surely they must all be mine,” said Mrs. Hunter as Mr. Cooke laid them out neatly in a row so that the two candidates could consider them.
“No, I don’t think so,” said Mr. Cooke.
The first had written on it, “Hunter is the winner,” with a cross against Hunter.
“That person clearly voted for Mrs. Hunter,” said Fletcher.
“I agree,” said Mr. Cooke as a ripple of applause emanated from the gallery.
“That boy’s honesty will be the death of him,” said Harry.
“Or the making of him,” said Martha.
“Hunter would be a dictator,” was written across the next with no cross against either name. “I believe that to be invalid,” said Mr. Cooke. Mrs. Hunter reluctantly nodded.
“Despite being accurate,” said Jimmy under his breath.
“Hunter is a bitch,” “Hunter should be shot,” “Hunter is mad,” “Hunter is a loser,” “Hunter for pope” were also declared invalid. Mrs. Hunter did not bother to suggest that any of these wanted her to be Hartford’s next senator.
“Now we come to the final group of sixteen,” said Mr. Cooke. “Here the voter did not use a cross to indicate his or her preference.” The sixteen votes had been placed in a separate pile, and the top one had a tick in the box opposite the name “Hunter.”
“That is clearly a vote for me,” insisted the Republican candidate.
“I have a tendency to agree with you,” said Mr. Cooke. “The voter appears to have made his wishes quite clear; however I will need Mr. Davenport to accept that judgment before I can proceed.”
Fletcher looked outside the horseshoe and caught Harry’s eye. He gave a slight nod. “I agree that it is clearly a vote for Mrs. Hunter,” he said. Applause once again broke out in the gallery from the pro-Hunter supporters. Mr. Cooke removed the top ballot paper to reveal that the one underneath also had a tick in the box opposite “Hunter.”
“Now that we’ve agreed on the principle,” said Mrs. Hunter, “that must also count as my vote.”
“I have no quarrel with that,” said Fletcher.
“Then those two votes go to Mrs. Hunter,” said Mr. Cooke, who removed the second voting slip to reveal a tick by Fletcher’s name on the one underneath. Both candidates nodded.
“Two–one in favor of Hunter,” said Mr. Cooke before he removed that vote, to show the next had a tick in the “Hunter” box.
“Three–one,” she said, unable to hide a smirk.
Fletcher began to wonder if Harry might have miscalculated. Mr. Cooke removed the next ballot paper to reveal a tick by Fletcher’s name.
“Three–two,” Jimmy said as the chief executive began to remove the votes from the pile more quickly. As each one showed a clear tick, neither candidate was able to object. The crowd in the gallery began to chant—three—all, four—three—in Fletcher’s favor—five—three, six–three, seven–three, eight–three, eight–four, nine–four, ten–four, eleven–four, ending on twelve–four in Fletcher’s favor.
Mrs. Hunter couldn’t hide her anger as Mr. Cooke, looking up at the gallery, proclaimed, “And that completes the checking of invalid ballot papers, making an overall position of fourteen for Mr. Davenport and six for Mrs. Hunter.” He then turned back to the candidates and said, “May I thank you both for your magnanimous approach to the whole proceedings.”
Harry allowed himself a smile as he joined in the renewed applause that followed Mr. Cooke’s statement. Fletcher quickly left the horseshoe and rejoined his father-in-law on the outside.
“If you win by fewer than eight votes, my boy, we’ll know whom to thank, because now there’s nothing Mrs. Hunter can do about it.”
“How long before we find out the result?” asked Fletcher.
“The vote? Only a few minutes,” said Harry, “but the result, I suspect, won’t be sorted out for several hours.”
Mr. Cooke studied the figures on his calculator, and then transferred them to a slip of paper, which all four of his officials dutifully signed. He returned to the stage for a third time. “Both sides having agreed on the disputed ballots, I can now inform you that the result of the election to the Senate for Hartford County is: Mr. Fletcher Davenport 21,218, Mrs. Barbara Hunter, 21,211.” Harry smiled.
Mr. Cooke made no attempt to speak during the uproar that followed, but once he had regained the attention of the floor, he announced,
“There will be a recount,” even before Mrs. Hunter could demand one.
Harry and Jimmy circled the room, uttering only one word to each of their observers. Concentrate. Fifty minutes later, it was found that three of the piles only had ninety-nine votes, while another four had one hundred and one. Mr. Cooke checked all seven offending piles for a third time, before returning to the stage.
“I declare the result of the election to the Senate for Hartford County to be as follows: Mr. Davenport 21,217, Mrs. Hunter 21,213.”
Mr. Cooke had to wait for some time before he could be heard above the noise. “Mrs. Hunter has once again called for a recount.” This time some boos mingled with the cheers, as the gallery settled down to watch the counters begin the entire process again. Mr. Cooke was punctilious in making sure that each pile was checked and double-checked, and if there was any doubt he went over it again himself. He didn’t walk back onto the stage until a few minutes after one in the morning, when he asked both candidates to join him.
He tapped the microphone to be sure it was still working. “I declare the result of the election to the Senate for Hartford County, to be Mr. Fletcher Davenport 21,216, Mrs. Barbara Hunter 21,214.” The cheers and boos were even louder this time, and it was several minutes before order could be restored. Mrs. Hunter leaned forward and suggested to Mr. Cooke in a stage whisper that as it was past one, the council workers should be allowed to go home, and a further recount should take place in the morning.
He listened politely to her protestations, before returning to the microphone. However, he had clearly anticipated every eventuality. “I have with me,” he said, “the official election handbook.” He held it up for all to see as a priest might the Bible. “And I refer to a ruling on page ninety-one. I will read out the relevant passage.” The hall fell silent as they waited for Mr. Cooke’s deliberations.
“In an election for the Senate, if any one candidate should win the count three times in a row, by however small a majority, he or she will be declared the winner. I therefore declare Mr … .” But the rest of his words were drowned by Fletcher’s cheering supporters.
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