Authors: Allen Drury
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Political, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Spies & Politics, #Thrillers
“On this vote,” Anna Hooper Bigelow said an hour later in a voice that trembled with tension and tiredness, “the Yeas for the motion of the delegate from California, Congressman Hamilton, to write in stronger language, are 645—”
“NO!” went up a great roar.
“—and the Nays are 648.”
“NO!”
“Yes!”
she cried in a shaky voice, “and the motion is defeated!”
“What we are seeing here, Walter,” Frankly said with great excitement as the hall exploded, “is one of the most startling revolutions in the history of—”
“He has deserved it,” Walter Dobius interrupted like an avenging angel, for he thought he had won at last his long battle with the evil men who had betrayed the world, “and now it has come to him.”
“Madam Chairman!” Jawbone Swarthman shouted into the bedlam, “I demand a roll-call vote on my milder Platform Committee language, Madam Chairman!”
“Alabama,” Alabama shouted even before the Parliamentarian had time to call its name, “Alabama intends, and it hopes other delegations will
all
follow suit. Madam Chairman, to request a poll of the delegation!”
“The Parliamentarian will poll,” Anna Bigelow yelled, and sagged against the lectern mopping her forehead furiously with a vermilion handkerchief. “Lordy, lordy!” she said to nobody in particular. “What a night!”
“You’re looking awfully pale suddenly,” Beth said in a worried tone. “I think we’d better go. Come on.”
“No,
no,”
Crystal said with a genuine impatience in her voice. “You stay here, you don’t want to leave this for one minute, and I’m not going to have you.”
“But, really—” Beth protested.
“Don’t be foolish, Crys,” Dolly Munson agreed quickly. “We’ll both go—”
“You will
not,”
Crystal said, standing up abruptly, staggering a little, steadying herself with one hand on the railing. “I’m not going to spoil the rest of it for you. Hal’s back down there somewhere. I’ll get one of the sergeants-at-arms to find him for me, and I’ll even ask them
both
to go out to the car with me. So there.” She leaned down quickly and kissed each of them on the cheek. “Now, you young things have a good time and I’ll see you in the morning—what am I saying?—in the afternoon. Not too early. About 5 P.M., in fact.”
“Well—” Beth said doubtfully.
“Bye-bye,” Crystal said, gave them a little wave and began making her way slowly along the aisle to the stairs going down to ground level.
TOUGH LUCK, ORRIN KNOX, the claque said, reviving suddenly as Alabama reported 9 Ayes, 5 Nos on the milder language. TOO BAD FOR YOU.
“You can’t do it,” Bob Leffingwell said harshly.
“If it’s too much for you,” Governor Jason said pleasantly, thinking with contempt, He wouldn’t leave me, he’s too weak, “I’m sure we can make other arrangements.”
“How much longer—” the Speaker demanded, and the President thought it was the only time in his life that he had ever seen Bill really perturbed. But again he only shook his head.
“I think it’s all over, Stanley,” the Secretary said.
Senator Danta gave him a long, slow look.
“Orrin Knox,” he said finally, “doesn’t run away. Now, or ever.”
“I’m Mrs. Hal Knox,” she said pleasantly at the entrance to the floor, “the Secretary’s daughter-in-law. Could you find my husband for me? I think he’s over near the California delegation. Ask Congressman Hamilton.”
“Walter,” Frankly Unctuous said, with the excitement and pleasure difficult to contain behind his bland smile and plum-pudding tones, “I think this is an historic night, tonight. I think we are seeing a real revolution in American politics and in the country, here. If this vote carries it is difficult to see how the President—”
“Kansas requests a poll, Madam Chairman.”
“The Parliamentarian will poll.”
“Oh, all right,” she said with a smile. “I guess he’s off somewhere getting votes. And I guess you’re stuck here, guarding the door, right?…Oh, no, you can’t leave. I’ll make it all right. How do I get to Entrance J and the official parking lot?”
“I don’t know what he’s going to do,” Patsy said impatiently to
Newsweek’s
lady who was back on the prowl again, “but
I
hope he runs for President.”
“Pardon me?” she said politely in the dark night, on the swirling, dripping, trash-strewn ground with the fog racing and tumbling all around, “am I heading in the right direction for the official parking lot?’
“It’s over the—” somebody began, and then somebody else said with a quick excitement, “Wait a minute! Isn’t she Knox’s daughter?”
“I’m no relation,” she said suddenly terribly frightened. But someone else said in a tight, suppressed voice, “She’s his daughter-in-law. Let’s show the old man a thing or two!”
Then she began to scream. She was still screaming some ten minutes later, though she did not know it, writhing as she was upon the ground, when the police finally came. The blank, sullen faces had faded back once more into the blank, sullen ranks that stood, impassive and unmoving, around the Cow Palace in the cold, wet night.
***
Chapter 6
Thus it was that Crystal Danta Knox and Edward Montoya Jason entered the world’s headlines together, though before either could do so it was necessary first for Anna Hooper Bigelow, herald of history in greens and purples and an ostrich-feather toque gone rakishly askew over one eye, to announce to a convention about to go mad:
“The vote on the milder platform language proposed by the delegate from South Carolina is 644 Yeas—”
“NO!”
“—and 649 NAYS—”
“OH,
NO!”
“Yes!”
screamed Anna Hooper Bigelow. “The proposal is defeated!”
After that everything dissolved in a great confusion, while she looked about in wild uncertainty until Bob Munson, rushing forward along the ramp, grabbed the gavel from her hand and shouted desperately, “Does the delegate from California have a motion?” and from somewhere in the din Cullee Hamilton bellowed, “I move this convention stand in recess until 2 P.M. this afternoon!”
“FavorsayAyeopposedNayAyeshaveitconventionstandsrecess!” Bob Munson shouted in a single breath, slammed down the gavel, and turned to Anna Bigelow with an exhausted smile to press her hands and give her a kiss of thanks on the cheek.
It was then 2:56 A.M.
At two fifty-eight, while they were slowly making their way out, a youthful sergeant-at-arms, his face white and his voice trembling, stopped Mrs. Orrin Knox and Mrs. Robert Munson to blurt something to them. At about the same moment, as Mrs. Knox swayed and almost fainted and Mrs. Munson caught her in her arms with a sharp cry, another young sergeant-at-arms fought his way through the departing delegates to Hal Knox, whom he found talking excitedly to the junior Senator from Iowa and Mrs. Mabel Anderson beside the Utah standard. Those nearby stopped and watched curiously as he too blurted out some words they could not quite hear. Immediately after they heard Mabel Anderson also utter a sudden sharp cry, heard Senator Smith say in a terrible voice, “Oh, God,
no,”
and saw Hal Knox, uttering an indescribable sound, begin to fight his way savagely out through the mob, ignoring the indignant cries and angry protests of those he elbowed aside in his frantic passage.
At approximately the same moment, two telephone calls came in, one to an office in the Fairmont, the other to an office in the Mark Hopkins.
At the Fairmont, two dignified men who only a moment before had looked vigorous, if tired, exchanged a ghastly glance and suddenly looked very old.
At the Mark Hopkins, two handsome gray-haired men, somewhat younger, also exchanged a glance. It was followed by a long silence, and then Bob Leffingwell said, “Goodbye,” in a quiet voice and started for the door. “Goodbye,” Governor Jason said with an equal quietness. Then he raised his head with a calm defiance. “On your way, will you do me one last favor, please. Will you call the press room at the Hilton and tell them I shall hold a press conference there in half an hour.” “I will,” Bob Leffingwell said and went without looking back.
At three-ten, their front pages remade, the local papers were on the streets with extras. CONVENTION DEADLOCKS ON FOREIGN POLICY, RECESSES WITHOUT DECISION, the
Chronicle
said; CRYSTAL KNOX BEATEN BY UNKNOWN ATTACKERS OUTSIDE COW PALACE. JASON CALLS CONFERENCE, AIDES HINT NEW MOVE.
CONVENTION STALLED ON FOREIGN POLICY AS KNOX DAUGHTER-IN-LAW SUFFERS BEATING AT COW PALACE, the
Examiner
said; WITNESSES CLAIM JASON BACKERS GUILTY. GOVERNOR MAY STATE NEW PLANS.
And at three thirty-five, looking solemn and serious, Frankly Unctuous was back on the little screen to tell his countrymen what they should think about it. They could see that he was alone this time, his distinguished companion was not with him anymore, and he hastened to say, with just the proper ghost of a wistfully weary smile, that “Walter Dobius, ladies and gentlemen, has left us to return to work at the press room at the Hilton Hotel, from which we shall very shortly be bringing you the surprise press conference called by Governor Edward M. Jason.
“Mr. Dobius asked me—” and Frankly’s richly rounded tones became somber and suitably grave, his expression respectful and properly sad—“to express for him as well as myself our profound shock and horror at the unfortunate episode involving Mrs. Harold Knox, the pregnant young daughter-in-law of the Secretary of State.
“Mrs. Knox, as you know, was savagely beaten by a group of unknown assailants outside the Cow Palace during the final dramatic vote of this highly dramatic evening. All that we know so far from Central Emergency Hospital where she was taken—the same hospital, ironically, in which, earlier in the evening, death claimed one of the two young victims of the riot started by her father-in-law’s backers in Union Square yesterday morning—is that she is in serious condition, though still, apparently, alive.
“Mr. Dobius joins me, and I am sure all Americans, in wishing her a swift and successful recovery from this tragic episode—an episode which only proves once again—” and now his expression became gently, regretfully, and oh, so judiciously and fairly, stern—“that violence has no place in American democracy, and that those who condone violence, whether openly or simply by tacit, even innocent, acceptance, may sometimes, themselves, suffer violence.…”
And at 3:33 A.M. at the Hilton, in a room so full of reporters, cameramen, and electronic equipment that it seemed impossible to squash one more human being or squeeze one more machine into it, the Governor of California began to speak to his country in the glare of the pitiless lights.
“First,” he said gravely, “I wish to join all decent Americans in deploring the savage and inexcusable attack upon Mrs. Harold Knox.
“I am told,” he said, as cameras rolled and pencils raced frantically over paper, “that competent witnesses believe this attack was made by individuals carrying my banners and supporting my cause. If this is true, I condemn them, and I condemn all like them.
“Obviously I knew nothing of this. Obviously it was either an emotional, or a drunken, or a doped-up action by individuals little better than human beasts. Obviously they must be hunted down and punished like the mad dogs they are. Obviously also, all elements involved in this convention must unite at once to oppose, once and for all, the element of violence which has seemed to creep, almost without our knowing it, into these deliberations.
“Anything I can do, of course,” he said, looking straight into the cameras with an honest, candid gaze, “I will do. One thing in particular I have done already: the Mayors of San Francisco and Daly City have requested me to assign units of the National Guard to the Cow Palace and to the central area of San Francisco. Fifteen minutes ago I signed the appropriate orders. Within the hour, one thousand troops will be on their way here to take up their stations and maintain order. They will be on duty for the remainder of this convention.
“I regret,” he added quietly, “more deeply than I can say, that violence was ever permitted to begin. The question of who began it is of course academic now. We can only unite in sorrow that it came. Violence begets violence, and we have had tragic proof of it three times in the day just past. Whoever began it,” he repeated, and his gaze became, if anything, more honest, more candid—
“whoever
began it, the end result has been ghastly. I am sure all Americans join with me in condemning all those who have permitted such a thing to develop at a free and democratic national political convention.
“To them I say, as all Americans say: change your tactics, forget your violence, and let us work in peace!”
There was a sudden burst of applause in the room, but quickly stilled, for the inhabitants of Walter’s world are not partisan and they do not wish their countrymen to think they are, even though honest human emotion will sometimes escape (but only momentarily) their rigid and objective control.
“Now we come,” Ted said, and his voice acquired at once a certain tenseness and tightly suppressed excitement that instantly altered his audience, “to another matter raised by the events of the evening just past.
“It is obvious now, I think, after three votes in open convention, that this Administration does not have sufficient support, in this convention or in this country which this convention reflects, to carry its foreign policy views successfully to the electorate.
“It is obvious, on the basis of those three votes, that I—and he used the pronoun with a new force, and repeated it—“that
I
do have sufficient strength in this convention, and in the country which this convention reflects, to provide a middle way for all those Americans who sincerely believe that threats to world peace must be stopped, and that only through preserving world peace can America be preserved.
“If these votes had resulted in overwhelming, or even moderately severe, rejection of my position and that of my many loyal followers in this convention—and, I believe in this country (and there was a little, affirmative stirring in the room that came across clearly on television)—then I should not, of course, take this public position or do what I am about to do.
“But you will perceive, my countrymen, that this is not the case. Three times the Administration and I met head-on. In the first vote, on adoption of the mild language of the Platform Committee, their margin of victory was only seven votes; 643 delegates to this convention of 1,293 souls voted for me. On the second ballot, the proposal of Congressman Hamilton to write into the platform a strong, uncritical endorsement of the Administration failed by a margin of three votes; 648 delegates to this convention voted for me. On the third ballot, to reinstate the mild Platform Committee language in the platform, the Administration beat it by only five votes: 644 delegates to this convention voted for me.
“In other words, this convention is so closely divided on the issue of how to approach and handle foreign policy in these difficult times that it is, for all practical purposes, half the Administration’s, and half mine. And certainly it is, as of this hour and after these three fair tests, deadlocked.
“In such a case, does the better chance of success at the polls lie with those who favor a rigid and unyielding policy, or does it lie with those who have retained sufficient flexibility to be able to maneuver and adapt to what conditions bring?
“And by the same token, does success in the world lie with the rigid and unyielding, or does it lie with those who are flexible and able to maneuver and work out necessary compromises with those people with whom we have to try to live on this globe?
“I submit, my countrymen,” and once again he stared directly into the cameras, handsome, distinguished, grave, and powerful, “that it lies with those who can move—not with those who are standing still, bound hand and foot to past misconceptions and past mistakes. It lies with the future, not with the past. It lies with new blood, new vigor, new solutions, new approaches. It does not lie with the dead hand of yesterday.
“Conscience must decide the issue, my countrymen. I may be excused, I think, if I say on the basis of the votes this evening, that it will, I believe, decide it—my way.…”
He paused, took a drink of water, a deep breath, returned his gaze steadfastly to the cameras.
“I shall be a candidate this afternoon for the nomination for President of the United States. I invite the support of all who believe, as I do, in America’s honor and in America’s duty to herself and to the great cause of world peace.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you very much.” And he arose in the midst of press chaos to wave confidently—smile—nod—wave again—and depart.
“Lafe,” the President said a few moments later over the line to Central Emergency, “I want you to be my messenger, if you will. First of all, how is she?”
“Coming along,” Lafe said, sounding as though he himself were in shock. “The baby was born dead, of course.”
“I didn’t know,” the President said quietly.
“Oh, yes. It hasn’t been announced yet. But she’s a healthy girl, and young, and the doctors seem to think she’ll make it all right. It was a boy. There was quite a bit of kicking and stomping, but not enough to do any lasting damage, apparently. Except, of course to the baby. It was born dead.”
“Yes, you said that. Well, I’ll express my condolences later in the day when the opportunity comes. Right now, there’s something else. Is everybody there?”
“Pretty much.”
“All right. How’s Orrin doing?”
“Terrible. He wants to issue a statement—”
“I know what he wants to do,” the President interrupted, “and I want you to tell him, and if Bob and the Speaker are there I want you to tell
them
to tell him—and tell Beth, too, especially tell Beth—that he is to do
absolutely nothing
until he talks to me. I don’t want him issuing any statements or seeing anybody. Is that clear? Use force if you have to, to keep him away from the press.”
“They’re here, of course,” Lafe said, sounding a little more like himself, “but at bay. I think we can persuade him. He’s so dazed right now he’s almost helpless. His idea about a statement is just blind nervous reaction, I think.”
“Good,” the President said. “Keep him quiet. Now, I want him to meet me in the penthouse at the Huntington at 10 A.M. today. Got it?”
“They’ll probably put him under sedation,” Lafe said. “That’s only six hours away.”
“Well … make it noon, then. But without fail I want him there then. All right?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Lafe said. “And—Harley,” he added, deliberately but awkwardly, for they were a long way now from the old times of everyday intimacy in the Senate—“don’t worry about this afternoon. It’s going to be all right.”
“Thank you, old friend,” the President said, and the Senator from Iowa could tell from his tone that he meant his concluding words: “I’m not.”
“Here we are,” Ted Jason said, thinking to himself that no one at all, so great had been the excitement at the press conference, had thought to ask after her; thinking that of course she must be here; thinking—
“One of you on the door will be enough, I believe,” he added pleasantly. “The rest of you get some sleep and I’ll see you in a few hours.”