by Allen Drury
“So you tried it again the next time—” Senator Danta suggested; his young companion looked at him with a pleased smile.
“I tested it, Stan,” he said. “I tried it out in just that way on three separate occasions after that, giving it a little more build-up each time, and before you know, within a week I was beginning to get anywhere from two hundred to three hundred letters a day about it.”
“So you decided you had a good thing going—” Senator Danta suggested again in his pleasantly tactful, encouraging way.
“And I’ve kept at it, and it’s been sensational,” Senator Van Ackerman said in a rather bemused tone; “just sensational!”
“It takes you, Fred,” Stanley Danta said in a tone he made admiring, “to find a good thing and stick with it.”
“When I go after something,” Senator Van Ackerman acknowledged, “I give it everything I’ve got.”
“Indeed you do,” Senator Danta agreed. “Indeed you do.”
And indeed, he reflected, Fred Van Ackerman had, from the first moment he had arrived in the Senate a year ago. There had been about him even then a certain animal force that his colleagues could sense, an almost disturbing note of caged unbalance that might flare up at anything. Once he had thought Orrin Knox had shut him off too abruptly in a debate; there had been a strange whining snarl in his voice as he protested the indignity, giving the Senate a troubling sense of being in the presence of a spring on the point of unwinding altogether. Orrin had not apologized, but he had sat down with a puzzled expression on his face, for the misunderstanding had been minor and nothing to warrant Fred Van Ackerman’s violence. And there had been other things, rumors and hints of double-dealings and dark underhandedness, verging on the criminal, in his surprise election at the age of thirty-three, a ruthless gambling spirit that kept breaking through. He wore a certain dark aspect, indefinable and somehow forbidding. No one yet had crossed him in any serious degree in the Senate, not knowing what this aspect might portend. His colleagues were still sizing him up; and now with this new interest of his in foreign affairs, it was beginning to appear that he might be going places. Just where, no one could say; but in recent days there had come the feeling that he was on his way. Senator Danta, like many another, was curious to find out the direction. The rally in New York seemed to furnish a possible clue, and he was determined to probe it as deeply as he could.
“I thought I’d drop in on the Leffingwell hearing,” he said. “Want to come along?”
“That’s a good idea,” Fred said. “I’d love to.”
“Tell me about COMFORT,” Stanley said as they turned down the corridor toward the Caucus Room. “Where did that all begin?”
“I don’t quite know,” Senator Van Ackerman said thoughtfully, “except that it seemed to start up pretty soon after my first speech. There’s a chapter in Chicago, you know, and one in San Francisco and one in Minneapolis, and of course in New York. I think it’s big New York money, basically. I’m not connected with it directly; I’ve never even been approached except on this rally last Thursday night. Now I’ve got invitations from Chicago and San Francisco too, on the basis of that. It’s the damnedest thing.”
“But you certainly aren’t going to turn down any chances?” Senator Danta suggested.
“Oh, hell, no,” Fred Van Ackerman said with a quick grin. “Why, this might make me President, boy!”
And he grinned even more broadly to show he didn’t mean it, which didn’t fool Senator Danta, who knew with some alarm that deep in his heart he did. But he smiled in his friendly way and made the expected rejoinder.
“I’ll bet it will,” he said pleasantly. “I’ll bet it will, at that,” adding to himself, over my dead body. “You don’t think the Russians are behind it, do you?” he asked innocently.
“I don’t know,” Fred Van Ackerman said slowly. “I don’t really think so. I think it’s mostly, as I say, big New York money. You know how they are about Causes, and this is just about the biggest Cause there is right now. Oh, if I thought it was a Commie outfit, Stan, I wouldn’t have anything to do with it. I think it’s just a genuine desire for peace. And if they want me to be their talker, why should I refuse? It gets me plenty of publicity,” he concluded with satisfaction.
“It certainly does,” Senator Danta conceded. “Well, here we are. Seems to be a crowd.”
“You can sit at the committee table and I’ll find a place somewhere,” Fred said.
“Oh, no,” Stanley Danta suggested casually, feeling in some obscure way that something important would come out of Fred’s reaction to the hearing, “well find a couple of seats together.”
As for Ellabelle Proctor at this moment, she wasn’t thinking any philosophical thoughts about liberal causes or worrying about any yak-yak between a couple of Senators she never heard of. All she was doing was what Mabel Anderson, after a consultation with the Senator, had told her to do: clean the attic and get rid of his old Air Force uniforms, still kicking around, like those of many another veteran, in the attic. If she found anything in the pockets, Mabel said, she was to leave it in the study with the Senator’s other papers; and having given these instructions the Senator’s lady had taken Pidge, five years old and looking temporarily quite sedate and angelic in her little blue coat and little blue hat, and gone to visit Beth Knox while Ellabelle got on with her dusty work. Just now she had found something, a small brown manila envelope, and faithful to her instructions she was taking it downstairs to place it on the pile of legislative bills and other papers on the Senator’s desk. After that she got herself a cup of coffee and went on about her work.
This was what Ellabelle Proctor did, perfectly logically from her point of view, however illogically it might seem to fit into the Big Picture in Washington, as Mr. Justice Davis read his papers and Senators Danta and Van Ackerman entered the Caucus Room.
“The Chair,” the Chair said, “is glad to welcome Senator Danta, a member of the full committee, and Senator Van Ackerman. The Chair thinks it might be a good opportunity to take a ten-minute recess while they are being seated.”
“I’m bursting,” Arly Richardson confided candidly. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t know,” Brigham Anderson said, “but I think everybody is getting too heated about this and it might be good to have a break. Run along and hurry back. You’re on next.”
“Right,” Senator Richardson said and arose with dignity to go to the nearest men’s room. Senator DeWilton joined him and they went out talking soberly while Senators, audience, and press stood and stretched.
“Stanley,” Brig said, “how are you this morning? Did you get over to the committee to hear Howie?”
“No, I didn’t,” Senator Danta said. “I had to preside at Interior and listen to Fred, here. Then we thought we’d come along and see your show.”
“Hi, Fred,” Senator Anderson said, shaking hands. “You had quite a show yourself in New York.”
“I sure did,” Senator Van Ackerman agreed expansively.
“I judge COMFORT is getting to be quite a force,” Senator Anderson observed.
“Not as much as it likes to think it is,” Fred Van Ackerman said. “But it’s growing. I wonder why, just at this particular time? People haven’t seemed to feel that way before—as organized about it, I mean. It kind of puzzles me, really.”
“Maybe that’s your doing, Fred,” Stanley Danta suggested. “Maybe Man has met Movement. Maybe it’s fate.”
“I don’t quite know what you mean by that,” Senator Van Ackerman said, “but maybe you’re right.”
“It gives you quite a sounding board, anyway,” Senator Anderson said. Senator Van Ackerman did not answer directly; instead his eyes swept the crowded room with an appraising look.
“I’m just wondering,” he said, “if this thing would fit in with it.”
Senator Danta started to speak and then thought better of it; his eyes flicked across those of Senator Anderson for just a second and when Senator
Anderson spoke it was with a casual unconcern.
“Well, I don’t know, Fred,” he said. “It seems to me maybe this is rather beyond the scope of any movement such as that, which is probably only a temporary thing, anyway. You know how these things come and go.”
“I’m not sure,” Senator Van Ackerman said thoughtfully. “I just don’t know. It could be this is just the sort of thing they’d want to support.”
“No need for it,” Senator Anderson said comfortably. “It’s going through without any trouble.”
“Is it?” Fred Van Ackerman said skeptically. “It hasn’t looked that way so far.”
“Well, don’t let that fool you,” Brigham Anderson said in the same relaxed tone. “You know how people talk around here and then when all’s said and done the vote comes through on schedule. This’ll be the same.”
“Maybe,” Senator Van Ackerman said doubtfully. “Do you think a speech from me would help?”
“Why don’t you save it until the debate comes on the floor, Fred?” Senator Danta suggested easily. “There’s the time to fire your ammunition if you think it’s needed.”
“Yeah,” Fred Van Ackerman said. “I guess.” And then in one of those quick apparent terminations of interest that his colleagues found characteristic and usually not very indicative of his true intentions, he turned away. “Well, shall we sit down, Stan?” he asked.
“Take a seat at the table if you like,” Senator Anderson suggested.
“Thanks,” Stanley Danta said, “but I may have to leave again soon. I’ve got some things to do in the office before the session starts.”
“Me too,” Fred said. “We’ll just sit along here in back and watch for a little while.”
“Good,” Brigham Anderson said. “Glad to have you....Well, John,” he said, turning to the Senator from Massachusetts who had remained seated impassively beside him, “about as we expected, hm?”
“Yes,” Senator Winthrop said. “I didn’t realize we’d start having show-downs quite this soon, but aside from that everything’s moving on schedule.”
“I’m not so sure it’s going the way I expected on the other side of the table, though,” Senator Anderson said with a thoughtful glance at the nominee, chatting animatedly in the midst of a clustering circle of reporters. “You’re right, and so is Orrin; and so is Seab, for that matter. He is being evasive. I wonder why.”
“That’s what Arly’s going to ask,” Senator Winthrop said dryly. “He’s going to ask the Why.”
“I may myself,” Senator Anderson said, “if it isn’t cleared up by the time it gets to me.”
“It won’t be,” Senator Winthrop said in a tone even drier. “This is the day for noble sentiments. It isn’t the day for getting to the guts of things.”
“We’ve gotten to the guts of several things, I think,” Senator Anderson said. “The public may not understand it, but it’s all here.”
“How much of that,” John Winthrop wondered with a nod toward the eagerly listening, eagerly laughing reporters, “will they give the public?”
“Yes,” Senator Anderson said thoughtfully. “I know.”
“—and then,” Bob Leffingwell was concluding his story, “I told him, ‘Well, Senator, if that’s the way you feel I guess we’ll have to put it in the stockpile.’”
There was a flattering explosion of laughter from the press, and with it the nominee shot a quick look at the chairman; a quietly triumphant look that distinctly said: You see, I have them. And have them he did, for even at that moment the teletypes down in the press room were chattering with a counter-suggestion from the news editors in the wire-service bureaus downtown. SUGGEST LEFFINGWELL BELIEFS AMERICA BETTER LEAD THAN OLD COOLEY CHARGES, the messages read. The nominee was in good shape after all.
“The committee will be in order,” Brigham Anderson said. “Senator Richardson?”
The phone rang twice at Vagaries and a maid answered. Mrs. Harrison was upstairs, she said, and might be asleep; would the Senator care to leave a message? He was about to when Dolly came on the line.
“I don’t get it,” she said as the downstairs phone clicked off. “You’re calling me. How does that happen?”
“It happens sometimes,” Bob Munson said amiably. “I’m just checking. I saw your picture in the Post this morning and the caption said you were at the Brazilian Embassy party last night with some man. Is this rumor true?”
“Don’t tell me you care!” Dolly said, and the Senator chuckled.
“I’m passionately jealous,” he confided, “especially of that particular gentleman.”
“You’d be surprised,” Dolly said.
“So would he, I’ll bet,” Bob Munson observed. “Anyway, I just thought I’d call and find out how you were.”
“There’s some other reason,” Dolly suggested. “It can’t be as simple as just plain, ordinary, friendly interest.”
“It isn’t plain and it isn’t ordinary,” Senator Munson said, “but it sure is friendly. I was going to ask if you wanted to do me a favor.”
“Any time,” Dolly said. “Any old time at all.”
“I think you have a one-track mind,” Bob Munson said. “This is a matter of great and solemn importance, vital to the future of the nation.”
“I can’t think of anything more vital to the future of the nation,” Dolly said. “Where would we be a hundred years from now without it?”
“Woman,” Bob Munson said, “be quiet and pay attention. I was wondering if you would like to come up and sit in on the Leffingwell hearing for me tomorrow and the rest of the week. I can’t be there myself much and I need somebody who can give me a fill-in; also, I respect your judgment and I’d like to know what you think of it.”
“You really respect my judgment?” Dolly said in a pleased tone.
“I really do,” the Senator said.
“Well,” she said, sounding entirely different, “that puts a whole new light on things. Nothing would please me more than to sit in on the Leffingwell hearings for you, darling. I don’t care if it is all some elaborate political scheme of yours, as long as you genuinely want me to be a part of it.”
“I suspect this may become a habit,” Bob Munson said, “and I probably shouldn’t encourage it if I want to keep my freedom. However, you come ahead and I’ll arrange with Brig to have you seated along the back there, right behind the committee. Why don’t you call Kitty and Celestine and see if they’d like to attend with you? I imagine Claude and Raoul would like to have their own observers on the spot, too.”
“And I imagine,” Dolly said, “that you would like me to tell that to Kitty and Celestine so that they will tell Claude and Raoul, who in turn will be impressed with how thoughtful and considerate you are, and—well, darling, I think I’ll probably follow through on it, just as you want.”
“I hope I’m not that transparent to everybody,” Senator Munson said, and Dolly laughed in a proprietary way.
“I suspect you are,” she said, “but that’s one of the reasons we all love you so.”
“Hmph,” Bob Munson said. “What are you doing over the weekend?”
“A couple of parties, a couple of receptions—the gay, mad, Washington whirl,” she said. “You know how it is. What did you have in mind?”
“The same thing you do,” Senator Munson said. I was thinking about Thursday night, which is the annual White House Correspondents banquet for the President. I may go back to the White House with him for a little while afterwards, but I ought to be free after that.”
“We can always watch the late, late show,” Dolly suggested dryly.
“Watch it, hell,” Senator Munson said. “I want to be in it.”
Dolly laughed.
“If Michigan could hear you now,” she said.
“Michigan,” Bob Munson said, “is as interested as anybody, I’m quite sure. I can expect you here tomorrow, then?”
“I’ll be there,” Dolly said. “I’ll call the others right now.”
/> “Fine,” Senator Munson said. “You’re really being a big help to me, you know.”
“Any time, I said,” Dolly reminded him.
For a long moment Senator Richardson looked appraisingly at the nominee and the nominee looked back. Then the Senator smiled in a way that looked more cordial than it actually was.
“Well, Mr. Leffingwell,” he said, “there seems to be a feeling here that you aren’t giving us quite what we’re after. Maybe I won’t have cause to feel that way, after you talk to me.”
“I hope not, Senator,” Bob Leffingwell said calmly. “I’ve always found you very fair in our dealings together.”
“And I have always found you very capable,” Arly responded. “So capable,” he added slowly, “that I, like my colleagues, am finding it a little difficult to understand why it is so hard for you to be candid with this subcommittee.”
“I’m doing my best, Senator,” Bob Leffingwell said. “As clearly as the English language can convey it, I’m stating my position.”
“But you haven’t stated it in response to questions,” Senator Richardson said. “It’s been a somewhat more self-serving process. You’ve stated it as it has suited you, not as we have requested it. Like my colleagues, I wonder why. What sort of associations did you have, when you were in college, and when you were teaching at the University of Chicago, and later on. What sort do you have now?”
“That’s several questions in one, Senator,” the nominee said.
“Take them seriatim,” Arly Richardson suggested. Bob Leffingwell looked both thoughtful and puzzled.
“My associations in college,” he said. “Looking back to that distant time, I belonged to a fraternity; I went to class; I was on the tennis team; I helped edit the school paper; I went to a fair number of dances and social events; I was president of my senior class; I knew probably a thousand people on a more or less cordial basis, another thousand more casually. Associations? Approxi-mately the same you had, I imagine, Senator, when you went to college.”
