She had become rigid. “I went to my office for my coat. If there’d been a gun there, I’d have shot him. I went downstairs. I was too agitated to drive my car. I walked up Pennsylvania Avenue. Then I decided to call you to pick me up. I went into the first place I came to, a bar. I was too upset even to call. So I decided to have a drink or two to steady my nerves, until I could get hold of myself. Then I took a cab—” Abruptly, she stopped, mouth compressed. “I don’t like your expression. You think I’m lying. What are you, a prosecutor or something—?”
“Please, Sally. I’m simply questioning you because this is serious, and—”
“You’re telling me I’m lying. I don’t have to take that from you—you, of all people—the hell with that.” She jumped to her feet, almost pitched forward, caught the coffee table, and straightened. “If you’re not going to stand beside me, I know some people in the next room who will!”
Head held high, the rest of her tottering, she groped her way to the library door.
“Sally, come back here, don’t be foolish—”
Without turning, only tossing her shoulders, she pulled the door open and left him.
Eaton was on his feet now, but he did not follow her. Her tawdry adventure was so bizarre—and improbable—that he needed a few minutes of solitude to turn it over in his mind.
He lit a cigarette, then paced the room thoughtfully. What weighed against the story was Sally herself, for he knew her character thoroughly. She drank. She drugged herself. She was unstable, given to exaggeration and flights of fancy. She had drawn a picture of Dilman that bore no resemblance to the stodgy, frightened Negro politician that he and everyone else knew. Yet, to balance the scale in his quest for the truth, what possible motivation could Sally have for making up in its entirety such a farfetched story? He could think of none, not one advantage to her in this, unless there was some semblance of truth in it and she wanted Dilman punished. Moreover, she was sexually attractive to men, as he well knew, and Dilman was alone, and just a few minutes earlier Miller had spoken of some evidence about Dilman’s secret drinking.
Still, dammit, Eaton found the whole thing inconceivable. Whatever idiotic rumors of infidelity and adultery and lechery, fanned by political partisanship and the instinctive desire of all common people to bring the high-ups down low to their own level, whatever rumors surrounded the Presidency—and hardly any President in decades had escaped such malice—there was not one clear-cut shred of evidence that a single Chief Executive, while in office, had ever behaved as Sally had just accused President Dilman of behaving. No matter what the former habits of its chief tenant, the White House was simply not a seraglio, never had been, never would be, because it had glass walls. Or, perhaps, because its grandeur seemed to convert its chief resident from mere mortal into abstract symbol. This was true not only of the President, but of his Cabinet members and—and then, suddenly, with astonishment, Eaton realized that the wall of invincible virtue he was building around the Chief Executive and his Cabinet members was made of cards, and had collapsed.
What about himself? He was the Secretary of State of the United States, mentor of America’s international destiny, next in line to the Presidency—and still, in the camouflage of night, he was mere mortal. How many times had he lain naked beside this beautiful young girl, who had been naked, too, and was not his wife?
Anything was possible.
There were no symbols for men, no matter how august and exposed their offices. There were only the men themselves.
He peered down at his wristwatch. Nearly ten minutes had gone by since Sally’s angry departure from the library. He had best join her, and the others—Good Lord, the others!—and hear out the rest of her adventure, and do what he could to sift proven fact from alcoholic and neurotic invention.
He left the library, and when he entered his living room, a not unexpected tableau presented itself to him.
Sally, her back to him, sat lurched forward on the nearest couch, with Senator Hankins beside her on the same couch, and Wayne Talley perched on a chair he had drawn up alongside, intently listening, and Zeke Miller squatting upon a footstool directly in front of her, his countenance redly twisted with outrage.
Moving into the room, Eaton could hear Sally saying, “And then, and then I pushed and punched at him, and started to scream, until he backed up, and then I got away—no, first—I remember—before going I told him what I thought of him—”
“Pardon me, Miss Watson, if I may interrupt,” said Zeke Miller, “but I want to get this clear—I want to get this crystal-clear—because I have never been so roused and angered—never heard such degradation—but do I understand you to be saying—this Nigra buck, this Dilman, he made—forgive my language, you being a lady well brought up, the daughter of an esteemed colleague—but are you saying that this Dilman made improper advances to you tonight, improper advances against your express will and desire?”
“Improper advances?” she cried out. “That animal tried to rape me—practically—I can prove it. You want me to prove it?” She became aware of Eaton, standing behind Talley, and she shouted, “You can see for yourself, Arthur. Now you’ll know I’m not prevaricating one word.”
Suddenly she reached down, grasped the hem of her skirt, and yanked the dress up over her knees, and then higher, until both her full thighs, and part of her garter belt, and the lace fringe of her panties were revealed. She half fell on her side, to show her right thigh and buttocks more fully, and drew her finger along her flesh. “Look at this. I’m not ashamed. Look for yourselves, see what he did.”
Eaton wanted to shut his eyes, but he did not. He could see the deep nail scratches, ugly crimson, several blood-encrusted, across Sally’s perfect white flesh. He could see Miller’s gray eyes widen, fastened to the sight, and Hankins’ old eyes narrowing.
“You’ve seen enough?” Sally said, straightening, and throwing her skirt down over her knees. “I’ll show you more. Look.”
She held up the torn shoulder strap of her gown, dropped it, pushed down one side of her bodice until the protruding webbed brassière cup was entirely unveiled. Eaton wanted to halt her, to tell her no more exhibits were necessary, but before he should speak out, she had loosened one brassière strap. Quickly, she pulled the freed cup down the smooth mound of her round breast, baring it to an inch from the point. She did not have to draw attention to what could be seen by all of them. The nail marks were even more stark here, and the bluish welts, too.
Eaton could contain himself no longer. “That’s enough, Sally.”
She glared up at him, covered her breast, and then pulled her bodice over the brassière, and said to Miller, “That’s from my resisting, and don’t think anybody could have done it but that nigger. I was alone with him tonight, in his room, and Governor Talley is holding the proof of it in those cards, some things I copied from Dilman’s papers in his room.”
A rumbling came from deep in Senator Hankins’ throat. “Young lady, in all my years in public service, I never heard of a more dastardly indignity perpetrated on helpless young womanhood. I pledge you—” He slapped his hip. “I pledge my last resources to drive the culprit responsible for this from our capital city.”
Sally seemed momentarily mesmerized by Hankins’ gallantry. “Thank you, Senator. I—I only want justice done.”
Zeke Miller was in a fury. “Justice is too good for that drunken lechering Nigra, Miss Sally,” he shouted. “Lynching is what he deserves. Your word is enough for us to—”
“It’s not me alone,” said Sally. “It’s not as if this were an isolated example of his immorality.”
“Meaning what?” Miller demanded. “Be free to tell us everything you know.”
Sally looked at the men around her. “You mean you don’t know about his mistress?”
Miller’s exhalation of amazement and pleasure became a whistle. “You know this for sure?” he bayed.
“Of course!” Sally exclaimed heatedly. “When I was leaving
him tonight, I told him to his face I wasn’t going to become another Wanda Gibson—being kept by him in some back street—well, you should have seen him. It stopped him in his tracks. He didn’t know anyone but the Spingers knew about it, but I know, and I’m positive Edna Foster knows.”
Senator Hankins stirred erect, some confusion on his wrinkled face. “What was the lady’s name again?”
“Wanda Gibson,” said Sally. “She’s a young nigger woman. Dilman had her living upstairs in his brownstone when he was—before he became President. She’s still there, and he went over there the night after he moved into the White House. In fact, he tried to bring her into the White House, invited her to the State Dinner for Amboko—I know, because I sent the invitation—but I guess she was afraid to show up. Anyway, this Wanda Gibson, she’s the one who called him today—she works for the Vaduz Exporters in a highly confidential job—she called him today to say they’d been found out—meaning the FBI found out her boss and company were a Communist Russian Front, and to warn him—”
Eaton stepped forward. “No need going into that now, Sally.”
“Hey, now, Arthur, one minute, now. Goldarn, this sounds like something big,” said Miller. He touched Sally’s knee. “Are you saying that the President of the United States, Nigra or not, the President of America has been living clandestinely with a Nigra female who’s working for the Soviet Russians?”
“That’s right.”
Miller had become transformed into a quivering hunting dog. “Hey, now, if those are the facts—”
“They are the facts,” said Sally fervently. She pointed to Talley. “He’s holding some more of the evidence on those cards, copied directly from a meeting Dilman had this afternoon with Mr. Scott. It’s all there.”
Miller turned to Talley, eyes gleaming. “True, Governor?”
Talley fanned the cards nervously. “Well—uh—in so far as Vaduz Exporters being a Red Front—yes—it’s been uncovered that they’ve been shipping arms to—to Soviet countries, who dispose of them mainly in Africa. And the President evidently has a woman friend who has been working in that firm, Miss Gibson—yes—but, of course, I’d have no knowledge about their relationship.”
Miller held his palms apart and then smacked them together vigorously. “Open-and-shut!” he announced. “You want treason, bribery, and high crimes, Arthur? Okay, what’s this? The President of this country consorting regularly with a lady friend who works for the Communists, talking bedroom talk, letting out secrets on purpose or inadvertently, on purpose to help his fellow niggers in Africa or inadvertently because he’s trading secrets for sex. If that’s not treason, what is? The President delaying prosecution of nigger extremists like the Turnerites in return for them not squealing about his son being a member, and then a pure white judge getting killed as a result. If that’s not bribery by blackmail, what is? High crimes and misdemeanors? Meaning loose morals, maladministration, intemperate habits? If the President’s fornicating with a mistress, trying to seduce his helpless white social secretary, added on to his record for drunkenness, if that doesn’t qualify him, what does? Arthur, it’s open-and-shut. The Nigra goes out, and you come in.”
For Eaton, it was rolling too fast now. He wanted time to think. “We’ll see,” he said quietly, “we’ll have to see.”
Talley stood up. “I’m afraid Dilman won’t give us much time, Arthur.” He indicated the index cards in his hand. “Miss Watson recorded most of the private meeting with Scott. Dilman knows everything. He knows for certain we withheld the report from CIA on Baraza. He knows what was in that report, because Scott was able to tell him. Dilman was apparently angry as hell, and ordered more agents and funds to be allotted to investigate the situation in Baraza. He told Scott to bypass us from now on and come straight to him. He said from now on he’s running the government, not letting us do it for him.” Talley massaged his jowls worriedly. “I tell you, Arthur, we’re in for trouble from that man.”
“What kind of trouble can he give us?” said Eaton testily. “Be realistic. What has he got on us now—considering what we’ve got on him? After tonight, that incident with Sally, he knows what he’s in for. He won’t lift his voice to us. He won’t dare say a word.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Talley.
“I know I’m right,” said Eaton.
He could see that Miller and Sally had been holding a whispered conversation, and that now Sally was trying to rise and Miller was assisting her. Eaton hastened to them, and took Sally’s other arm.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked solicitously.
“Arthur, Arthur,” she said, “I’m suddenly so sleepy. Did you give me something? I forget. Did you give me pills?”
“Yes, I wanted you to rest. I’ll take you into the library—”
Zeke Miller blocked them from leaving. “Only one thing, Arthur, and I’ve asked Miss Sally and she’s agreed, fully agreed. I’m notifying Casper Wine and his boys to come on the double right over here. I want to dictate everything Sally told us as it came straight from her lips. He’ll type it up as a legal affidavit, and then Miss Sally said we could waken her and she’d sign. She’s cooperating to the limit.”
“Whatever she wishes is agreeable to me,” said Eaton.
Sally was leaning heavily on his shoulder now, and Eaton’s arm encircled her as he began to lead her from the room.
He heard the telephone ringing—strange, at this improbable hour—and he waved at Talley to take it. Then he waited, propping Sally up, watching Talley on the telephone, unable to hear him. The call lasted no more than twenty seconds, and then Talley slowly hung up.
Eaton’s gaze stayed on Talley as he came from the telephone and approached them. Talley’s face was drawn and grave, a portrait of apprehension.
“Arthur,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “that was Edna Foster, from the White House. She’s just left the President. He ordered her to call you, to wake you if necessary. Dilman wants you in his office at nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. He wants to talk to you about an important and personal matter. She hit the personal matter. She hit the personal matter pretty hard.”
“I see.”
“I think this is it, Arthur. The fat’s in the fire. I think this is the showdown. He’s got the gun now.”
“So have we—now,” said Eaton grimly. “Only what we possess is not a gun but a howitzer.” He freed himself from Sally Watson, who was half asleep, and offered her limp arm to Talley. “Here, Wayne, you take her to the library, and see that she is comfortable. Treat her with care. She may be worth her weight in ammunition.”
He remained immobilized, deep in thought, until Talley had led Sally Watson out of the living room. Then Eaton turned and walked slowly to the couch, where both Zeke Miller and Bruce Hankins were busily scratching notes, one in an address book, the other on the back of an envelope.
Eaton stood over them until first Miller, then Senator Hankins, looked up inquiringly.
“Gentlemen,” Eaton said, “I have changed my mind. I don’t believe that I can stand by idly, as a neutral, any longer, and allow you and the Party to fight this man alone. I’m with you tonight, and all the way.”
Miller beamed, and his hand tugged at Hankins, who was also smiling happily. “By God!” Miller exclaimed. “I knew you’d see it right!”
“However, there is one thing I want both of you to understand,” Eaton went on. “If I fight Dilman, join with you in forcing his resignation, it is not because he is a Negro but because he is a fool.”
At one minute past nine o’clock the following morning, President Douglass Dilman stared through the rear windows of his Oval Office at the barren trees scattered across the south lawn, and at the cloudy, overcast November sky. He tried to equate his inner spleen with the threatening turbulence of the new day.
At last he swung his swivel chair back to the telephones, lifted one, and buzzed.
“All right, Miss Foster,” he said, “send him in.”
&nbs
p; He girded himself, and waited.
The door opened, closed, and Secretary of State Arthur Eaton entered, solemnly greeted him, and carefully arranged his topcoat and homburg across the back of the sofa. Dilman, who had not spoken yet, was satisfied that Eaton’s features were as severe as his own. But there, he suspected, their similarity of mood, as reflected in their countenances and carriage, ended. If Eaton was concerned, then the emotion was camouflaged by the pale, bloodless pallor of his aristocratic negotiator’s mask and his easy, elegant Saville Row attire. Dilman felt that his own emotion, that of persistent displeasure, showed in the rigid lines along his tired eyes and bitter mouth. After Sally Watson’s disgusting behavior last night, after his rereading of the Scott interview and his realization of what must be done, he had slept fitfully.
“You can sit there,” he said, pointing to the Revels chair across from the corner of his desk. “I won’t keep you long.”
Eaton took his seat, crossing his legs, extracting his silver cigarette case and silver holder. He offered the open case to Dilman, who ignored it, and then Eaton fixed his cigarette and lighted it. After exhaling the first puff, he said easily, “Since your message stated that you wished to see me on a personal matter, I did not bother to bring any of my papers.”
Dilman pulled himself closer to his desk and to the one so imperturbable before him.
“Eaton,” he said, “I want your resignation from my Cabinet and from the Department of State.”
To Eaton’s credit, Dilman observed, there was no surprise, no reaction whatsoever, in his expression. Not one muscle moved beneath his patrician visage. He considered the President coolly, then he considered the smoke curling from his cigarette, and then, at last, a thin smile appeared. “A rather inhospitable beginning for so early a morning,” he said. “Are you serious?”
“I want your resignation today,” Dilman repeated.
Eaton remained outwardly unruffled. “Don’t you think you owe me at least an explanation for this extraordinary request?”
(1964) The Man Page 63
