Dilman stared at Kemmler. “You still haven’t proved that the Turnerites are being financed with Communist funds.”
“We have a dossier a mile high on Valetti, Mr. President. Here’s an unskilled man, whose education ended with grammar school, banking a fantastic yearly income. From whom? From registered Communists, that’s who. And no sooner does Valetti deposit this money than out it goes in big cash lumps. Where does it go? Do I have to spell it out? Our file is wide-open to you.”
Dilman gripped the arms of his big green chair and heaved himself to his feet. He studied Kemmler a moment, and then left his desk, circling the office. He knew that the three of them were watching him, waiting for him to speak. He tried to think. Desperately he tried to sublimate his feelings as a Negro and coolly judge what he had heard and what was wanted from him, by applying his critical faculty as a onetime practicing attorney-at-law.
At last he faced them, “Gentlemen, this much I know now-I don’t intend to do anything rash, anything I’ll regret later. Ever since the stronger Subversive Activities Control Act has been in effect, there have been five hundred specific organizations posted for public notice on the Justice Department’s questionable list. To my knowledge, not one has ever been prosecuted and disbanded under the act. Is that correct?”
“Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean-” Kemmler began.
“It doesn’t mean such banning can’t be done or shouldn’t be done,” said Dilman. “When the safety of the country is at stake, and the enemy within is proved guilty, it will be done. I remind you, Mr. Attorney General, I’ve got a law degree, as you have, and I tell you I am not satisfied that we possess sufficient evidence to invoke the Subversive Control Act now against the Turnerites. Until I know beyond a shadow of doubt that Hurley and the Turnerites, as a group, are responsible for that kidnaping of Gage, and until I am certain that they are Communist-financed, I cannot restrict, ban, or dissolve them.”
Kemmler was unable to conceal his dismay. “But, Mr. President-you’ve got to do something.”
Dilman had started for his desk. “I intend to. I want to satisfy myself on one question. And then I will do something.”
He dialed Edna Foster, and requested her to put through a call to the Reverend Paul Spinger at the Crispus Society Building. Standing, telephone in hand, he suggested that the others make themselves comfortable. Talley and Flannery retreated to the sofas, but Clay Kemmler refused to sit. He went to the French doors and glumly looked out at the south lawn.
In less than a minute, the Reverend Spinger’s concerned voice greeted Dilman.
“Reverend,” Dilman said into the mouthpiece, “have you heard what’s happened down in Hattiesburg?”
“Yes, Mr. President, it’s dreadful. Those irresponsible and ornery gangsters couldn’t have done a greater disservice to our cause.”
“I agree with you, Reverend. Now I’ll tell you why I’m calling. I have here in the office with me the Attorney General, as well as Governor Talley, and Mr. Flannery. We’ve been discussing the abduction, and the possible repercussions it will have. We must be prepared to act. Reverend, do you consider the kidnaping as something done by an isolated bunch of hotheads or as something instigated by Hurley and his Turnerites?”
“Mr. President, I can’t say. Certainly we have no information here, one way or the other.”
“All right, you don’t know.” Dilman looked over his shoulder at Kemmler, whose back was still to him. “Reverend Spinger, we’ve touched upon this matter many times, but I have never put the question directly to you. Now I am going to do so, and do so officially.” He could see Kemmler turning to catch every word. Dilman concentrated on the telephone. “Since many Crispus Society members left you to form the Turnerites, it is imperative that we know what ties you have, if any, with the Turnerites. I must-”
“None, Doug, you know that.” Dilman could detect the fervent emotion in Spinger’s voice, as the clergyman went on. “We disapprove of Hurley, his threats, his inciting activities, just as he and his group disapprove of us, of our adherence to legal procedure, our qualified support of the Minorities Rehabilitation Program, our-”
“Then, Reverend, you disavow any ties with the Turnerites. Two final questions. Has your organization now, or at any time, by any means, ever financed the Turnerites?”
“The answer, Doug, is an unequivocal no. Not now, not before, never.”
“Never. Very well. Then the second question. Do you have any information as to who is financing Hurley’s group?”
“I have no factual information, Mr. President,” replied Spinger, more controlled. “There’s been some hearsay-you know, Valetti, the-”
“I’m not interested in hearsay, Reverend.” He paused, then asked, “Have you ever met Jefferson Hurley? Do you know him?”
“I’ve appeared on several speaking platforms with him, at one or two rallies, on a television show once, that’s the extent of it.”
“Does he have a fairly high regard for you, Reverend?”
Spinger grunted. “He thinks I’m a doddering and reactionary has-been who ought to have been interred long ago.”
“I see,” Dilman said. “Would Hurley speak to you if you requested a meeting?”
“I don’t know why not… yes, I think he would.”
“Very well, Reverend Spinger, I’ll tell you what we’re up to, here. When the news of the kidnaping gets out today, we expect an uproar, and considerable unrest and agitation. Based on some evidence in the hands of the Justice Department, I have been asked to outlaw the Turnerites-”
“Doug, don’t do it, don’t do it unless you are positive,” Spinger pleaded with passion. “You have no idea how this might affect the Negro community. It might give the impression that you’re in the hands of vindictive whites, that you’ve been whitewashed, so to speak. It would create a terrible reaction against you, your administration, and, worse, create automatic sympathy for Hurley and his Turnerites. Our people might look upon them as the persecuted underdogs, identify with them in a way they have not done up to now. Our people might begin to equate the Crispus Society with any repressive government action, and pull out on us, and-”
“Wait, Reverend, I haven’t said I’m ready to disband the Turnerites. I’ve only said it is under consideration, until I have the facts, all the facts. You have as great a stake in ferreting out the truth as I have. I want you to do something for me, if you can.”
“Anything, Mr. President. Whatever you say.”
Dilman measured his words carefully. “Reverend Spinger, I am appointing you my official representative, the President’s intermediary, to meet with Jefferson Hurley for a discussion of this whole affair.” As he spoke, Dilman’s eyes shifted from Kemmler’s reaction of disgust, to Talley’s expression of bewilderment, to Flannery’s show of approval. He drew the mouthpiece closer to his lips. “Reverend, I want you to locate Hurley, and converse with him by phone, if you can’t in person. I want you to find out, as best you can, whether the Turnerites are behind this crime or not. If he denies any part of the crime, as he has done already, I want you to tell him exactly what the Justice Department is considering doing. And I want you to tell him that if he wants to prove himself clean, and keep his organization intact, he must publicly condemn the Hattiesburg crime, and come forward to open his financial records for your eyes. If he will do this, I can promise him I will not enforce the Subversive Activities Control Act. If he refuses, I will promise nothing. Are you prepared to undertake the assignment, Reverend Spinger?”
“I am, Mr. President. When should I begin?”
“You begin this minute, and report your findings to me directly. Good luck, Reverend.”
After he had hung up, he remained still, knowing the others were gathering before his desk.
Dilman lifted his head. “That’s it for now, gentlemen.”
Kemmler was doing a poor job of containing his displeasure. “You’re making a mistake, Mr. President.”
“You migh
t be right,” said Dilman. “I think it would be a greater mistake to act in haste.”
Talley had sidled up alongside Kemmler. “Mr. President, I’m still inclined to agree with the Attorney General. Reconsider, please. The appointment of Spinger only delays the inevitable. It may make the administration appear weak and vacillating and-and even encourage more lawbreaking and violence-I mean, giving the Hurleys encouragement to go on and commit more crimes because we’re reluctant to do anything but talk.”
“I’ll have to take the gamble, Governor.” He looked at Kemmler, who was still seething. “Give Spinger twenty-four hours,” Dilman said in a conciliatory voice.
“Then give me twenty-four hundred more FBI agents,” Kemmler snapped. “Okay, you do it your way, Mr. President. I’ll be in my office, sitting on my hands. The responsibility for whatever this leads to is in yours.”
Dilman suffered a sudden ache of abandonment and a sinking heart, as he watched the Attorney General stalk out of the Oval Office.
As he lowered himself into his swivel chair, he met Tim Flannery’s questioning eyes. Dilman’s fingers touched the loose-leaf folder. “I guess some revisions are in order for the press conference, Tim. What are they going to ask me now-and what am I supposed to say?”
After drawing up to the curb in his rented Ford, a block from the Capitol, Nat Abrahams kissed his wife, reminded her where to pick him up and when, and then relinquished the wheel of the car to her. He waited until she had safely driven off, then he walked to the stairs of the Capitol and slowly mounted them.
While he knew it troubled Sue that they had already been in Washington a month, and he missed the children as much as she did, he found that he was neither annoyed nor impatient over their protracted visit. More than ever, Washington was stimulating. The fact that he and Sue had enjoyed the opportunity to dine in the White House three times since his private reunion with Doug Dilman had made his stay doubly interesting. Of course, if his negotiations with Gorden Oliver continued at this snail’s pace, he had promised Sue that she could go back to Chicago and the children this week. He was positive he would not be much behind her.
The half-dozen meetings with Gorden Oliver had been profitable. What had caused the delay was the fact that Oliver did not possess final authority to approve of Abrahams’ demands and revisions. Whenever a contractual clause came under discussion, and Abrahams requested improvement of it, or clarification, Oliver would promise an immediate answer and then disappear for several days. It was clear to Abrahams that Oliver was consulting not only with the Eagles Industries Corporation crowd in Washington, but with Avery Emmich in Atlanta. Abrahams suspected that Oliver had even flown off to Eagles’ main headquarters to meet with Emmich once or twice. Then Abrahams had read that Emmich had been out of the country last week, and that had explained the most recent delay. Despite this, Abrahams felt that his last meeting with Oliver might have concluded the preliminary give and take. He expected that the next time he saw Oliver, there would be copies of the contract ready for his approval. Then he would be able to take Sue home and help her wind up their affairs, before moving the family to Washington. In fact, he had encouraged Sue to occupy herself by looking for a roomy brownstone to lease in the city.
It was not Oliver’s telephone call last night that had surprised him, but rather the fact that Oliver wanted to see him about a matter other than the contract.
“The contract is routine now, Nat,” Gorden Oliver had said. “It’s at the home office for final review and retyping. It should be here any day. You can assume you are now a representative of Eagles Industries. No, what I want to see you about, Nat, is not the contract-I’m as sick of it as you are, old boy-but something pertaining to your first duties here in Washington. I’ll go into it when I see you tomorrow. Why don’t you meet me in the private Speaker’s Lobby of the House at noon? I’ll leave your name with the Capitol police.” Abrahams had accepted the invitation.
Now he found himself, as he had so many times in the years past but for the first time on this trip, standing before the elevator beneath the Capitol. When it arrived, he followed a woman and two men into it. In seconds, he was upstairs. He went past the sign members only to the swinging doors leading into the Speaker’s Lobby, gave his name to the uniformed policeman, and was admitted. He reflected briefly on the power of a lobbyist like Oliver, who was able to get his friends and associates past that excluding sign so easily.
The long lobby, with its rich red carpet, contained only a few visitors studying the Department of Commerce weather map and the framed portraits on the walls of former Speakers of the House, the one of MacPherson still draped in black. None of the visitors was Gorden Oliver.
Puzzled, Abrahams turned left and entered the Members’ Reading Rooms that ran parallel with the lobby. He saw a group huddled beneath the globular light fixtures, once picturesque gas jets, near the teletype machine. Gorden Oliver was not among them. Abrahams inspected several members standing before the library stands of newspapers, reading the front pages. For a moment Abrahams was diverted. These newspaper stands fascinated him. There was an individual rack for each state of the fifty in the Union, and every day upon these racks were hung the newspapers from the leading cities in that state. Abrahams paused before the stand with the sign MISS. above it. Tilting his head, he cast his eyes down the file of dangling newspapers from Greenville, Columbus, Vicksburg, Meridian, Natchez, Hattiesburg, Biloxi. The majority of the headlines were several days old, and were devoted to Judge Gage’s sentencing of the Turnerite demonstrators, or to the debate of the Minorities Rehabilitation Program Bill in the House, or to the announcement of Dilman’s first State Dinner to entertain a fellow black man from Africa. Before many days the rack would carry the dated headlines screaming of Judge Gage’s abduction by Negro terrorists, and segregationists’ vows of retaliation, which Washington newspapers had carried only an hour before.
Nat Abrahams continued through the Members’ Reading Rooms, but nowhere was Gorden Oliver to be seen. He realized that a burly, blue-coated Capitol policeman was observing him. He went over to the policeman. “I’m Mr. Abrahams,” he said. “I was to meet Mr. Gorden Oliver here. Have you seen him around?”
“Oliver? Is he the columnist-?”
“No, he’s-”
“I’m new on the force,” the policeman apologized. “Let me check with someone else.”
As the officer left for the lobby, Abrahams thought that he heard a familiar voice. Even as he pivoted, he recognized it was Doug Dilman’s voice, low and strained, competing with the hum of a television set. The small set was on a reading table, and several representatives had pulled up chairs and were watching and listening. Nat Abrahams came up behind them, to see how his friend was faring in his first press conference.
The picture projected on the screen, momentarily wavy, showed President Dilman seated at the mahogany Cabinet table, flanked by Flannery and Governor Talley. He had reached the last page of his prepared speech, and was reading the final news announcement: that he deplored the kidnaping of Judge Gage, that the FBI was on the trail of the terrorists, that there was no information yet as to whether the abduction was the work of individuals or an organization, that he had already appointed the Reverend Paul Spinger, head of the Crispus Society, as the President’s personal representative, and that Spinger was to investigate the possible participation of any extremist organization in the crime, and to sort fact from rumor.
As the camera pulled back for a full shot, the battery of microphones before President Dilman was revealed, and then the forty to fifty journalists with their pencils and note pads pressed around the far side of the table, and the still photographers taking their pictures.
Dilman put down his prepared statement and looked up tightly. The distortion of the television screen made his Negroid features seem broader and blacker than they were.
Dilman said, in almost a whisper, “That completes the news announcements, gentlemen. Do you have any questions? Hold
up your hands, and Mr. Flannery will recognize you in order.”
Like marionettes’ limbs jerked by strings, at least a dozen arms shot up and a dozen hands beckoned for recognition. Flannery acknowledged each with a nod, and scrawled the name of each on a sheet before him. Finishing his jotting, Flannery called out, “Mr. Blaser, of the Washington Citizen-American and Miller Newspaper Association.”
Nat Abrahams searched the mass of reporters on the television screen, and then could make out a short, stocky middle-aged man with a high pompadour and an unattractive carbuncle of a face-“I don’t mind most of those reporters,” Dilman had told Abrahams at their last dinner, “but that Reb Blaser is like a toad in a flower bed.” Blaser was elbowing through the crowd of reporters to get closer to the table.
“Mr. President,” Blaser began, his wheedling, oiled tongue seeking to cover his renowned cantankerous, liverish manner, “about your announcement of that dastardly Turnerite kidnaping in Mississippi-”
To Abrahams’ surprise, Dilman leaned forward and interrupted. “Mr. Blaser, I did not announce that the kidnaping was done by any organization. I believe I made that point clear. We can make no accusations until our investigation is completed.”
Blaser was smiling regretfully. “I beg your pardon, Mr. President. I assume-you see, our papers have information that the act was performed by a parcel of Turnerites-”
The Man Page 36
