realized how great the stakes were for everyone involved. The world was about to be turned upside down in a way never seen before. “One must serve oneself.” She kissed Tim on the cheek and said good night.
Would things now become as bad as they had been when John Hayand the other one—Nicholas? Nicolay?—slept in this room, wearied with news of bloody defeats at the South, disturbed in their sleep by the cries of Abraham Lincoln, as he dreamed his terrible dreams just down the hall? Caroline took a sleeping pill to ward off the ghosts of ancient nightmares, not to mention premonitory whispers of those as yet undreamed.
3
“Third table on the left. I’m bald.” The voice on the telephone had a strong New York City accent. Tim entered the Mayflower’s Presidential Room, where breakfast was served to all sorts of visitors to the city as well as to important residents, doing business. At the third table to the left, a thickset half-bald man with narrow eyes was seated beside a familiar-looking thin man whose gray hair was thinning in contrast to his moustache, which bristled like that of a British colonel in a film.
“Mr. Cuneo?” Tim approached the table. Both men stood. Cuneo introduced Tim to the moustache, which belonged to the journalist Drew Pearson, who shook Tim’s hand rather absently while giving him a very sharp look indeed; the contrast between handshake and scrutiny was oddly disconcerting.
“I’m on my way, Mr. Farrell,” said Pearson. “Looking forward to that documentary. When are you releasing it?”
“June, MGM says.”
“Wish it were sooner. All hell’s going to break loose long before that.” Pearson made his wary way across the room. Tim usually read Pearson’s syndicated muck-raking political column “Washington Merry-Go-Round,” co-authored with someone called Allen.
“Sit down, Mr. Farrell.” Cuneo’s smile was amused and amusing.
“I like Pearson.”
“Do you? He’ll take a lot of convincing that you really do. He’s more used to being hated. Look at him dodging around that tablebecause Senator McKellar is sitting there. Drew’s afraid he’ll get bit. And McKellar’s rabid on the subject of Drew. A lot of people are.”
“Right-wing people, anyway.” Tim was not sure how best to play Ernest Cuneo. After three months of asking questions, he had come to think of Cuneo as somehow the center of everything; certainly he kept cropping up in the oddest places. Originally a legal adviser to Mayor La Guardia of New York, he had joined the White House as special legal counselor to the President. He was also involved, somehow, with British intelligence and the American interventionists. He was said to be close to J. Edgar Hoover of the FBI, also to the country’s other powerful journalist, Walter Winchell.
“I’m Drew’s legal adviser.” Cuneo ordered chipped beef on toast; inspired by Mrs. Nesbitt’s cuisine, Tim did the same. “ ‘Adviser’ is a safer word than ‘lawyer.’ ” Cuneo chuckled. “Drew is sued for libel about once a week, and now that he’s on radio he’s sued for slander, too. The lawsuits never stop. Luckily, he loves a fight, good Quaker that he is. I give him advice on how to win the suits. I also tend to pick up odds and ends of information that are useful to people. I saved Drew from that General … I have a block about his name. The pompous ass—you know; the chief of staff who attacked the bonus veterans …”
“Douglas MacArthur.”
“The same. Drew went after him. MacArthur filed suit. We discovered that he had this Eurasian mistress out in Manila. We told him we’d go public. End of suit. Was I on the list?”
The transition was so quick that Tim almost missed it. “List?”
“Mrs. Roosevelt’s. People to talk to. ‘Subtle’ people.” Cuneo waved to the large John Foster in the middle distance.
“No. You weren’t.” Had Caroline talked to Cuneo? If she had, how did she know him? Through all of this Tim
Would things now become as bad as they had been when John Hayand the other one—Nicholas? Nicolay?—slept in this room, wearied with news of bloody defeats at the South, disturbed in their sleep by the cries of Abraham Lincoln, as he dreamed his terrible dreams just down the hall? Caroline took a sleeping pill to ward off the ghosts of ancient nightmares, not to mention premonitory whispers of those as yet undreamed.
3
“Third table on the left. I’m bald.” The voice on the telephone had a strong New York City accent. Tim entered the Mayflower’s Presidential Room, where breakfast was served to all sorts of visitors to the city as well as to important residents, doing business. At the third table to the left, a thickset half-bald man with narrow eyes was seated beside a familiar-looking thin man whose gray hair was thinning in contrast to his moustache, which bristled like that of a British colonel in a film.
“Mr. Cuneo?” Tim approached the table. Both men stood. Cuneo introduced Tim to the moustache, which belonged to the journalist Drew Pearson, who shook Tim’s hand rather absently while giving him a very sharp look indeed; the contrast between handshake and scrutiny was oddly disconcerting.
“I’m on my way, Mr. Farrell,” said Pearson. “Looking forward to that documentary. When are you releasing it?”
“June, MGM says.”
“Wish it were sooner. All hell’s going to break loose long before that.” Pearson made his wary way across the room. Tim usually read Pearson’s syndicated muck-raking political column “Washington Merry-Go-Round,” co-authored with someone called Allen.
“Sit down, Mr. Farrell.” Cuneo’s smile was amused and amusing.
“I like Pearson.”
“Do you? He’ll take a lot of convincing that you really do. He’s more used to being hated. Look at him dodging around that tablebecause Senator McKellar is sitting there. Drew’s afraid he’ll get bit. And McKellar’s rabid on the subject of Drew. A lot of people are.”
“Right-wing people, anyway.” Tim was not sure how best to play Ernest Cuneo. After three months of asking questions, he had come to think of Cuneo as somehow the center of everything; certainly he kept cropping up in the oddest places. Originally a legal adviser to Mayor La Guardia of New York, he had joined the White House as special legal counselor to the President. He was also involved, somehow, with British intelligence and the American interventionists. He was said to be close to J. Edgar Hoover of the FBI, also to the country’s other powerful journalist, Walter Winchell.
“I’m Drew’s legal adviser.” Cuneo ordered chipped beef on toast; inspired by Mrs. Nesbitt’s cuisine, Tim did the same. “ ‘Adviser’ is a safer word than ‘lawyer.’ ” Cuneo chuckled. “Drew is sued for libel about once a week, and now that he’s on radio he’s sued for slander, too. The lawsuits never stop. Luckily, he loves a fight, good Quaker that he is. I give him advice on how to win the suits. I also tend to pick up odds and ends of information that are useful to people. I saved Drew from that General … I have a block about his name. The pompous ass—you know; the chief of staff who attacked the bonus veterans …”
“Douglas MacArthur.”
“The same. Drew went after him. MacArthur filed suit. We discovered that he had this Eurasian mistress out in Manila. We told him we’d go public. End of suit. Was I on the list?”
The transition was so quick that Tim almost missed it. “List?”
“Mrs. Roosevelt’s. People to talk to. ‘Subtle’ people.” Cuneo waved to the large John Foster in the middle distance.
“No. You weren’t.” Had Caroline talked to Cuneo? If she had, how did she know him? Through all of this Tim
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