Irving Wallace - The Man

The doorbell chimes melodiously interrupted him. Puzzled, he looked at the clock over the fireplace. It showed ten minutes before midnight. The chimes played again, followed by the metallic hammering of the brass door knocker.

“Who can it be?” Talley wondered.

“I’ll see,” said Eaton. “Excuse me, gentlemen. The Governor will pour you one for the road.”

He left the living room, went into the high-ceilinged entry hall, and pulled open the door.

Sally Watson stood there, one hand clutching the doorframe. Eaton had never before seen her this way, in this condition, and for a moment he was taken aback.

“That’s right,” she said thickly, “it’s me, or whatever’s left of me, believe it or not.”

“My God, Sally, come in.”

He reached out and drew her into the hall, examining her with disbelief. Her blond hair was in disarray, and strands of it hung down over her eyes. Her mascara had run, and there were tear streaks along her cheeks. The bodice of her green cocktail gown was half on, half off, one strap torn loose, the front of the dress ripped, so that part of her brassière was in view.

She covered her bosom with the coat on her arm, and looked up at him. “Quit staring, Arthur. It’s not my fault. Blame him. He did it to me, the sonofabitch, blame him.”

“Who?”

“Who do you think?” she said angrily. She had worked the index cards out of her purse. “Here’s what you wanted. I promised you I’d get it, and I got it. I did that anyway. Lemme get cleaned up and I’ll tell you plenty, that filthy bastard.”

She started toward the living room, lurched off balance, and Eaton quickly grabbed her elbow. Then, taking the coat from her, he led her swiftly into the living room. With her appearance, Zeke Miller, who had just sat down, immediately leaped back on his feet, and Bruce Hankins rose with a grunt. They greeted her with courteous surprise, but Sally did not reply, only stared at them as she wobbled past.

“Miss Watson’s been in some trouble,” Eaton explained. “I want her to lie down. Be right with you.”

Talley had wheeled around at the bar, and his eyes followed Sally with incredulity. “What the devil happened?” he wanted to know.

“Your goddam drunk President,” she said viciously. “He did it-he thought I was like all the rest of his chippies!”

Eaton’s expression was pained. “Please, Sally.” He shoved the index cards at Talley. “Here. The notes on Dilman’s CIA meeting with Scott. Better read them.” He hustled Sally out of the living room, but not before he heard Zeke Miller shout, “Hey! Wait a sec-what was that she was saying?”

With difficulty, trying to steady her, Eaton hurried Sally through the corridor. He knew that she could not make the stairway to the upper bedrooms. Instead, he guided her into the book-lined library, one hand supporting her, the other slamming the door behind him.

“There’s the bathroom,” he said.

“I changed my mind,” she said.

He studied her face and could see she was not only intoxicated but on the verge of hysteria. He forced her to the sofa. “Then lie down for a moment.”

She sat on the sofa, and dropped her face into her hands. “I don’t want to lie down. I want to kill that bastard.”

“I think you need something to settle your nerves,” said Eaton anxiously. He rushed into the bathroom, turned on the light, and hunted for Kay’s tranquilizers. He found the container, spilled out two, prepared a glass of water, and returned to Sally. “Take both of them.”

She obeyed him.

“Good,” he said, “now the water.”

She took one swallow, made a show of distaste, and pushed the tumbler back at him. “I’ve had enough to drink.”

Eaton set the glass aside, knelt before her, and considered her. “Do you think you need a doctor?”

“What can a doctor do for me? It’s all inside, what he did, humiliating me like one of his whores. If anybody knew-” She beat her fist helplessly on the sofa cushion.

Eaton rose and sat on the corner of the coffee table. “When you-you feel ready to speak of this, Sally, I’d like to hear what-”

“I’m ready now.”

“Whenever you say.”

“I was trying to figure out how to help you,” she said excitedly, “and then I got the chance, because he invited me to his bedroom again-”

“Who? Dilman?”

“Not Calvin Coolidge, you bet. Of course, Dilman.”

“What do you mean-he invited you again? ”

“Jesus, Arthur, I can’t always bring myself to tell you everything. He’s had a lech for me, and at least three times before he’s invited me to his bedroom in the evening, to go over social affairs, so he says-ha, social affairs. I always got out of it. But tonight, when he whispered it again, to meet him about some plans after the guests had gone, I saw a chance to help you, and I agreed. I went to his bedroom a little early, and the transcript of the meeting he had with Scott today was lying open, so I just read it, you know. Made those exact notes on the cards. You’re lucky to have it-”

He found her hands. “Sally, darling, I am grateful, but I’m worried-”

She withdrew her hands, and brushed the hair from her eyes. “Well, about ten he came in-everyone had gone-and I could see he was plastered, drunk as a lord. I wanted to leave, but he insisted on business talk, and hell, you can’t insult the President, I mean-how? He kept insisting I drink with him. What could I do? He must’ve poured me a triple, and himself, too, because I got real tipsy, and him, you should have seen him.”

She kept shaking her head angrily, and Eaton said, “What does that mean, Sally?”

“I can’t give you the details, it’s too embarrassing, considering his position. But I guess those politicians are only human, like Harding and Nan Britton in the White House closet, but who’d expect this from a weaseling, hymn-singing black nigger who’s lucky he’s alive, let alone President? Sure, he came after me, and I fought him, weak as I was, and he even got me on the bed, desecrated that bed, tried to rip off my dress-look at it-but I got away-oh, we had a scene, what a scene-”

“Sally-Sally-wait a minute. Are you saying Dilman got you drunk and then-”

“You’re damn right that’s what I’m saying.”

“But-Sally-there was a dinner party there tonight. Surely you had something to drink on your own first?”

She was silent for a moment, staring at him warily. “Suppose I did? Who doesn’t have one or two before dinner?”

“Did you have any more after dinner?”

“What do you mean, Arthur?” she said. “I told you-with him-he forced me-”

“Yes, of course. I meant, after you got away from him. If you saw him at ten-and let’s say you left him an hour later-that still leaves almost an hour unaccounted for and I was wondering-”

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!”