Irving Wallace - The Man

From that moment on, the formal evening had been for him an embarrassment to be tolerated and a disaster to be survived. He could not now remember one dish he had eaten, or the sense of anything that Amboko had spoken about or what he had replied to Amboko.

Dipping his spoon into his dessert, an ice-cream mold of a miniature White House, he raised his head, one of the few times he had done so during the dinner, and quickly his eyes roved over the room. He had to be positive that he had not been oversensitive and mistaken, to be sure that the seats had not been filled in the interim. But there they were. Nothing had changed. More than forty were empty still.

His gaze crossed Nat Abrahams, then darted back and fastened upon his friend. Nat, adjusting his bow tie, lifted his fingers slightly toward him in a private communication of understanding and assurance. Dilman’s furtive gaze moved to Rose and Paul Spinger, and the empty seat next to them. That was disappointing too, but in a different way. Wanda had made her terms clear. She would come to the White House, not as his employee, not in the guise of some one else’s guest, but only as his own guest.

The Spingers, he remembered, had been the very last to arrive, Rose plainly distressed, her husband harried. The receiving line had already broken, and Dilman had begun to engage Amboko in diplomatic conversation once more, when he had seen the Spingers and excused himself to intercept them.

He had addressed Rose, searching past her. “Welcome, Rose. Where’s Wanda?”

“She refused, Doug. I scolded her, but-” Rose Spinger had shrugged. “She said you’d understand.”

The Reverend Spinger had joined them. Dilman had inspected the clergyman’s face, appraising it to see if he bore encouraging tidings, and at once he saw there was nothing to give him optimism.

“I received your message earlier, Paul,” Dilman had said. “You were still waiting for Hurley to return your call. I thought you’d be on your way to him by now. What happened?”

“I’d be on my way if there was some place to go,” Spinger had said unhappily. “I just hung up on Frank Valetti in Little Rock. It took a lot of-of wheedling and prying to find out he was there-and a half-dozen calls to get him to phone back.” Spinger had glanced around, to be certain that no one else was within hearing, and then he had gone on in an undertone. “I made it clear to Valetti that I was personally representing you, but he already knew that from radio and television reports. I told him I had to see Jefferson Hurley. I told him I would fly out and see Hurley anywhere, under any conditions. No use. Valetti insisted that Hurley was away on a trip, out of touch, and he did not expect to hear from him for at least two or three days.”

“What about Valetti himself?” Dilman had demanded. “Did you say you’d see him?”

“Yes-yes-I certainly did, Mr. President. I told him that since he was second-in-command of the Turnerite Group, perhaps he would do as well as Hurley. I told him I could be in Little Rock tonight to confer with him.” Spinger had paused, and shaken his head. “He was evasive and-and I’d say distrustful. He kept saying that no meeting with him would prove helpful. He kept saying only Hurley could speak for them, and Hurley was not available. I persisted that there were some questions that he could answer. He said flatly no, that he was in seclusion, that he didn’t want to be hounded and harassed by the press and Federal investigators, who’d only persecute him without good cause, and that my coming was sure to put everyone on his trail. Besides, he said, he was on the move, leaving the city. Well, I could see it was hopeless-”

Dilman, conscious of the time he was spending away from his honor guest, had quickly interjected, “Paul, did you get anything out of him?”

“There was nothing left to do but pose your inquiries to Valetti on the telephone. I told him you were deeply disturbed by the Hattiesburg kidnaping. I said that both you and the Attorney General wanted to be assured that the Turnerites had no part in that heinous crime, and that if they had not, it would do much for their cause if Hurley came forth and condemned such acts of violence. I reminded him that the Justice Department was investigating the Turnerites as well as other similar associations for possible Communist affiliations, and that they could forestall and thwart any repressive government action by voluntarily coming forward, opening their membership records and financial ledgers for the Justice Department. I implored him to cooperate. I begged him to get Jefferson Hurley to cooperate. I asked him if he would-” Spinger halted, swallowed, blinked down at his shoes.

“What did he say to that, Paul?”

“One word, Mr. President. A crude four-letter word. I am unable to repeat it. Then-then he hung up.”

Dilman had scowled. “That’s it?”

“That’s all of it, Mr. President. I’m afraid I failed you, but that’s the most I could do. They’re a mean, secretive bunch. One thing. Somewhere in our talk, toward the end, I did leave the door open. I told Valetti that he or Hurley could call me at any time, any hour, and reverse the charges, if they had a message for you.”

“They won’t call,” Dilman had said. “What do you make of it now? Do you think the Turnerites played any part in the abduction?”

“We don’t know a thing more than we knew this morning. Maybe yes, maybe no. As long as there is reasonable doubt, I don’t see how you can ban them.”

“I don’t either… Well, Tim Flannery is down in his office, waiting to put out some kind of statement. When you get a chance, slip out and call him on the Entrance Hall phone. Tell him what you reported to me, in substance, and tell him that I suggest a non-committal statement over my name. Something like-you have made contact with a high Turnerite official, conversations are proceeding-the Group admits no complicity in the Hattiesburg affair-mean while, the Federal Bureau of Investigation is being reinforced with additional manpower for its pursuit of the criminals. Have you got that, Paul?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Now I’d better return to Amboko. He’s being about as cooperative as Valetti. What an evening.”

He had remembered all of this earlier failure as he studied the Spingers across the State Dining Room. Absently, he finished his dessert. From his close friends his gaze went to the dazzling gilded chandelier with its flame-shaped electric bulbs, then down to the gay flower-filled centerpieces on the table, and at last to the empty Wedgwood plate on the white damask linen cloth in front of him.

He hoped that his face did not reflect his shame at the massive rebuke of the empty seats. He was still that kinky-haired, thick featured relative of the orangutan, one of Zeke Miller’s Nigras, barely a second-class citizen. He could not help but be conscious of the oil portrait above the white marble mantelpiece directly behind him. Healy’s Abraham Lincoln. Would anyone but himself, Kwame Amboko for instance, appreciate the irony of it?

He glanced at his guest and realized that Amboko had been squinting at him thoughtfully through his rimless spectacles.

“A marvelous meal,” Amboko said with his always startling Harvard accent. “I regret it is finished.”

“You must come back soon for another,” Dilman said. Then he added wryly, “I’ll invite you, if I’m still here.” Down the table he saw a napkin fluttering. It was Chief of Protocol Illingsworth, pretending to wipe his mouth but actually signaling to him that the dinner was ended and that there was one more formality before the champagne and entertainment.

One more formality-and then he remembered it. Quickly Dilman pushed back his chair and came to his feet. Immediately the clatter of ice-cream spoons and the hum of conversations ceased. All eyes in the half-filled room were upon him.