He would write a statement and tell the whole story in his own words. For days he had been writing and rewriting it in his head. The allegations were false, but if the examiners dug deep enough, there were other things.
The penthouse was much warmer than Caldwell’s office. Two bedrooms, two baths, a small kitchen and a large living room, with floor to ceiling windows that gave him an unrestricted view to the north, east and south. The apartment had been decorated by Tessie Caldwell, who knew her husband’s taste well. The furniture was strictly antique, the drapes yellow and white. Plants abounded, and against the wall between the bedroom doors was the only painting iii the room, a six-foot- high Jackson Pollock, its dizzying colours dominated by yellow. A secretary dating back to Daniel Webster stood near the sliding glass doors leading out to a wraparound balcony.
Caldwell was so engrossed in deep inner conflict that he did not see the visitors until the older one spoke: Hello, Johnny, you had us worried.’
The voice was soft, textured by the South but not of the South, a voice that Caldwell knew could be reassuring one minute and patronizing the next. It belonged to Senator Lyle Damerest, a grandfather of a figure with white hair that flowed down over the collar of his tweed jacket, a bow tie and a gnarled shillelagh to support a game leg from a slight and unpublicized stroke. He was the senior Senator from Virginia and the country’s ranking congressman in terms of longevity. For thirty-one years he had represented his state. He had been on two Cabinets, was head of the Armed Services Committee, and had more back-room power than any living legislator. He was consulted on major issues by Democrat and Republican alike. Nobody, not even the President, would risk scorning Darner-
The man with him was virtually nondescript: medium tall, medium heavy, blond, crew-cut hair, dark-gray Suit, no distinguishing features. He held a zip-open briefcase under one arm.
Ya needn’t worry. We took the private elevator. No one saw us come up,’ the senator said.
What the hell are you doing here?’ Caldwell asked.
1 was a hop and a skip away. Somebody heard you’d surfaced and called me.’
No, I mean what’re you doing in Boston?’
Been up here for the last two days. On the q.t., been stayin’ with friends. We’ve been worried about you.’
You said that. And who’s “we”? And who are you?’ He looked at the nondescript man.
This is Ralph Simpson. Federal marshal.’
How d’ya do, sir,’ Simpson said.
Caldwell nodded to him.
‘He’s got the subpoena,’ Damerest went on.
‘What subpoena?’
‘You’ve been subpoenaed to go in for questioning. No charges, yet. If they come, it’ll be the Fed. Violation of the government banking statutes. What I’m tellin’ ya, laddie, it can be avoided.’
‘Really?’
‘All your friends are behind you, Johnny. I’ve talked to the boys on the banking committee and to the federal judge here. I think the way this can be handled, the judge will recommend that the entire matter be investigated by the House committee. The whole thing will blow over. Ya just need to bite the bullet for now.’ The old man smiled, but his flinty eyes narrowed.
‘I don’t think so,’ Caldwell said.
‘Oh? And why not?’
‘I don’t intend to be a whipping boy.’
“‘Whipping boy” is it!’
‘That’s the way it feels.’
Damerest stood with his hands thrust deep in his pants pockets, his shoulders hunched up under his ears, leaning slightly toward Caldwell, as if about to make a point to the Ways and Means Committee. ‘Shit, son, you just got on the wrong side of the old farts on Wall Street. We can unruffle their feathers.’
‘The hell with ‘em. They been down on First Common since my grandfather ran the show.’
‘I know, son. Your father and I were classmates together. He footed the bill for my first campaign. I couldn’t of raised scratch feed without him.’
Caldwell had heard the stories many times since he was a kid. ‘The bastards were after him, now they’re after me. Besides, I didn’t always agree with Dad, you know that. I won’t put up with any heat right now. None of us can afford it.’
The old senator smiled, that warm, grandfather smile that hid the heart of a vulture. Caldwell had watched him smile his way out of more than one tight spot. Now the old bastard was using it on him. Easy,’ the senator said quietly. ‘They got your balls in the doorjamb for the moment.’
‘Bullshit. Why did it happen?’
‘It got by me.
Nothing gets by you, Lyle. Nothing this big.’
‘What can I say.’ The old man took out a red bandanna and wiped his forehead. ‘Good God, it’s hot in here. You always keep it like this?’
‘The housekeepers do that,’ Caldwell said. He slid open one of the glass partitions and a gust of cold air shook the drapes.
‘Ah, better,’ the senator said. ‘Look, just take a peek at the papers Mr Simpson brought along. It will be handled very quietly. You two can just go down to the Federal Building and...’
Simpson walked over to the antique secretary, opened his briefcase and reached inside.
‘And how about you, Lyle?’ Caldwell said.
‘Hardly appropriate, me goin’ along ‘with ya. I can do a lot more, stayin’ in the background.’
Simpson had both hands in the zip-open briefcase. He unscrewed the cap of a small bottle and tipped its contents into a large ball of cotton he held in his other hand.
Damerest said, ‘I talked to Tessie. She seems to be handling it all very well.’
Simpson took his hands out of the briefcase. The cotton ball was in one hand. He was directly behind Caldwell, who said, ‘She’s used to character assassination. They did everything but burn her father at the stake.’
Simpson stepped close to Caldwell, the hand with the cotton ball behind his back. The senator moved up close to Caldwell.
‘I was very reassurin’,’ he said.
He moved suddenly, wrapping his arms around Caldwell, pinning the banker’s arms to his sides and squeezing him sharply. Air rushed out of Caldwell’s nose and mouth.
‘What in hell—’ Caldwell gasped, but he never finished the sentence. Simpson jammed the cotton against Caldwell’s nose. As he gasped, the acrid odour of chloroform flooded through his head and dulled his brain. He began to thrash, to hold his breath.
The senator clutched him again, harder. Caldwell’s breath gushed out. He gasped again. His brain was paralysed, Damerest could feel him growing limp. He squeezed him again. Caldwell’s eyes bulged and stared over the cotton swab, like those of a terrified animal. Then they went crazy, crossing, uncrossing, finally rolling up under the lids. As Caldwell sagged, Simpson grabbed him around the waist, twisted him sideways and dragged him through the open door to the balcony.
IV
The show was three minutes old when the hot-line phone began flashing. Chuck Graves, the unflappable anchor man, was in the middle of the opening news segment. Eliza picked it up.
‘This is Sid down in the news room. We got a hot flash — Jonathan Caldwell just took a Brodie off the First Common Bank building. He’s all over Market Street. . . We got the Live
Action truck on the way.. . that’s all I know for now.’ The line went dead.
Liza sat like a statue with the phone frozen in her hand. She cradled the receiver quietly for a moment, then she slipped away from the set and ran out to the hallway, grabbed the hotline phone on the wall and dialled the editing room.
‘Is Eddie still there? It’s Eliza, tell him it’s important... Eddie, listen to me — Caldwell just jumped off the bank building... I know, I know... Is it on the chain? Can you get it back long enough to drop those two thirty-second segments back in?. . . Don’t worry, I’ll take full responsibility. . . Eddie, you’re a love...’ She hung up and returned to the set.
They finished two more segments and were into sports before the news room called back and confirmed that it was definitely Caldwell. She gave it to Graves, who made that announcement at the end of the sports segment but he had little else to go with.