“Elizabeth’s gone out. For the day.”
“Well, then I’d better be—”
“No. No. Do sit down. She’ll be back any minute. I mean, she …”
Jess was overwhelmed. Not even Roxy had ever done so much acting on his behalf as Nan and W.G. himself were doing. As Jess crossed to the door, W.G. said, “I think they’re all over at the Congress Hotel, at our headquarters. In the Florentine Room. Same room,” he turned politely to Nan, “as Theodore Roosevelt used back in 1912.”
Jess said good-by to the lovers, who ignored him.
The Florentine Room was a marvel of dark carved wood and gold-embossed leather and heavy metal chandeliers. Portraits of Harding hung on every wall, while refectory tables were covered with literature, buttons, straw hats. A dozen volunteers supervised the display, while Daugherty and the Duchess stood to one side of the main door, as if to protect themselves from a sudden horde of fans.
“Where’s Warren?” was the Duchess’s first question.
“I think he’s in your suite at the La Salle. I’ve been over to the Coliseum.” Jess had indeed visited the hall where the convention would take place, and he was much impressed by the latest acoustical sounding-boards at the back. “I also saw the suite you took in the Auditorium Hotel.” He turned to Daugherty, anything to avoid the Duchess’s hard blue stare. “Everything’s set up there. What about here?”
“We’ve got forty rooms here,” said the Duchess, “that’s seven hundred and fifty dollars a day for ten days. Daugherty’s spending money like it was water …”
“What else is it for now? We spend, and we elect …”
They were joined by George Christian, a hometown boy whom Harding had taken for a secretary. He was a dark intense capable young man of an old Marion family. “Well, we’ve got our people in every hotel where there’s a delegation. All information on every delegate is kept up to date here at headquarters. We’ve got five hundred full-time organizers, and by next Friday we expect to have close to two thousand. We’re just being real low-key, and cheery, and we sure hope you’ll remember the Senator if there’s a problem …”
At this moment the sound of male voices singing in unison drifted in from the lobby.
“My God,” said the Duchess, “what’s that?”
“You’re tone-deaf, Duchess,” said Daugherty. “That’s the Republican Glee Club of Columbus. Every day this time they’re going to sing their hearts out here on the mezzanine, all seventy-five of them. Now they’re greeting …” Daugherty listened a moment and they all heard the mournfully sung phrase “Wabash far away.” “… the Indiana delegation. Then, in the evenings, they’re going around to all the hotels, where they’ll serenade all the other candidates, building up good will.”
“Trine of the moon,” muttered the Duchess to herself. Then she said, aloud, “They say the price for Southern delegates is now five thousand dollars a head.”
“That’s for the ones on sale,” Daugherty confirmed. “The committed come higher.”
The chairman of the Republican National Committee entered the Florentine Room, followed by various members of the press. Will Hays was very young and, to Jess’s critical eye, very ugly, with ears that stuck out, a pointed nose, no chin, and a somewhat mouse-like squeaking voice with a strong Indiana accent. He was supposedly neutral but everyone knew that he inclined to himself as the dark horse: he was a pet of the Senate cabal. “Somebody said the Senator was here.” When Hays saw the Duchess, he gave her a rodentine smile and shook her hand. “Mrs. Harding, you tell the Senator anything we can do we’ll do. The Credentials Committee is here in the hotel, in the annex, and if there’s any hitch, we’re rarin’ to go.”
“I’ll tell him, Mr. Hays.”
“How’re the Southerners?” asked Daugherty.
Hays rolled his eyes most comically; and retreated. Jess stared at the poster of Warren Gamaliel Harding on the wall opposite him and wondered what would happen if the world knew that the noble-headed Roman senator was at present in bed with Nan Britton on the other side of Chicago.
2
The week was, for Jess Smith, one of perfect confusion. He was sent on numerous errands, often with envelopes of money for Southern delegates. W.G. held forth in the Florentine Room; he seldom smiled. Daugherty commanded his two thousand troops with great precision but to what end no one could say. Wood and Lowden were still the principal candidates and Harding was just one of a dozen horses, ranging from shadowy to Stygian darkness. Worst of all, a decision had to be made by Friday night whether or not he would file for re-election to the Senate. If he did not file before midnight, he would be unavailable for re-election. If he did file, he would, in effect, be declaring that he did not expect to be nominated for president. All week he had wanted to file for the Senate, while the Duchess was still under Madame Marcia’s spell. Now, Friday, the day of the ballotting, she was urging him to file for the Senate while he was suddenly enigmatic.
Jess sat for a time in the gallery, with a palmetto fan which not only did not cool him when he used it but made him all the hotter for the energy he was expending. Everyone was in shirt sleeves. Below him, the state delegations were talking to one another so loudly that no one could hear the speakers who appeared, one by one, on the flying bridge, as it was called. Here they were requested by a large sign to stand inside a white circle so that the curved sounding-board behind them, in conjunction with a complicated bit of telephone equipment, could make any speaker audible to the thirteen thousand people in the auditorium. But no sound system could compete with the chatter of the delegates as they clustered about their state banners.
Suddenly there was a hush in the auditorium as the convention’s chairman, Henry Cabot Lodge, old and waxen-looking, appeared on the flying bridge. He stood a moment looking out over the sweltering hall. At five o’clock in the afternoon, it must have been over a hundred degrees inside, thought Jess. But Lodge looked cool, and the voice was cool. “We shall begin,” said Lodge, “to ballot the states.”
There was a general sigh of relief and some applause. Jess got out his pad of paper and pencil. One by one, in alphabetical order, the states were named, and each state’s spokesman answered with the state’s vote. There were ten candidates. Some were native sons like Nicholas Murray Butler of New York and the governor of Massachusetts, Calvin Coolidge, filling in until the state’s delegation could make a deal with the winner; others, like Herbert Hoover, were supported by disinterested enthusiasts. In fact, Hoover would have been the whole country’s choice if the people could express a preference. As it was, the irrelevant galleries were filled with Hoover enthusiasts while the relevant floor was not.
It was clear that neither Wood nor Lowden was about to yield. Wood ended the ballot with 287½ votes, Lowden with 211½. Johnson had 133½ votes and Harding 65½, 3½ votes fewer than New York’s Professor Butler. When the vote was complete, Jess hurried from the auditorium to the Harding suite in the Auditorium Hotel. Daugherty himself let him in. Harding was stretched out on a sofa, a bottle of whisky and two glasses near to hand. He looked exhausted. Since he had not shaved that day, he looked pale as a ghost. George Christian was on the telephone. The Duchess was nowhere in sight.
“I guess I’d better file for the Senate.” Harding spoke to himself as much as anyone.
Daugherty said, “You’ve got till midnight. Let’s pray nobody finds out, because this thing isn’t going to break our way today or maybe even tomorrow.”
Harding poured himself a shot of whisky. The hand, Jess noticed, was steady. Christian put down the phone. “Well, the senators are going into action. They’ve united to stop Wood.”
“How?” Daugherty had picked up a second telephone.
“They’re putting the pressure on the favorite sons to go for Lowden.”
“You can’t have more’n one vice president.” Daugherty was sour. Then he spoke into the telephone; and his voice was low and warm. “Might I, please, speak to Senator Penrose: this is Ha
rry Daugherty in Chicago.” The answer was a brisk negative. “Thank you very much, anyway,” said Daugherty and put down the receiver.
“Penrose is home, dying,” said Christian.
“Well, while he’s busy dying, he’s got a special line to the Pennsylvania delegation. And he’s been using it. One word from him …” An aide put his head inside the door. “Senator Fall would like to speak to Senator Harding.”
Harding leapt to his feet, straightened his clothes and combed his hair all in one rapid move.
“Tell him to come in.”
Jess admired Fall very much. For one thing he looked like a real cowboy with his piercing eyes and full moustaches. He was also one of W.G.’s best friends in the Senate.
The two men shook hands warmly. Then Harding led Fall to the far end of the room, where they could not be overheard by anyone except Jess, and even Jess had a problem eavesdropping because both Daugherty and Christian were loudly working the telephones, giving orders, offering deals.
Fall was doing his best to cheer up W.G. “Borah and Johnson are threatening to bolt the party if either Wood or Lowden is nominated.”
“Why?” W.G. looked uncharacteristically confused.
“They’re concerned about all the money those two have been spending. Borah’s particularly upset at the way Lowden’s people bought up those Missouri delegates. He’s saying the presidency shouldn’t be bought.”
“A bit late in the day for that,” said W.G., an edge of sarcasm in his voice.
“Well, you know what they’re like.”
“I know this is good for us.” W.G. smiled. But then the telephone rang. Christian answered it. The second ballot was completed. Lowden had picked up forty-eight votes and Wood only two. Harding had lost four and a half votes.
“Well, our fellow senators have done all that they could do, for now.” Fall was not displeased. “Only New York could’ve started a stampede when Butler pulled out, and it didn’t.”
“I suppose,” said W.G. suddenly, very much like his usual calm self, “we’ll be here all night.”
But before the end of the fourth ballot, Jess watched with fascination as the senatorial cabal went into action on the stage of the auditorium. A dozen of the most powerful men in the country were holding, very much in the open, a crucial meeting. Wood’s lead had refused to collapse, despite all their efforts; yet Lowden’s votes showed no signs of serious erosion. Lodge stood on the flying bridge, as the fourth ballot was being tallied. Then he announced the outcome. Wood was within 177 votes of being nominated. There was cheering as the figures were read aloud. The senators, the true masters, or so they believed, of the convention, Senate, nation, had finally come to a conclusion. The solemn Senator Smoot walked up to the bridge and said, in a loud voice, “I move that the convention do now adjourn until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.” There was a startled silence. Then before there could be any vocal response from the delegates, Lodge said, “Those in favor of the motion to adjourn will signify it by saying ‘aye.’ ”
There were a few ayes to be heard.
“Those opposed, ‘no.’ ” Lodge looked more than ever as if he had been recently embalmed.
The nos nearly swept the chairman off the bridge. But Lodge, grasping the lectern hard, picked up his gavel and said, with a small smile, “The ayes have it and the convention is adjourned until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
That, thought Jess, with a shiver, was power at its most brutal. Also, Daugherty’s prophecy was about to be fulfilled. Tonight the senators would select the next president, and no doubt the hotel rooms where they met would be filled with smoke. But would W.G. emerge from the smoke? Jess had been deeply disappointed by Harding’s lack of appeal thus far. No one was passionately for him, unlike the supporters of Wood and Lowden and Johnson. On the other hand, no one was passionately against him. That had been Harding’s strategy from the beginning. If the chieftains cancelled one another out, only he would be left, ready to pick up the crown.
Jess entered the Blackstone Hotel, where the major delegations were staying. Will Hays’s suite was now the hub of the senatorial junto. As Jess crossed the crowded lobby to the elevators, he was stopped by a distinguished-looking man with a stack of pamphlets in one hand. “I can tell, sir, that you are a delegate …”
Jess was too flattered to say no. “Whaddaya know?” he asked reflexively.
“What do I know?” The man smiled. “I know that one of the candidates for president is a Negro, and I know that only disaster can befall a white country that elects a Negro …”
Jess realized that this must be Harding’s nemesis, William Estabrook Chancellor, a professor at Wooster College in Ohio. Whenever Harding was a candidate for any office, Chancellor would appear, at his own expense, with his pamphlets and genealogies, and though he had done no great harm in the past, Jess could see how he could make a terrible difference in a close race. Jess refused the pamphlet, and hurried to the elevators.
In the headquarters of the Ohio delegation, Jess found W.G. himself. There had been a considerable transformation since the Coliseum. Harding was now handsomely dressed, newly shaved and exuding confidence. There were fifty or so men and women in the drummers’ room—a long narrow room with a long narrow table where, ordinarily, salesmen showed their wares. Harding sat comfortably on the table in front of a large poster of himself. “Now I know there’s a temptation to go along with what you think might be the winner, General Wood, and I know there are a couple of fellows pledged to me who’re trying to persuade you to switch tomorrow on the first ballot and throw the nomination to General Wood. But he’s not going to be nominated, ever. It’s as simple as that, and neither is Governor Lowden. We’re still very much in business, and we’re still the state that the Republicans have to win to win the election.…”
Jess looked about the room to see what effect W.G. was having on the great man of the delegation, old Myron Herrick: he was nodding in agreement. As Governor Herrick was the central fact of Ohio politics, W.G. was still holding on to his native state, despite signs of rebellion.
At the far end of the room, Jess spotted Daugherty. He was sitting, back to Harding, and writing in a notebook. Jess made his way to Daugherty as invisibly as he knew how. “Whaddaya know?” Jess whispered.
“We’ll know in an hour. They’re all meeting up in Will Hays’s suite.”
“Did W.G. file for the Senate?”
Daugherty nodded: and put his finger to his lips. “But we’re going to make it. Here. Tonight.”
“How?”
3
Blaise asked Lodge the same question. They were seated in a corner of the suite that Will Hays shared with the publisher of Harvey’s Weekly, George Harvey, a onetime friend and now dedicated enemy of Woodrow Wilson. Earlier, Blaise had dined with Lodge and Brandegee and Curtis of Kansas in suite 404, where “the thing” would be sorted out. A dozen senators were now in more or less permanent session while their host, Will Hays, was in and out of the sitting room, conferring on the telephone in his bedroom, meeting with mysterious strangers in Harvey’s bedroom, giving reports to the senators.
Lodge looked most regal as he sat at the room’s center, a painting of Niagara Falls behind him. Whisky on a sideboard was occasionally attended to by the Conscript Fathers, who had, most of them, voted for its prohibition to every American.
“The ‘how’ is the easy part.” Lodge was tutorial. “When we give the word, the favorite sons will withdraw, and the delegates will vote for our choice. The ‘how’ is deliciously simple. It’s the ‘who’ that’s giving us trouble.”
Hays came in from the bedroom. “I got through to Penrose.”
“Is he dead?” asked Harvey, who was showing signs of too much whisky and too little sleep.
“Not so’s you’d notice.” Hays was agreeable. “Anyway he’s gone and dropped Wood.”
The senators were delighted. Brandegee drank a toast to Penrose. “Apparently old Penrose asked Wood for thre
e places in the Cabinet and Wood said never, and Penrose hung up on him.”
Wadsworth of New York said, “That just rules out Wood, but it doesn’t help Lowden and Johnson …”
“Johnson is not possible,” said Smoot.
Brandegee sighed. “He says he’ll bolt the party. Do you think we could hold him to that?” The others laughed. Then Brandegee said, “So what about Massachusetts’s favorite son?” He looked at Lodge.
“I was seventy a month ago.” Lodge looked grim. Blaise wondered what it must be like to have wanted something all one’s life and then, simply, thanks to the calendar, watch it slip away.
Brandegee smiled. “I was thinking of your other favorite son, Governor Coolidge.”
Although like most thoughtful Americans Blaise preferred the nonpolitician Herbert Hoover—Franklin Roosevelt was on record as saying that Hoover would make a superb president for either party—Coolidge was an intriguing figure, much admired by everyone for having told the police of Boston that they had no right to strike against the public safety.
Smoot shook his head. “He’s got no following, and he looks like nobody at all, which is exactly what he is.”
“I don’t think,” said Lodge thoughtfully, “we should nominate a man who lives in a two-family house.”
Harvey said, “I’m for Will Hays, of course …”
“So am I,” said Will Hays, “but I can’t be nominated—just now, anyway.”
Smoot sat down on the arm of an overstuffed sofa. “I think Harding’s our best bet.”
But there was no great enthusiasm for Harding. Brandegee observed that he looked like a president, but was that enough? Lodge remarked that in Washington Harding lived in a two-family house and so must be denied the manorial splendor of the White House.