Scruff

  He continued back to the chair and sat down. He tore off the top page of a memorandum pad and picked up his Mark Cross pencil.

  The telephone rang.

  “I’ll get it,” said Sam, getting up from the couch and crossing to the desk. “Mr. Trevayne’s office.… Yes, sir? Oh? Yes. I understand. Just one minute, please.” Vicarson pushed the “hold” button and looked at Trevayne. “It’s James Goddard.… He’s in Washington.”

  50

  James Goddard, president, San Francisco Division, Genessee Industries, sat across the room while Trevayne and Vicarson studied the voluminous papers and computer cards spread out over the long conference table. The room was large, an executive suite at the Shoreham Hotel.

  Goddard had been brief nearly four hours ago when Trevayne and his aide first walked through the door. There was no reason, he felt, for extraneous conversation. The figures, the reports, the printed results of the Genessee master tape were all that was necessary.

  Let the numbers do the talking.

  He had watched the two men; they’d approached the carefully sorted-out display apprehensively. At first they were guarded, suspicious. Then gradually the magnitude of the indictment shook their sense of reality. As their disbelief turned into reluctant acceptance, Trevayne started hammering questions at him; questions he answered—when he wanted to answer them—in the simplest of terms.

  Let the numbers do the talking.

  The subcommittee chairman then ordered Vicarson to return to their offices and bring back a small multipurpose desk computer. The sort of machine that added, subtracted, divided, multiplied, and held figures in six-column accruals until needed. Without it, Trevayne had said, they’d be there a week trying to reach their own conclusions. With it, and with luck, they might accomplish the job by morning.

  James Goddard could have completed the job in two hours, three at the outside.

  It was four hours now, and still they hadn’t finished.

  Amateurs.

  Occasionally, then with growing rapidity, Trevayne turned to him and asked a question, expecting an immediate reply. Goddard laughed to himself as he “thoughtfully” found that the answer was not within his grasp. Trevayne was reaching the end; he wanted the specific names now, the master planners of the master tape. Goddard could easily supply them—Hamilton and Hamilton’s faceless legion of “vice presidents” in Chicago: men who stayed in deep cover, out of sight, manipulating the huge national and international commitments.

  They never let him reach that level. They never gave him a chance to show he had the qualifications to set entire courses, to create—with even more accuracy—the fiscal projections spanning the five-year interregnums. How often had he found it necessary to make major alterations within his own sphere because the master tape had carried errors that would have led to financial crises within isolated sectors of Genessee’s production? How many times had he sent irrefutable proof back to Chicago that he was not only the public figurehead of Genessee’s finances but, in fact, the one man capable of overseeing the work of the master tape?

  The replies from Chicago—never written, always a faceless voice over a telephone—were invariably the same. They thanked him, acknowledged his contribution, and restated the premise that his value as president of the all-important San Francisco Division was without parallel. All to say he’d reached the end of his line.

  In the final analysis, he was expendable. The public figurehead ready at the crack of a whip for a public hanging. And once that hanging was set, what could he possibly do about it?

  Nothing. Absolutely nothing. For his “contributions” were there for all to see. And without the master tape, his “contributions” stopped at his office door.

  But there was a way out, his only way.

  To move swiftly to the top—his top—of the one conglomerate larger than Genessee Industries.

  The United States government.

  The kind of deal that was made every day under a dozen guises: “Consultant,” “Expert,” “Administrative Adviser.”

  It meant giving up the house in Palo Alto; and the beautiful hills that calmed him so with their majesty. On the other hand, it meant also giving up his wife—she’d never, never consent—and that was a plus.

  But the biggest gain of all was his own sense of well-being. For from now on his “contributions” would not only be extraordinary—and acknowledged as such—but also indispensable. The history of Genessee Industries’ ascent to its present position covered nearly twenty years. To untangle that extraordinary financial interweaving would take, perhaps, a decade.

  And he, James Goddard, “Expert,” was the economic legend who could do it. It would have to be done, for it was, after all, an intrinsic part of the history of twentieth-century America. He would record for the millennia that history. Scholars for a thousand years would research his words, study his figures, hold his knowledge in reverence.

  The government itself, right up to the highest reaches of decision making, would consider him the indispensable man.

  No one could do what he could do now.

  To have that acknowledged was all that he wanted. Couldn’t Ian Hamilton and the faceless voices in Chicago understand? It wasn’t money; it wasn’t power.

  It was respect. A respect that took him out of the realm of being primed for hanging.

  It was nearly five hours now. Trevayne and his voluble, obnoxious assistant had gone through two pots of coffee. The chain-smoking chairman had stopped asking questions; the aide kept shoving cards and papers in front of Trevayne—they’d finally understood the pattern of financial sequence as he’d arranged it. They hadn’t acknowledged it, of course, but they fell into a rhythm on the desk computer that silently betrayed the fact.

  Soon it would come. The question.

  Then the deal.

  It would all be spelled out. Nothing left to speculation.

  It was really quite simple when one analyzed it. He was merely changing sides, altering his allegiances.

  He watched Andrew Trevayne get up from the table and rip the wide paper tape from the machine. The subcommittee chairman looked at it, placed it in front of his assistant, and began rubbing his eyes.

  “Finished?”

  “Finished?” answered Trevayne with the same question. “I think you know better than that. It’s just begun, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. Precisely.… It has just begun. There are years, volumes to be completed. I’m well aware of it.… We must talk now.”

  “Talk? Us?… No, Mr. Goddard. It may not be finished, but I am. You talk to others.… If you can find them.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I won’t pretend to understand your motives, Goddard. You’re either the bravest man I’ve ever met … or so consumed with guilt you’ve lost all sense of perspective. Either way, I’ll try to help. You deserve that.… But I don’t think anyone’s going to want to touch you. Not the people who should.… They won’t know where your leprosy ends. Or whether they’ve got a latent case, and standing next to you might make their skin fall off.”

  51

  The President of the United States rose from behind his desk in the Oval Office as Andrew Trevayne entered. The first thing that struck Trevayne was the presence of William Hill. Hill was standing across the room in front of the French doors, reading some papers in the harsh light of the early sun off the terrace. The President, seeing Andy’s obvious reaction to a third party, spoke rapidly.

  “Good morning, Mr. Trevayne. The Ambassador is here at my request; my insistence, if you like.”

  Trevayne approached the desk and shook the hand extended to him. “Good morning, Mr. President.” He turned and took several steps toward Hill, who met him halfway between the desk and the French doors. “Mr. Ambassador.”

  “Mr. Chairman.”

  Trevayne felt the ice in Hill’s voice, the title spoken in an emphasized monotone that skirted the edge of insult. The Ambassador was
an angry man. That was fine, thought Andrew. Strange, but fine. He was angry himself. He returned his attention to the President, who indicated a chair—one of four forming a semicircle in front of the desk.

  “Thank you.” Trevayne sat down.

  “What is that quote?” asked the President with slim humor. “ ‘We three do meet again.…’ Is that it?”

  “I believe,” said Hill slowly, still standing, “that the correct words are ‘When shall we three meet again?’ The three in question had forecast the fall of a government; they weren’t sure even they could survive.”

  The President watched Hill; his eyes bore deeply into the old man’s, his look a cross between compassion and irritation. “I think that’s highly interpretive, Bill. A bias I’m not sure would hold up academically.”

  “Fortunately, Mr. President, the academicians do not concern me.”

  “They should, Mr. Ambassador,” said the President curtly, turning to Trevayne. “I can only assume, Mr. Trevayne, that you requested this meeting as a result of my exercising executive privilege. I intercepted the subcommittee report on grounds you find suspect, and you’d like an explanation. You’re entirely justified; the grounds I employed were fallacious.”

  Andrew was surprised. He hadn’t questioned the grounds at all. They were for his protection. “I wasn’t aware of that, Mr. President. I accepted your explanation up front.”

  “Really? I’m amazed. The device seemed so transparent to me. At least, I thought you’d think so.… Robert Webster’s death was a private war, in no way connected with you. You don’t know those people, you couldn’t identify them. Webster did and could, and therefore had to be silenced. You’re the last person on earth they’d want to touch.”

  Trevayne flushed, partly in anger, more so because of his own ineptness. Of course, he was the “last person on earth they’d want to touch.” Killing him would create a furor, bring about a relentless investigation, an intense hunt for the killers. Not so Robert Webster. No intense pursuit for his killers; Bobby Webster was an embarrassment to everyone. Including the man who sat behind the desk in the Oval Office.

  “I see. Thanks for the lesson in practicality.”

  “That’s what this job’s all about.”

  “Then I would like an explanation, sir.”

  “You shall have it, Mr. Chairman,” said William Hill as he crossed to the chair farthest away from Trevayne and sat down.

  The President spoke quickly, attempting to vitiate Hill’s invective. “Of course, you will; you must. But, if you’ll forgive me, I’d like to exercise another privilege. Let’s not call it executive; let’s just say the prerogative of an older man. Then we can get on.… I’m curious. Why did you consider this meeting so vital? If I’ve been accurately informed, you damn near told the appointments desk that you’d camp in the hallways until I saw you.… A tight morning schedule was rearranged.… The report’s complete. The formalities of leave-taking aren’t exactly priority functions.”

  “I wasn’t sure when you’d release the report.”

  “And that concerns you?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Why?” interrupted William Hill harshly. “Do you think the President intends suppressing it?”

  “No.… It’s not complete.”

  There was silence for several seconds as the President and the Ambassador exchanged looks. The President leaned back in his chair. “I stayed up most of the night reading it, Mr. Trevayne. It seemed complete to me.”

  “It’s not.”

  “What’s missing?” asked Hill. “Or should I ask, what’s been removed?”

  “Both are accurate, Mr. Hill. Omitted and removed.… For what I believed at the time were reasoned judgments, I eliminated detailed—and indictable—information about the Genessee Industries Corporation.”

  The President sat up and stared at Trevayne. “Why did you do that?”

  “Because I thought I was capable of controlling the situation in a less inflammatory manner. I was mistaken. It must be exposed. Completely.”

  The President looked away from Andrew, his elbow on the arm of the chair, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm on his chin. “Often first—reasoned—judgments are quite valid. Especially when they emanate from such reasonable men as yourself.”

  “In the case of Genessee Industries, my judgment was in error. I was persuaded by an argument that proved groundless.”

  “Would you please clarify?” asked Hill.

  “Of course. I was led to believe—no, that’s not right, I convinced myself—that I could bring about a solution by forcing the removal of those responsible. By eliminating them, the root motives could be altered. The corporation—or companies, hundreds of them—could then be subject to restructuring. Reshaped administratively and brought into line with compatible business practices.”

  “I see,” said the President. “Root out the corrupters, the corruption will follow, and chaos is averted. Is that it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But the corrupters, in the final analysis, would not be rooted,” added Hill, avoiding Trevayne’s eyes.

  “That’s my conclusion.”

  “You’re aware that your … solution is infinitely preferable to the chaos that would result from ripping Genessee Industries apart. Genessee is the major producer for the country’s defense program. To lose confidence in such an institution would have extraordinary effects throughout the nation.” The President once more leaned back in his chair.

  “That was my initial thinking.”

  “I think it’s sound.”

  “It’s no longer feasible, Mr. President. As Mr. Hill just said … the corrupters can’t be rooted.”

  “But can they be used?” The President’s tone was steady, not questioning.

  “Ultimately, no. The longer they’re entrenched, the more secure their control. They’re building a base that will be passed on as they see fit; to whom they consider fit. And they deal in their own absolutes. A council of elite that will be inherited by their own kind—protected by unimaginable economic resources. Exposure’s the only solution. Immediate exposure.”

  “Aren’t you now dealing in your own absolutes, Mr. Chairman?”

  Trevayne was annoyed once again by Hill’s use of the title. “I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Whose truth?” asked the Ambassador.

  “The truth, Mr. Hill.”

  “It wasn’t the truth when you submitted your report. The truth changed. The judgment was altered.”

  “Yes. Because the facts weren’t known.”

  William Hill lowered his voice and spoke with no apparent feeling. “What facts? Or was it a single fact? The fact that you’d compromised your subcommittee for what you discovered was a hollow offer. The presidency of the United States.”

  The muscles of Andrew Trevayne’s stomach tensed. He looked at the President.

  “You knew.”

  “Did you really think I wouldn’t?”

  “Strangely enough, I hadn’t given it much thought. I suppose that’s asinine.”

  “Why? It’s not a betrayal of me. I asked you to do a job; I didn’t demand political fidelity; or adherence.”

  “But you did demand integrity, Mr. President,” said Hill with conviction.

  “Whose description of integrity, Mr. Ambassador?” shot back the chief executive. “Must I remind you of your own admonitions regarding truths and absolutes?… Oh, no, Mr. Trevayne, I’m not being kind. Or solicitous. I’m only convinced that you conducted yourself in good conscience—as you understood it.… Which makes my job easier. For the reason I intercepted the subcommittee report—my sole purpose in exercising privilege—was to stop you from tearing this country apart.… From using Genessee Industries as the means to destroy a large section of the economy unnecessarily. Depriving livelihoods, ruining reputations indiscriminately. You can imagine my astonishment when I read what you’d written.”

  Andrew Trevayne returned the President?
??s stare. “I find that an extraordinary statement.”

  “No more extraordinary than I found your report. And the fact that you refused to announce—at least to any of the proposed recipients—the exact date when you’d deliver the report. You made no arrangements with the Government Printing Office; you did not, as is customary, avail yourself of Justice Department attorneys prior to the final assembling—”

  “I was not aware of those customs; and if I had been, I doubt I’d have complied.”

  “Courtesy, expediency, and simple protection might have made you aware of them,” interjected Hill. “As I gather, your mind was on other, more vital matters.”

  “Mr. Ambassador, you’ve been pressing me against the wall since I walked in. I don’t like it! Now, with all due respect, I ask you to stop it.”

  “With very little respect returned, Mr. Trevayne, I shall be guided by my chosen vocabulary until the President asks otherwise.”

  “Then I do ask it, Bill.… Mr. Hill has worked closely with this office, with a number of my predecessors, Trevayne. He looks upon your action more severely than I do.” The President smiled gently. “The Ambassador is not, nor will he ever be, a politician. He believes, quite simply, that you’re trying to rob me of my second term. I wish you luck; I don’t think you can. Or ‘could have,’ I assume, is more proper.”

  Trevayne took a silent breath before speaking. “If I had believed for one minute that you were going to run for re-election, none of this would have happened. I’m sorry. Sorrier than I can ever express to you.”

  The President’s smile diminished and was no more. Hill began to speak but was stopped by the President’s hand, held up firmly, commanding silence. “I think you’d better explain that, Mr. Trevayne.”

  “I was told you would not seek a second term … the decision was irrevocable.”

  “And you accepted that.”