Youngblood hawke, p.81
Youngblood Hawke, page 81
Honor Hauptmann said to Hawke in the moment after Fry finished, when the Senators were whispering back and forth and a murmur rose from the press tables, "I've never heard anything more touching. He's done it. He's going to walk out free without giving the names. They can't possibly do anything else."
Hawke's face had a stunned faraway look. "It was wonderful," he muttered, half to himself. "I disbelieve everything Karl said about this country and about the future. If I live, I'll write a book to answer him. But it was wonderful."
The rapping of Traynor's gavel stilled the din. The Senator seemed surprised by the swift descent of silence. He hesitated, then spoke with a certain solemnity, though he smiled. "Mr. Fry, that's quite a statement, as a piece of writing. It's a display of talent worthy of a better cause. I've often said that it's a national disaster that at this turn of history some of our finest minds are either indifferent to the future of our free system, or hostile to it. You're more eloquent than I am, sir, and what I have to say will be an anticlimax. I have a responsibility I can't escape, as chairman of this subcommittee, to find out all that can be found out about the penetration of subversives into our communications industries. You're not a subversive, sir, you're what I would call a misguided idealist. These are chaotic times and I don't know all the answers any more than the next fellow, I—all I can do is—" The Senator paused, seeming to lose the thread of what he was saying. "Your statement boils down to the old plea of moral scruples, Mr. Fry, doesn't it? Only you call it conscientious objection. As for the philosopher-kings, I'm not going into all that, but I believe that all people prefer to be free, just as you do, and I think America can stay free if we exercise the necessary vigilance. And as long as we're free, these bloody tyrants with their execution squads and their jabber of social justice aren't going to rule the world.
"Speaking as an individual, Mr. Fry, I'd be happy to end your interrogation at this point. I think the security of the United States can easily survive your unwillingness to answer this committee's questions. But the precedent of moral scruple that you want to set up would be a blank check to subversive activity in this country, sir, and make it invulnerable to the scrutiny of Congress. Having heard your statement patiently, the subcommittee is with me in directing you to answer. Mr. Flagg, will you repeat the question, for the last time?"
The committee counsel, who looked tired and old, opened the thick folder and intoned, "Did the first meeting of this discussion group which you attended take place in the home of Arnold Bingham, of the firm of Prince House?"
"May I confer with my counsel?"
"Certainly." Charlie Flagg mopped his brow, though the room was chilly.
Fry covered the microphone and turned to Adam. His sickly face was exhilarated, his whisper surprisingly cheerful. "Well? Is this it?"
Adam said, "Yes, this is it."
"What do I do? What are my alternatives?"
"Well, Karl, I think you can still accept that FBI formula. That's the most practical out. Otherwise this becomes the kickoff, and you'd better answer formally. Here's the response."
Adam had been folding and refolding the paper in his hand. He now laid it before Fry. The editor scanned it, his hand over the microphone, muttering the words.
Mr. Chairman, with the greatest respect for the authority of this committee, I am now advised by my counsel to decline to answer the question on these constitutional grounds.
First, freedom of speech and of assembly are guaranteed by the constitution, even, and especially, to the holders of unpopular opinions. Forcing the public disclosure of the names of people who have assembled to discuss a very unpopular political doctrine constitutes an abridgement of those rights, if not the destruction of them, since it must discourage future assemblies and discussions by dissidents.
Second, this inquiry is beyond the scope of your committee's powers, and the authorization given it by Congress. The first amendment guarantees freedom of the press. You are trying to find out here the political affiliations of people in the publishing field. But any statute that attempted to regulate or limit the political convictions of publishers or their employees would be in violation of the first amendment, and therefore void. Since no other kind of statute can develop out of this inquiry, the question you have put to me is beyond your committee's authority.
Because of these rights guaranteed by the first amendment, sir, I most respectfully decline to answer the question.
Karl said softly, pursing his lips over the sheet, "It doesn't sound like me."
Adam said, "When you're heading for the Supreme Court, Karl, personal style is not the question. You lay a groundwork of legal formulas."
Jeanne was watching this colloquy with desperate attention, though of course she could not hear a word. As it happened, she was touching a handkerchief to her eyes when her husband suddenly turned full around in his chair and looked at her. She dropped the handkerchief to her lap and smiled as cheerfully as she could. He shook his head, made a gesture of drying tears, and wagged his finger in mock reproach, grinning. Then she saw him do a strange thing. He threw his arm around Adam, gave him a brief hug, and clasped his hand, saying something that, from the look on his face, was a wisecrack. She heard his voice on the loudspeaker, firm and a little shrill. "Mr. Chairman."
"Yes?" said Traynor, in the silence that fell at once.
"Mr. Chairman, the meeting was at the home of Arnold Bingham."
Shocked as she herself was, Jeanne saw Adam sit bolt upright in amazement. All along the committee table there were expressions of surprise. Senator Breckinridge looked a little dismayed. Traynor sat holding the gavel, staring at the witness, his mouth open in a comic picture of a man caught unawares.
Flagg said, stammering, "Of the firm—of the firm of Prince House?"
"I think Arnold was working for Jay Prince then. I'm not sure."
Flagg exhaled a heavy breath. The microphone carried the sound like a groan, all through the vaulted room. "Will you name the other people who were present at that meeting?"
"Well, it's been twelve years. There was Philip Byrne, of course, he brought me there."
"Spell that name, please."
"Yes, sir." Karl's voice was becoming lower and heavier. "B-y-r-n-e."
There was rising noise at the press tables. A few reporters were walking out. Traynor banged his gavel. "This witness is entitled to the courtesy of all present, and I especially mean the gentlemen of the press!"
Flagg said, "Mr. Fry, does your recollection extend to any other people at that meeting?"
Karl said hollowly, "Evelyn Ringle, of course, the kind lady who named us all here two weeks ago."
"Evelyn Ringle of Cardiff Books?"
"Yes."
"Spell her last name, please."
Fry was sagging low in his chair. He spoke each letter like the tolling of a bell. "R-i-n-g-l-e."
"Do you recall anyone else?"
In this manner Flagg drew Fry to pronounce and to spell fifteen names. It became a sad and sombre litany between the two grim men. Then Flagg closed his folder wearily, and whispered to Senator Traynor.
The Senator cleared his throat. "Mr. Fry, I think the committee can now excuse you. You have found yourself in a moral dilemma here. I speak for the Senate of the United States in thanking you for making the difficult, the patriotic choice. You have set an example which I hope others will emulate. Men of your intellectual stature should not be harassed. We need you in the fight for freedom. I have every hope that you will yet make even greater contributions to that fight than you have today."
Fry said in the same sepulchral voice, with a ghastly smile, "Mr. Chairman, it's bad enough to die once. I haven't enjoyed dying twice. I lack the strength to fight for freedom, or I would have made the patriotic choice. I have done the Congress a disservice by answering those questions. You can't beat the communist party at its game, sir, and by abandoning your own game you're throwing in your hand. I've always thought it was a losing hand. But I leave here filled with irrational grief because I no longer think freedom will die in this land, I know it will. However, everything has its season and dies. Am I excused, sir?"
"You're excused," said Senator Traynor.
6
Reporters clustering at the door of the caucus room surrounded Fry when he came out with his wife, his lawyer, Hawke, and Honor Hauptmann. A man poked a stick-microphone at the end of a long black cord into Fry's path, saying, "Mr. Fry, sir, I'm William Callaghan of Station WGW Washington. We've been carrying this morning's proceedings and I wonder if you care to add a word now that it's all over."
"Two words. Thank God," Fry said.
The announcer laughed. "Would you care to expand on that, sir?"
Fry smiled wearily and shook his head.
"What are you going to do now, sir?"
"Sleep and eat for a week or so. I haven't done much of either lately."
Gus Adam said, "This has been a gruelling business and I think you'd better excuse us. We have a car waiting—"
A reporter interjected, "Mr. Fry, why didn't you take Senator Traynor's offer?"
"I don't know."
"Do you now feel your decision was wise?" the radio announcer said, thrusting the stick up to Fry's mouth.
"Well, my lawyer told me this morning that it's an American privilege to make an ass of yourself. I guess I availed myself of my birthright."
Jeanne said, "Come, Karl," and pulled at his elbow, but he seemed in no hurry to leave, he looked around the circle of faces with a weary, defiant, dazed grin.
A reporter said, "Wouldn't it have been preferable, sir, to naming those people at an open hearing? I think everyone was surprised at your sudden abandonment of your position."
"Well, call it pride of authorship. I'd written this statement and maybe I just wanted to read it. Try sitting in that chair some time and making quick decisions."
Hawke stepped beside Fry, put his arm around him, and said, "Let's go, Karl." He was a full head taller than Fry and he looked like a bespectacled colossus, embracing the frail thin-faced editor. He started to move with Fry through the press of men, when one of the reporters stepped directly into Hawke's way: a burly young fellow in a very short raincoat and checked collegiate cap, with a beaked nose protruding out of a fat white face. "Mr. Hawke, I'm Ira Borso, New York Star. What do you think of Mr. Fry's action today?"
"I think the hearing was a tragedy for everybody concerned. Now we've got to be going—"
"Sir, on another topic, are you going to make a public reply to Quentin Judd's accusation?" The reporter stood his ground, his sharp nose thrust upward straight into Hawke's face.
Hawke said, "Accusation? What accusation? I don't know what you're talking about."
"Haven't you seen the new Rambler? Judd says you didn't write your latest novel."
Despite himself Hawke blurted, "What? Who does he think wrote it?"
"Oh, he's quite definite about that, sir. He says it was written by this lady here, Mrs. Karl Fry."
Jeanne exclaimed, "Nothing could be more ridiculous, neither of us has seen the article but we both know Quentin Judd well and he couldn't possibly—"
"Mrs. Fry, would you or Mr. Hawke care to glance at the Rambler? I have it with me." The man turned his thrusting nose on Jeanne and pulled a magazine from his raincoat pocket. "It's just out today, I picked it up at La Guardia. Maybe it hasn't been delivered to Washington yet." He proffered the wrinkled gray journal to Jeanne and then to Hawke. The other reporters crowded in around him, their faces alight with interest.
Hawke brushed the reporter's hand aside. "I don't know what Quentin said. I consider Mrs. Fry the best editor in the United States, but I write my own books and Quentin Judd knows that as well as I do." A chorus of questions broke from the ring of reporters. Hawke said, "Sorry, now we go," and ploughed through them, his protecting arm around Fry.
Mrs. Hauptmann had a hired Cadillac waiting outside, and she offered to take the Frys to their hotel. Karl Fry looked at the immensely long car and the bowing chauffeur with a childlike smile. "Well, well, this is the way a Marxist gets to leave the Senate Building, after making the patriotic decision. Most appropriate. Thank you, Mrs. Hauptmann."
As they drove off, he said that mostly what he wanted to do was sleep. He felt amazingly good, twenty years younger, and if he could only nap for an hour or two he would be ready to start a new life. He made no comment on the reporter's startling news about Judd; he seemed not to have heard it. Jeanne said she would make new plane reservations for the evening, after dinner. Karl said, yawning, that he had always heard there was a great seafood restaurant in Washington, and they might as well get a good dinner out of this dreary expedition. After a little talk all five agreed to meet for cocktails at the Franklin Hotel and then to have dinner together.
Honor said, "Mr. Fry, you probably don't want to talk about what's just happened, but I want you to know that your statement was the most brilliant thing I've ever heard. It will live when all these senators have been forgotten."
"Thank you," Fry said. "I'll be happy if it lives long enough to appear in tomorrow's papers. I doubt that it will. Submission isn't news. As a matter of fact I don't think I want to look at tomorrow's newspapers." He put his hand on the arm of Gus Adam, who sat on a folding seat before him. "Gus, I hope you don't mind my spoiling your fun. You'd probably have taken them to the Supreme Court and licked them."
Adam shrugged. "I don't know. The composition of the court's changed since the Hollywood decision, but the climate's still bad. You certainly did a reasonable thing in dropping the fight. And in point of fact you didn't injure anybody, they'd all been named."
Fry said, "I know that. The issue had importance only in my own mind. It's strange how trivial, how forgotten it all seems already. We've only driven half a dozen blocks, and it's as though the hearing happened a year ago." He turned to Jeanne. "Were you surprised?"
"A little, dear."
"Well, I saw you crying and I decided—kind of suddenly, I grant you—that I was being heroic at your expense, and Jim's, not to mention Gus Adam's. Don Quixote should be a bachelor, with an independent income. That's how Cervantes described him."
Jeanne said, "I wasn't crying."
"Weren't you? Something in your eye, no doubt. Well, it's all over, we're not facing a year of court fights and publicity, and I couldn't be happier." Karl's eyes were closing, and he leaned against his wife. "Jeanie, you have hard shoulders," he muttered. The others stopped talking as he dozed.
When the limousine halted in front of the Franklin Hotel he sat up with a start, blinked and grinned. "Wow. I feel better already. An afternoon's nap and you'll see a man reborn."
Hawke stepped to the sidewalk to make way for the Frys. Karl came out and offered him his hand. "My boy, I hope the scene was worth a trip from Hollywood."
Hawke said, "You acted wisely, Karl. I'll never forget a moment of it."
Fry peered up at him, his thin mouth warped in the old grin. "Artie, you going to put me in a book one day?"
"If I live, I guess so, Karl."
"Be sure you do live. Absent thee from felicity a while. And be sure to make the point that in this harsh world Don Quixote should be a bachelor with money. We'll get good and plastered tonight, won't we? Thanks for the ride, Mrs. Hauptmann."
Jeanne and Hawke exchanged a strained look, and Jeanne went into the hotel with her husband.
Hawke said as he got back into the limousine, "Honor, can we run out to the airport? They'll have the Rambler there if it's anywhere."
"Of course."
The chauffeur nodded, and started the car.
Adam said, "I'll come along. What the reporter said sounded serious."
Honor said, "Why, it's inconceivable."
Hawke said, "There's something odd about this. Quent Judd telephoned me a month ago in Hollywood, just after I got there, and asked for galleys. He wanted to do a good job on the book, he said, and the Rambler went to press so far in advance that he'd rather not wait for review copies. Givney had just mailed me the first book off the press. I told Quent I could airmail it to him. He was most grateful, and promised to read and return it in a couple of days. The last thing he said was, 'I read terribly fast.' I never heard from him again."
Gus Adam said, "Well, at worst the Rambler's circulation is tiny."
Hawke read the Judd article not only with the sinking feelings that any bad notice caused, but with an added vertigo such as one experiences in an earthquake. He sat between Adam and Honor on a couch in the booming, racketing waiting room of the airport, which faced out through towering glass walls at a constant roaring crisscross of airplanes. He had bought three copies of the gray dull-looking journal, and they were all reading at once. It took Hawke only a minute or so to absorb the two closely printed columns on the front page, and the two columns inside; and to realize that he had encountered a disaster of a magnitude that could not readily be measured.
Honor spoke first. "This is beyond belief. What in God's name made him do it?"
Adam said, turning the page, "It's pretty bad so far."
"It gets no better," Hawke said.
Honor said, "It isn't a review. It's a libel, a brutal criminal libel. You have to issue a statement denying it, at once, Arthur. I don't see how you can avoid suing him. What alternative have you?"
"Oddly enough, I'd be suing myself. It would cost all the stockholders money if I won."
The lawyer said, still reading, "Suing a critic is usually futile. The privilege of the press is very broad. Besides, he's done this adroitly. I'm not sure there's an actionable statement in it."
"I couldn't possibly sue Quentin Judd, Gus. I'd be the laughingstock of the United States."
Honor said, "Arthur, besides the personal attack on you and all you've written, he as much as says that you've palmed off a book written by Jeanne Fry as your own."
Adam folded the journal and slipped it into his pocket. "That's the impression it conveys. It's malignant, neatly written, and from a legal standpoint, very clever. Arthur, have you had a quarrel with this man?"
