King Cole

  W.R. BURNETT

  KING COLE

  Copyright 1936 © W.R. Burnett

  King Cole

  Table of Contents

  One: Thursday I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  Two: Friday I

  II

  III

  IV

  Three: Saturday I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  Four: Sunday I

  II

  III

  IV

  Five: Monday I

  II

  III

  IV

  Six: Election Night I

  II

  III

  IV

  About W.R. Burnett

  Bibliography

  TO THE MEMORY

  OF

  FRANK HARRIS

  Pyrrhus, when his friends congratulated to him his victory over the Romans under Fabricius, but with great slaughter of his own side, said to them, ”Yes; but if we have such another victory, we are undone.”

  LORD VERULAM

  This book is to be read strictly as a work of fiction. Its characters and events are entirely imaginary.

  W.R.B.

  ONE: THURSDAY

  I

  The pressroom in the State House, a huge old room with a twenty-five foot ceiling and deep window embrasures, was hazy with tobacco smoke. Reporters from all over the State were waiting to interview the Governor and lolling about in their chairs or walking impatiently up and down. From time to time some of them went to the windows and stared out past the enormous Doric columns of the porch into the State House yard, where the big trees stood bare on the bare lawns; beyond, traffic roared past on East Broad Street, and shop windows opaquely reflected the heavy gray sky.

  The Governor, Read Cole, was something new in Ohio politics. He had been governor for nearly two years and was now running for re-election. During the mortgage riots, and later, during the big strike, these same reporters had seen him nearly every day; but none of them felt that they knew him. They were used to the common or garden variety of provincial politician; they were used to rural comics and big city careerists, almost all very apparently with axes to grind or grudges to settle or pockets to line; the reporters regarded these men with neither hostility nor affection, but with a mild contempt. Read Cole escaped classification and it worried the reporters a little.

  His rise had been routine. He had worked his way through the University, waiting table and doing odd jobs. He was later secretary to a United States Congressman, and learned politics in Washington; later still, he was elected to the State Legislature, and, after three terms, he ran for State Senator and was defeated. At the next election, running as a liberal Republican, he was elected and served two terms; now he was the Governor. That was practically all there was to say about him. He was neither a lowbrow nor an intellectual. He spoke the American language correctly, with no affectation and hardly a trace of that Midwest accent so irritating to New Yorkers. He had made no spectacular mistakes, unlike some governors, and he had had no conspicuous successes; he governed quietly. Strangest of all, there was nothing ridiculous about him; cartoonists racked their brains over him; and even the sharp and cynical eyes of the newspapermen could not detect any important flaws in either his person, his mind, or his administration.

  He was forty-three years old; had served overseas. He was a little above medium height and had rather broad shoulders. His hair was brown and somewhat curly, a little gray over the ears. He had a prominent straight nose, a receding forehead, and a jutting chin; there was more than a suggestion of prognathism in the lower part of his face. His eyes were gray and calm. He hardly ever raised his voice. Some women thought him very handsome.

  No, he was a puzzle to reporters. Unable to place him, they labored grumblingly over their articles and were reprimanded for writing such colorless stuff. They sighed for the days of Governor Bulmer, a grotesque from the corn belt, who had been such a laughable figure in the State House, but such a boon to overworked special correspondents.

  Time passed slowly in the pressroom. The reporters fidgeted and began to talk among themselves.

  “Well, anyway, our friend Cole won’t bother us much longer. He’s a one-termer.”

  “Think so?”

  “I’d bet my shirt. Things are in pretty bad shape in this State. He’s got to get the farm vote to be re-elected and he’s not going to get it; not after the riots. Old Eagle Beak’ll get the farmers solid.”

  “Well, it’s all one to me. I work just the same. In fact, old Eagle Beak suits me much better. He’s easy to get a slant on. He believes in the brotherhood of man and all that stuff. It’s a straight line. What the Governor believes in, I’ve never found out.”

  A reporter from a Republican sheet bristled.

  “That’s a good one. Governor Cole’s always been a liberal, hasn’t he? He’s always fought the stuffed shirts, and you know it. He’s the father of almost all the advanced legislation in this State in the last five years. What do you mean, he doesn’t believe in anything!”

  “Oh, yeah! Fought the stuffed shirts, has he? That’s hot. Runs around with Major Bradley and Lamont Jones and Yardley Meadows. If they ain’t stuffed shirts I don’t know what is.”

  “It isn’t who a man runs around with…”

  “Oh, no! Of course, they’ve got no influence over him! How about the Militia down in South County?”

  “What could he do? And anyway, nobody got hurt except some of the militiamen; their guns weren’t even loaded. I know because…”

  “Anyway, he don’t run around with those guys. They invite him out to their houses. He’s a big shot. He’s the Governor. What the hell! You expect the Governor to run around with the Flytown crowd. Ain’t you smart!”

  “All the same, he’s not the Read Cole he used to be. He’s a clam. No telling which way he’ll jump. He’s trying to get re-elected and that’s the long and short of it. He may go Communistic on us before next Tuesday.”

  ‘‘He better do something and do it quick or he’ll be just another portrait in the rotunda. Old Eagle Beak has got them on the run.”

  “Ain’t that a laugh! Why, five years ago everybody would’ve died laughing at Eagle Beak for Governor. It would’ve been the laugh of the year. Now they all take him seriously.”

  “And goddamn it, they better. Every workingman in this State may vote for him. If he gets the farm vote, he’s in; that’s all.”

  “Yeah. It’s a laugh. Poor old Eagle Beak. He’s been a radical for twenty years. Now the Communists are trying to get on his bandwagon and he’s shying off. Is that funny?”

  “It’s not funny and Eagle Beak is right. He’s for all the workers, all the downtrodden; not just a group. They’re not going to get him to pull their chestnuts out of the fire.”

  “For Christ’s sake, hire a hall. Eagle Beak is a laugh to me; he’s still a laugh. He’s got no more right in the Governor’s chair than I have. It’s just account of the times. People are going nuts, that’s all.”

  “People are getting fed up, you mean.”

  There was a short silence, then somebody said:

  “You guys make me sick. Save your voices. You’ll need them when we get in to see the Governor. You got to talk fast and smart with him. He knows all the answers and he never says a thing, if you know what I mean.”

  “You know what my boss calls him?”

  “Can you say it in mixed company?”

  “Don’t be a dope. My boss calls him the Ohio Machiavelli.”

  “What’s that?”

  There was a roar of laughter and the young reporter from downstate, who had asked the question, blushed.

  “Why, my bos
s thinks he’s a slicker, a turncoat, a political trimmer. I don’t. I think he’s just a smart politician, and honest.”

  “Yes, I believe he’s honest.”

  “They tell me he hasn’t got any money at all. Just what he makes. That’s some record in this racket, I’ll say.”

  “Anyway, I wish that secretary of his would show up like he promised. I got a heavy date.”

  The reporters shifted around and glanced at the clock. The argument died down. They began to talk football, and Spencer, of the Midland City Independent, was explaining a lateral pass play, when the door opened and Charley Parrott, the Governor’s secretary, came in. Charley was a tall, dark, rather oily individual; his face was slightly cadaverous. He always seemed tired and indifferent, but the reporters had a great liking for him. He treated them right and he was a former reporter himself.

  “Hello, boys.”

  “Hello, Charley. What’s new? Got a bulletin for us, accent on the bull?”

  “Not today.”

  There were groans.

  “Aw, now, Charley…”

  “Don’t get excited. No bulletins at all till after election. The Governor wants to talk to all of you. He’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  “O.K., Charley. Say, Charley, what you got to say about the Independent’s straw vote?”

  “Not a thing. Ask the Governor that one. Meanwhile, how about a little drink? Thirsty?”

  There was a short sharp uproar, then Harold, the Negro who guarded the outer office, came in carrying three quarts of whisky. He was a slight, smiling, yellow Negro; very shrewd, self-effacing and amiable. Charley got out the glasses.

  “Heil Hitler!” cried a reporter, tossing down a big drink. His name was Farbstein.

  II

  Read Cole was sitting at his desk, glancing down at a printed slip from the State Bindery. It read:

  His Honor, James Read Cole, Governor of the Sovereign State of Ohio in this year of our Lord…

  Read smiled to himself. What would those hard-boiled reporters, who weekly prodded him with shrewd questions, think if they knew that it thrilled him to read his name printed in this fashion. They’d think it was very funny, no doubt; they’d make cynical little jokes about it. Politics was a boring routine matter to them. They suffered from the ennui of all experts.

  He turned to Senator Greeley, who was sitting across the desk from him, smoking a stogie. The Senator was a pompous old man, an institution in his district; he wore a string tie and a frock coat; his glossy white hair was always too long. He looked as if he should be selling patent medicine. And in a sense, he did. He offered his oratory as a panacea for the many ills of the farmers; and they loved it.

  “And so to be quite frank, Governor,” the Senator was saying, “I don’t think... I don’t really think… after the riots and the misunderstanding that the farmers…” He paused. He felt that he was leading himself up a blind alley. He never made an unambiguous statement if he could help it; it was not good politics.

  Read understood at once and decided to help him.

  “My hands were tied,” he said. “There was nothing I could do. After all, I’m the Governor. It’s my sworn duty to protect private property. No one was hurt.”

  “Feelings were hurt,” said the Senator, with a smile. “Of course, Governor, you know how I stand. I’m for you. But the Agrarian party, to be quite frank, well, they’re dubious. I’m afraid, unless something is done, that they’ll throw their strength to Fielding.”

  Read smiled slightly.

  “Radicals and Ohio farmers are a funny combination.”

  “These are funny times.”

  “Eagle Beak is playing in luck.”

  “Quite right. Old Eagle Beak! Can you imagine him as Governor? However, the farmers can. They like him because he has spots on his vest and says ‘ain’t.’ We know that he knows better.”

  The Governor tapped on his desk with a pencil for a moment, then he got slowly to his feet.

  “Well, Senator, many thanks for coming in. I appreciate your interest. And I think your son would make a fine Secretary of Agriculture. Tyburn is going to retire. There will be a vacancy. If I’m elected, I’ll appoint your son at once.”

  “Thank you, Governor,” said the Senator, getting up. “You’ll make friends by it. I’ll talk it over with Parker and the Grange bunch. It will be a popular appointment with them. Well, good day.”

  Read sat down and watched the pompous old man walk slowly across the huge office. Then, as the door closed, he shook his head and stared at the slip from the State Bindery. The name was better than the game, no doubt about it.

  Miss Wilson, his chief clerk, opened a side door and came in.

  “The reporters now?”

  Miss Wilson, about thirty and tall, was very good-looking but very proper. The Governor gazed at her speculatively as he often did, but her face was blankly impersonal. He was not Read Cole to her, a man with warm blood and normal desires; a widower, successful and sought after. He was His Honor, James Read Cole, Governor of the Sovereign State…

  Read often wondered what Miss Wilson would do if he’d suddenly pull her down on his knee and kiss her. Would she submit as a sacred duty, however much it annoyed her? Or would she immediately take it up with the Civil Service Commission? Probably the latter.

  “Yes,” he said; “the reporters.”

  She went out. Read got up and began to pace the floor. He had noticed that lately he had been thinking about women a good deal. Not a woman; just women. It worried him. “I’m forty-three,” he told himself; “I’m no longer exactly young. I’m getting to what is known as the dangerous age. If I’m not careful I’ll get myself in a jam. That wouldn’t do at all. If I’m re-elected, I’ll be a big man. I’ll be heard of nationally. I may even run for the presidency some day; quite a few Ohio governors have. I’d better get married. Marry Eileen. Why not?” Then he laughed shortly. “If I’m re-elected, that is.”

  Eileen’s father, Major Bradley, would probably insist on that. If Read was defeated he was a nobody. Major Bradley was a powerful man; one of the most powerful in the State. He wouldn’t want a nobody for a son-in-law.

  Charley Parrott opened the front door and stepped in.

  “All set, Read?”

  “Yes. Bring in the animals.”

  The reporters boiled through the door. Read smiled and sat down.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” he said, “I catch a faint odor of alcohol.”

  There was a laugh.

  “Oh, no,” said Charley, smiling wearily.

  “All right,” said Read to the reporters. “Go ahead.”

  They started firing questions at him. He answered them slowly and calmly, making them smile occasionally by his clever evasions. When they got around to the Independent’s straw vote, he said: ”The Independent is a Democratic sheet, isn’t it? I’m a Republican candidate, am I not?”

  There was a laugh. But Spencer of the Independent interposed:

  “Do you want us to print that, Governor?”

  “Print what? I asked two questions.”

  There was another laugh. But Spencer persevered. “You know, Governor, that our straw vote has always been pretty close. It looks like the farm districts are against you.”

  “They gave me a majority before. They don’t go to the polls till next Tuesday.”

  “That’s only six days. Can we print that?”

  “Print what?”

  “That you think there will be a change of sentiment in the farm districts in six days?”

  “Yes.”

  The reporters started, then wrote furiously. Charley glanced at the Governor with what would

  have been mild indifference in another man; he was amazed.

  When the reporters had gone, he said:

  “What’s up, Read?”

  “I’ve been thinking. I’m going after the farm vote. I’ve got a trick up my sleeve.”

  “Will you tell me?”

  “Not
till I talk it over with Gregg.”

  Read got up and put on his coat and hat.

  “Going out to lunch?”

  “Yes. I’ll be at the Massey for an hour. Crystal Room.”

  “Shall I tell Miss Wilson to go to lunch?”

  Read smiled.

  “Why don’t you take her to lunch, Charley?”

  “No, thanks. I don’t waste my time.”

  “Meaning?”

  “When I spend time and money on a woman I like to get to first base.”

  Read laughed and started out. So Miss Wilson affected other men that way. Oh, well!

  Harold was waiting for the Governor in the outer office.

  “Note from Mr. Upham,” he said.

  Read opened the note.

  Dear Gov:

  Major Bradley is lunching with us so be on your good behavior. Eagle Beak has the rich boys worried; looks like they are all going to hang onto you and try to get you to pull their chestnuts out of the fire. Don’t be late.

  Your pal,

  Gregg

  Read crossed the huge dim rotunda slowly. He loved it; it was quiet and dignified and, to him, beautiful. Behind the tall glass cases on the walls were tattered battle flags: Civil War, Spanish War, World War. They seemed to mean nothing to anybody. But they meant a lot to Read, though he never mentioned the fact. He was very proud of his American ancestry. His grandfather had fought in the Civil War; his father in the Spanish War; and he himself had fought in France and had been wounded. He hadn’t an ounce of foreign blood of any kind; his people had been in America for at least six generations: all Scotch-Irish. He did not like foreigners at all; had no sympathy with them. But he kept this to himself.

  It was cold and gray outside. A wintry wind was blowing through the State House yard, stirring the dead leaves. Read walked across to the Broad Street entrance past the Victory Group, then turned west. The Massey Hotel was only half a block away. Men spoke to him respectfully and raised their hats.