Miller pounced forward, confronting Eaton. “It can all be made to add up to treason and unfitness for office,” he insisted.
“I have strong doubts,” said Eaton.
“Anyway, we don’t have to prove that much,” said Miller. He turned to Hankins. “Senator Bruce, you got that-”
“Got it right here handy,” said Hankins, holding up the photocopy of a book page. He adjusted his pince-nez, studied the photocopy briefly, then looked up at Eaton. “There’s no precise exact definition of impeachment crimes, Mr. Secretary. Fact is, it’s a pretty wide umbrella, and our evidence fits under a fair amount of it. Example, this little definition of impeachment I have here. George T. Curtis, the historian-attorney, made it back in 1889. He said”-Hankins read from the photocopy-“ ‘A cause for removal from office may exist where no offense against positive law has been committed, as where the individual has, from immorality, or imbecility, or maladministration, become unfit to exercise the office.’ ”
“See!” Zeke Miller exclaimed triumphantly to Eaton. “Like it’s tailor-made for Dilman.”
“Nevertheless, I have my doubts,” said Eaton.
“Well,” Talley called out, “I think we’re barking up the wrong tree, and wasting our breath. It’ll never come to anything so serious. Arthur, I’m inclined to side with Zeke and the Senator on what’ll really happen. If they pull together what authentic findings they already have, and hit Dilman smack between the eyes with them, I think he’s got to back off. I think he’ll run up the white flag and call it quits.”
Eaton bit his lip. “I wish I could be as confident as the three of you. I can’t be. I believe you have enough evidence right now to hold over the President’s head, and make him reconsider any further rash and self-serving behavior. I believe you can slow him down, and force him to listen to our advice. I think you can manage that, and more power to you. But, I reiterate, I do not believe you have enough evidence to impeach, and, I repeat, I doubt that you even have enough to frighten him out of office.” Eaton shrugged. “This is my opinion. You do what you will. I feel it only fair to say that if you take more drastic steps, based on what you have, I cannot let myself go along with you.” He saw their unsmiling faces, and he said, as lightly as possible, “But I will go along with you for one more drink, before we-”
The doorbell chimes melodiously interrupted him. Puzzled, he looked at the clock over the fireplace. It showed ten minutes before midnight. The chimes played again, followed by the metallic hammering of the brass door knocker.
“Who can it be?” Talley wondered.
“I’ll see,” said Eaton. “Excuse me, gentlemen. The Governor will pour you one for the road.”
He left the living room, went into the high-ceilinged entry hall, and pulled open the door.
Sally Watson stood there, one hand clutching the doorframe. Eaton had never before seen her this way, in this condition, and for a moment he was taken aback.
“That’s right,” she said thickly, “it’s me, or whatever’s left of me, believe it or not.”
“My God, Sally, come in.”
He reached out and drew her into the hall, examining her with disbelief. Her blond hair was in disarray, and strands of it hung down over her eyes. Her mascara had run, and there were tear streaks along her cheeks. The bodice of her green cocktail gown was half on, half off, one strap torn loose, the front of the dress ripped, so that part of her brassière was in view.
She covered her bosom with the coat on her arm, and looked up at him. “Quit staring, Arthur. It’s not my fault. Blame him. He did it to me, the sonofabitch, blame him.”
“Who?”
“Who do you think?” she said angrily. She had worked the index cards out of her purse. “Here’s what you wanted. I promised you I’d get it, and I got it. I did that anyway. Lemme get cleaned up and I’ll tell you plenty, that filthy bastard.”
She started toward the living room, lurched off balance, and Eaton quickly grabbed her elbow. Then, taking the coat from her, he led her swiftly into the living room. With her appearance, Zeke Miller, who had just sat down, immediately leaped back on his feet, and Bruce Hankins rose with a grunt. They greeted her with courteous surprise, but Sally did not reply, only stared at them as she wobbled past.
“Miss Watson’s been in some trouble,” Eaton explained. “I want her to lie down. Be right with you.”
Talley had wheeled around at the bar, and his eyes followed Sally with incredulity. “What the devil happened?” he wanted to know.
“Your goddam drunk President,” she said viciously. “He did it-he thought I was like all the rest of his chippies!”
Eaton’s expression was pained. “Please, Sally.” He shoved the index cards at Talley. “Here. The notes on Dilman’s CIA meeting with Scott. Better read them.” He hustled Sally out of the living room, but not before he heard Zeke Miller shout, “Hey! Wait a sec-what was that she was saying?”
With difficulty, trying to steady her, Eaton hurried Sally through the corridor. He knew that she could not make the stairway to the upper bedrooms. Instead, he guided her into the book-lined library, one hand supporting her, the other slamming the door behind him.
“There’s the bathroom,” he said.
“I changed my mind,” she said.
He studied her face and could see she was not only intoxicated but on the verge of hysteria. He forced her to the sofa. “Then lie down for a moment.”
She sat on the sofa, and dropped her face into her hands. “I don’t want to lie down. I want to kill that bastard.”
“I think you need something to settle your nerves,” said Eaton anxiously. He rushed into the bathroom, turned on the light, and hunted for Kay’s tranquilizers. He found the container, spilled out two, prepared a glass of water, and returned to Sally. “Take both of them.”
She obeyed him.
“Good,” he said, “now the water.”
She took one swallow, made a show of distaste, and pushed the tumbler back at him. “I’ve had enough to drink.”
Eaton set the glass aside, knelt before her, and considered her. “Do you think you need a doctor?”
“What can a doctor do for me? It’s all inside, what he did, humiliating me like one of his whores. If anybody knew-” She beat her fist helplessly on the sofa cushion.
Eaton rose and sat on the corner of the coffee table. “When you-you feel ready to speak of this, Sally, I’d like to hear what-”
“I’m ready now.”
“Whenever you say.”
“I was trying to figure out how to help you,” she said excitedly, “and then I got the chance, because he invited me to his bedroom again-”
“Who? Dilman?”
“Not Calvin Coolidge, you bet. Of course, Dilman.”
“What do you mean-he invited you again?”
“Jesus, Arthur, I can’t always bring myself to tell you everything. He’s had a lech for me, and at least three times before he’s invited me to his bedroom in the evening, to go over social affairs, so he says-ha, social affairs. I always got out of it. But tonight, when he whispered it again, to meet him about some plans after the guests had gone, I saw a chance to help you, and I agreed. I went to his bedroom a little early, and the transcript of the meeting he had with Scott today was lying open, so I just read it, you know. Made those exact notes on the cards. You’re lucky to have it-”
He found her hands. “Sally, darling, I am grateful, but I’m worried-”
She withdrew her hands, and brushed the hair from her eyes. “Well, about ten he came in-everyone had gone-and I could see he was plastered, drunk as a lord. I wanted to leave, but he insisted on business talk, and hell, you can’t insult the President, I mean-how? He kept insisting I drink with him. What could I do? He must’ve poured me a triple, and himself, too, because I got real tipsy, and him, you should have seen him.”