The Hellfire Club(64)

“Maybe he meant him?” Bernstein said, looking up at the wall.

“What?” Charlie asked. “Him? Who?”

Bernstein pointed at the painting of the signing of the U.S. Constitution that hung in the stairwell.

Charlie stopped in his tracks and stared up at the painting of the forty attendees of the Philadelphia Constitutional convention. Fifth from the right, with his back to the viewer, stood an obscure Maryland delegate.

“Who is it?” asked Street.

“Daniel of St. Thomas Jenifer,” Bernstein said. “Jenifer, one n.”

“Jenifer,” said Charlie. “Holy cow, you’re brilliant.”

“Do you think that’s what he meant?” Street asked.

Charlie, staring up at the painting, shrugged thoughtfully. “I don’t know. But Mac and I did discuss this painting, and obscure Founding Fathers, and it’s the first Jennifer I’ve encountered since he said it.”

“He said ‘under Jenifer,’” Street reminded him. They all peered more closely to see what was under Daniel of St. Thomas Jenifer in the painting. The delegate stood with his hands held behind him adjacent to a chair cloaked by someone’s coat.

“The chair?” asked Bernstein.

Charlie’s gaze dropped below the frame, to a marble ledge maybe three feet above their heads. “What if by ‘under Jenifer,’ he meant under the painting?”

Street walked up the stairs so his line of sight was parallel to the ledge. “There’s a vent there.”

They looked around. At that moment, no one else appeared to be in the vicinity. The three of them looked at one another, then at the ledge. Charlie and Street were approximately the same height, but Street was much broader and more muscular. “Want to give me a boost?” Charlie asked.

Street interlaced his fingers and bent over; Charlie used the step to pull himself up to the ledge and the vent. Through the slits he could see dust and steam pipes—and nothing else.

“Anything?” Street said.

“Nope.”

Street lowered Charlie to the floor and let out a grunt.

“I’m lighter.” Bernstein shrugged.

Charlie rolled his eyes at her; obviously, he wasn’t going to hoist her up, particularly in such a setting, and Street certainly wouldn’t. She rolled her eyes back at Charlie exaggeratedly.

“Don’t be silly, Bernstein,” he said.

Two other members of Congress started walking up the stairs; the three of them continued walking and talking discreetly.

“So what does ‘under Jenifer’ mean, then?” Street asked.

“I don’t know,” said Charlie. “Maybe Miss Bernstein here can learn more about Daniel of St. Thomas Jenifer.”

“Or maybe,” said Street, “Mac was just a grievously wounded man experiencing death’s delirium.”



“Sometimes it’s stunning that a man as brave as Ike was fighting Hitler can be so weak when confronted with a drunk demagogue like McCarthy,” Kefauver told Charlie over lunch later that day.

They’d been seated at the same table in the Senate Dining Room where a few weeks before—though it seemed like years—Charlie had lunched with Margaret Chase Smith.

Kefauver poured more sugar into his iced tea. “Just last year, ol’ Ike was up at Dartmouth telling the students not to join the book-burners, that we all needed to understand the Communists in order to defeat them on the battleground of ideas. And now this: a bill to outlaw the Communist Party.”

“But surely Ike wouldn’t enforce such a thing,” Charlie said as a waiter silently placed their lunches before them. “Just last night, at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, I hear he called for the army secretary to stand so everyone could applaud him. That seems like a clear rebuke.”

“Really, Charlie? In the larger scheme of things, when you look at what McCarthy is doing to this country and how Ike could be responding, you think that one tepid gesture in a roomful of reporters is the red badge of courage?” The Tennessee senator began to slice his veal piccata with an angry zeal.

Kefauver’s office had called Leopold to set up the lunch. As they were being shown to their table, Kefauver had leaned toward Charlie and said, “Winston’s worried about you, you know. I told him he had no reason to be.” Charlie tried to disguise his wince—everybody could use a helping hand but nobody wanted to have it quite so openly acknowledged. Kefauver didn’t inquire about the specifics and Charlie didn’t volunteer anything.

“Afternoon, Charlie,” said Congressman Strongfellow, hobbling over on his crutches. “What a treat to see you with your eyes open!” He slugged Charlie playfully on the shoulder. “You were completely knocked out last time I saw you, on a couch!”

Charlie coughed into his napkin and tried to calm his nerves as he stood to greet Strongfellow and introduce him to Kefauver. His throat was dry and his heart was racing at the memory of Conrad Hilton’s party; he hadn’t seen his colleague since that night and he had no memory of how he’d behaved in front of him after the absinthe made its appearance and no idea what Strongfellow might know of what had happened later. He scanned his colleague’s face to see if he could discern any trace of disapproval or judgment; he saw nothing.

Strongfellow gave him a grin. “Now, what’s this I hear about you scrapping with Roy Cohn?”