Overload (75 page)

and orange juice since, was tiring. It showed.

Several times since 7:30 A.M., when the city editor came on duty in time

for the second edition, old "I'm-the-coach" had stopped by Nancy's desk

with quiet words of encouragement. Apart from that, there was little need

for editorial discussion. Nancy was assembling the facts capably-ber own,

and others fed to her. She also had a reputation for writing "clean" copy

which required little, if any, rewrite.

Occasionally, when she stopped typing and glanced up, Nancy caught the

city editor looking over at her. Though his expression was inscrutable,

she had a notion they were both thinking the same thingsomething which,

through most of the past few hours, she bad pushed determinedly from her

mind.

The last thing Nancy had observed before leaving the Christopher Columbus

was the shrouded bodies of the dead policemen and firemen being wheeled

from the hotel on gurneys to waiting morgue wagons.

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There were also two men, outside the hotel, putting pieces of something into

a plastic bag; it took her a minute to realize they were collecting the

remains of the sixth dead man, the one blown to pieces by a bomb.

It was then Nancy faced the stark, grim truth which, until now, she had

evaded: That for an entire week she had been in possession of information

which, if shared, could have prevented all six deaths and much else.

The same thought bored into her consciousness each time she caught the city

editor looking at her. That, and his words of a week ago: "You're supposed

to be Part of a team, Nancy, and I'm the coach. I know you prefer being a

loner, and you've gotten away with it because you get results. But you can

push that game too far."

At the time she had dismissed the advice with a mental, Screw you, Mr.

Charlie! Now, she wished vainly, desperately, she hadn't.

At 11:55 A.M., with two hours and twenty minutes still to go before the

final edition deadline, the thought of the six dead bodies could no longer

be thrust away, and Nancy was ready to crack.

"Take a break and come with me," a voice said quietly. When she looked up,

old I'm-the-coach was again beside her.

She hesitated and he added, "That's an order."

With unusual docility, Nancy stood up and followed him as he left the

newsroom.

A short way down the corridor was a small room, normally kept locked, and

sometimes used for management meetings. The city editor used a key to open

it and held the door for Nancy to precede him.

Inside, the furnishings were comfortable but simple: A boardroomtype table

and upholstered chairs, a pair of matching walnut cabinets, soft brown

draperies.

With another key the city editor opened one of the cabinets. He motioned

Nancy to sit down.

"There's a choice of brandy or scotch. Not the best brands; we don't

compete with the Ritz here. I suggest the brandy."

Nancy nodded, suddenly unable to find words.

Her superior poured California brandy into two glasses and sat down facing

her. When they had sipped he said, "I've been watching you."

"Yes, I know."

"And we've both been thinking the same thing. Right?"

Again she nodded without speaking.

"Nancy," the city editor said, "as I see it, by the end of today you'll go

one of two ways. Either right over the edge, which means a mental breakdown

and ending up on some shrink's couch twice a week, ad infinitum, or you'll

get a grip on yourself and let what's in the past stay there. I'll say this

about the first route: It will louse up your life and

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benefit nobody except the shrink. As to the second, you've got spunk and

intelligence, and you can handle it. But you'll have to make a positive

decision, not just let things slide."

Relieved, at last, to say it aloud, she told him, "I'm responsible for

last night. If I'd told someone what I knew, the police could have been

warned and they'd have investigated that Crocker Street house."

"The first statement is false," he told her, "the second true. I'm not

saying you won't live with last night for the rest of your life. I think

you will. But you're not the first to make an error in judgment which

harmed others; you won't be the last either. Also in your defense: You

didn't know what would happen; if you bad, you'd have acted differently.

So my advice is this, Nancy: Face up to it accept what you did and didn't

do, and remember it-for experience and learning. But otherwise put it

behind you."

When she remained silent, he went on, "Now I'll tell you something else.

I've been a lot of years in this business-some days I think too many. But

in my opinion, Nancy, you're the best damn reporter I've ever worked

with."

It was then that Nancy Molineaux did something which had happened only

rarely in the past and even then she had never let others see. She put

her head in her arms, broke down, and cried.

Old I'm-the-coach went to the window and decently turned his back.

Looking down at the street outside, be said, "I locked the door when we

came in, Nancy. It's still locked and will stay that way until you're

ready, so take your time. And, oh yes-something else. I promise that no

one but you and me will ever know what went on in here today."

In a half-hour Nancy was back at her desk, with her face washed and

makeup repaired, writing once more, and totally in control.

Nim Goldman telephoned Nancy Molineaux the next morning, baving tried to

reach her, unsuccessfully, the day before.

"I wanted to say thank you," be said, "for that call you made to the

hotel."

She told him, "Maybe I owed you that."

"Whether you did or didn't, I'm still grateful." He added, a trifle

awkwardly, "You pulled off a big story. Congratulations."

Nancy asked curiously, "What did you think of it all? The things that

went into the story, I mean."

"For Birdsong," Nim answered, "I'm not in the least sorry, and I hope he

gets everything be deserves. I also hope that phony p&lfp never surfaces

again."

"How about the Sequoia Club? Do you feel the same way?"

"No," Nim said, I don't."

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"Why?"

"T'he Sequoia Club has been something we all needed-part of our societal

system of checks and balances. Oh, I've had disputes with the Sequoia

people; so have others, and I believe the club went too far in opposing

everything in sight. But the Sequoia Club was a community conscience; it

made us think, and care about the environment, and sometimes stopped our

side from going to excesses."

Nim paused, then went on, "I know the Sequoia Club is down right now, and

I'm genuinely distressed for Laura Bo Carmichael who, despite our

disagreements, was a friend. But I hope the Sequoia Club isn't out. It

would be a loss to everyone if that happened."

"Well," Nancy said, "sometimes a day is full of surprises." She had been

scribbling while Nim talked. "May I quote all that?"

He hesitated only briefly, then said, "Why not?"

In the Examiner's next edition, she did.

8

Harry London sat brooding, looking at the papers Nim bad shown him. At length

he said glumly, "Do you know the way I feel about all this?"

Nim told him, "I can guess."

As if he bad not heard, the Property Protection chief went on, "Last week

was the worst in a long time. Art Romeo was a good guy; I know you didn't

know him well, Nim, but he was loyal, honest, and a friend. When I heard

what happened, I was sick. I'd figured when I left Korea and the Marines

I was through with hearing about guys I know being blown to bits."

"Harry," Nim said, "I'm desperately sorry about Art Romeo too, What he

did that night was something I'll never forget."

London waved the interruption away. "Just let me finish."

Nim was silent, waiting.

It was Wednesday morning, in the first week of March, six days after the

trauma at the Christopher Columbus Hotel. Both men were in Nim's office,

with the door closed for privacy.

"Well," London said, "so now you show me this, and to tell the truth, I

wish you hadn't. Because the way I see it, what else is there left to

believe in any more?"

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"Plenty," Nim answered. "A lot to care about and plenty to believe in.

Not any more, though, the integrity of Mr. justice Yale."

"Here, take these." Harry London handed the papers back.

They comprised a batch of correspondence-eight letters, some with copies

of enclosures attached, and all were from the files of the late Walter

Talbot, until his death last July, chief engineer of GSP & L.

Ile three cardboard cartons from which the letters had been taken were

open in Nim's office, their other contents spread around.

Locating the letters, which Nim suddenly recalled to mind at the NEI

convention, had been delayed because of last week's tragedy and

aftermath. Earlier today, Nim had had the files brought up from a base-

ment storage vault. Even then it had taken him more than an hour to find

the particular papers he sought-those he remembered glancing at seven

months ago, the day at Ardythe's house when she gave him the cartons for

safekeeping.

But he had found them. His memory had been right.

And now the letters must inevitably be used as the corpus delicti at a

confrontation.

Exactly two weeks earlier, at the meeting between J. Eric Humphrey, Nim,

Harry London and justice Paul Sherman Yale on the subject of power

stealing, the former Supreme Court justice had stated unequivocally, ".

. . I find the entire concept of power theft interesting. Frankly, I had

no idea such a thing existed. I have never heard of it before. Nor did

I know there were such people in the public utility business as Mr.

London."

The correspondence Nim had found showed all four statements to be

deceitful and untrue.

It was, in the oft-used phrase of Watergate, "the smoking gun."

"Of course," London said abruptly, "we'll never know for sure whether the

old man gave his approval to the power thievery by the Yale Trust, or

even if be knew about it and did nothing. All we can prove is that he's

a liar."

"And was worried as hell," Nim said. "Otherwise he would never have

trapped himself by those statements."

The facts of the matter were simple.

Walter Talbot had been a pioneer in drawing attention to huge financial

losses incurred by electric and gas utilities as a result of theft. He

had written articles on the subject, made speeches, been interviewed by

news media, and had appeared as an expert witness in a New York State

criminal trial which wended its way, via appeals, through higher courts.

The case had generated wide interest. Also correspondence.

Some of the correspondence bad been with a member of the United States

Supreme Court.

justice Paul Sherman Yale.

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It was clear from the exchange that Walter Talbot and Paul Yale had