(1982) The Almighty

THE ALMIGHTY

Irving Wallace

First published in Great Britain by Michael Joseph Ltd 1983

Copyright 1982 by Irving Wallace

Published by Sphere Books Ltd 1983

Reprinted 1984

He stared down into the open coffin. What surprised him most was that his father looked so small. The old man had always been a giant to Edward. Now, stiffly cushioned in satin, he seemed small. It was because the air of life had gone out of him, Edward realized. Ezra J. Armstead, the greatest and most autocratic press lord of modern times, had always been full of life, a force of energy, overwhelming. Now he was small and still. Otherwise, everything was in order. Maybe not the cheeks. E. J.‘s cheeks were unnaturally red. The undertaker had applied too much rouge, as they always did.

Turning from the coffin, another surprise. Edward Armstead felt no loss.

And yet another. He felt rather good. Almost buoyant.

He scanned the cascades of flowers that formed a colorful semicircle behind the coffin. There was one discordant note. On an easel sat a gaudy American flag made up of red, white, and blue carnations. It had come from the staff of the New York Record, Edward Armstead was sure. One of the employees had heard or read that such a floral flag had decorated William Randolph Hearst’s coffin in 1951, and decided that E. J. deserved as much. Terrible taste, in keeping with his father’s newspapers, Edward Armstead told himself.

He heard his wife, Hannah, just ahead, utter a muffled sob, and felt a stab of guilt. Quickly he stepped forward to join her, supportively linking his arm in hers. Her arm felt as thin as a matchstick. He had almost forgotten how frail and ill she was.

She turned her moist eyes up at Armstead. ‘Roger,’ she murmured. ‘Where’s Roger?’

For a moment Armstead blinked uncomprehendingly, and then he remembered something else he had briefly forgotten. Roger was his son. He looked behind him and saw that Roger had just reached the coffin from the family room, and was standing over it, his long face set in bewildered grief. As

always, Armstead was annoyed with his son. Or displeased. Perhaps as his own father had been with him. But no, his own displeasure was different. The boy - grown man, actually thirty-six-year-old man - was too tall, too tan, too outdoors-healthy and uncreative to be his son or his father’s grandson. He worked for some strident environmental group in Wisconsin, always off in the woods or on a lake or river. Armstead was sure Roger had not read a book in years. He couldn’t write at all, not even a letter. He came to New York once a year, at Christmas, and kept in touch by sending pamphlets. Where in the hell had his genes come from? Probably some pioneer on Hannah’s side.

Armstead summoned his son. ‘Roger, take care of your mother.’ Although Hannah was ambulatory, standing any length of time was painful for her. Armstead added, ‘Help her into the wheelchair.’

Armstead released Hannah to her offspring and started for the open chapel door, outside of which the pallbearers had been gathering. He reminded himself not to walk too briskly, and to keep his handshake limp. Gravely he shook hands with the six famous pallbearers - with the Vice-President of the United States, two governors, the mayor, the Army Chief of Staff, a senior astronaut - accepting their condolences, giving his thanks. Through his head flitted a picture of the editorial cartoon that had graced the front page of the black-bordered New York Record that morning: a gauzy drawing of E. J. climbing the clouds toward an Olympus where the filmy images of Dwight D. Eisenhower, Winston Churchill, Charles de Gaulle, Anwar Sadat, Francisco Franco, John Wayne waited to welcome him. It gave Armstead a start to recall that his father had known those dim and distant figures, had lived to eighty-one and known all the greats of his time, had indeed been considered one of them.

Armstead abandoned the pantheon of immortals and took in the crowd of personages and faithful nearby. He moved heavily toward them, hoping his Roman visage bore some semblance of contained bereavement. He nodded at his own loyal aides, Harry Dietz and Bruce Harmston, clasped the hands of his father’s managing editor, Ollie McAllister. He was briefly surprised to find himself confronted by his father’s arch rival, Paul Eldridge, publisher of the New York

Times. But then not surprised, because Eldridge was Ivy League and Eastern Establishment and this was the gentlemanly thing to do (although, Armstead suspected, Eldridge probably held some admiration for the less couth E. J., for his father’s self-made success, brashness, drive). Eldridge squeezed his hand comfortingly and Armstead squeezed back, reminding himself that they were brothers in the publishing fraternity.

Armstead wandered toward a cluster of conservatively dressed, mostly tailored, women, recognizing some as belonging to the newspaper, some as other men’s wives. He nodded, and nodded, and found himself searching for Kim Nesbit. He tried to find her, the willowy youngish woman with corn-silk hair and limpid green eyes. But then he knew that she would not be there. He knew also that she had always been one of the reasons he had resented his father. He tried to believe the resentment grew out of the fact that his father had kept this woman for so many years when his mother had been alive and the fact that Kim had been so young, much younger than he himself was. But the resentment had come from none of these reasons. It had come from the fact that he had envied and been jealous of his father. He was glad Kim had not come to the funeral. It showed she had class. And perhaps it showed that she had not cared for his father very much after all.

His fruitless search for Kim Nesbit ended, Armstead became aware that Horace Liddington was approaching him. Liddington was over six feet tall, with grayish crew cut, trim, impeccably attired in a dark mourning suit with a vest.

‘I’m sorry, Edward,’ he said crisply, taking Armstead’s hand with one hand and gripping his shoulder with the other.

‘Well, he lived a good life,’ said Armstead. ‘He had a good time.’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘I guess we’d all settle for that,’ Armstead added.

‘We certainly would,’ Liddington agreed. He cleared his throat, as if uncomfortable with the small talk and eager to get onto something else. ‘Uh, Edward, whenever you have the time - when this is over - I’d like to see you. I’m not rushing you. It can be a day or two. There is some business to clear up.’

‘Business? What business?’

‘Your father’s will. It shouldn’t take too much of your time. It’s a short document. Much of it concerns you. He was a very wealthy man, as you know. It is important to maintain a continuity in his affairs. Anyway, as soon as you are up to it, let’s get together. Possibly tomorrow, if you can.’

‘What about today?’

Liddington was startled. ‘Today? Of course. Why not, if you think you can get away.’

‘I can get away. I think I should know what’s in my father’s will.’

‘Absolutely. You should. Well, I’ll be driving directly to my office after the interment.’ He plucked a gold watch from his vest pocket. ‘I should be there by two o’clock.’

‘I’ll be there right after,’ said Armstead.

As Liddington turned from him to greet family friends, the full impact of his new situation hit Armstead. The lawyer’s remark had made it clear: Much of it concerns you. Positive reassurance that his father’s will concerned principally Edward himself. He was not merely a grieving son. He was an heir, an heir to empire. The king was dead. He was the king, the new monarch of all E. J.‘s possessions. The millions and millions of dollars, the newspapers and television stations, the power. This had to be. There was really no one else who counted. Edward’s mother had died senile three years ago. There was Roger, the grandson, and a few secondary relatives, but the old man had given very little time to any of them. Edward was E. J.‘s only child, only heir.

The thought of such power gave him a momentary feeling of headiness.

Before he could enjoy it, he heard his name being called. ‘Edward.’ He heard the cackle a second time and knew it had to be his wife. He looked off and saw Hannah in the portable wheelchair, being steered toward him by Roger. God, he thought as he waited, how awful she looks. She was hunched in the wheelchair, shriveled and withered as an Egyptian mummy, her overpainted face prematurely wrinkled. How had she let it happen to her? She was only fifty-six, his own age, and yet she looked twice as old. Giving in to all those ailments, spending all that time in bed, that had done it.

She was beside him. ‘Edward,’ she said, ‘they’re driving the casket to the burial site right now. We should be there.’

‘We’ll be there. Let me get the driver over here.’ He nodded at his muscular son. ‘Roger, get your mother to the curb.’

He started to leave, but Hannah’s voice caught him. ‘Edward, as soon as the service is over, we had better return home. You heard the announcement. There may be a hundred guests dropping by to pay their respects. We should both be there to receive them.’

‘We’ll be there,’ he said with impatience. ‘After the burial, you and Roger go on ahead. I’ll be there a little later. I have to attend to some urgent business first.’

‘Business? On a day like this?’

He wanted to tell the old woman: The king is dead. On a day like this, a new king must be crowned.

Instead, he told her, ‘It’s important, very important. I’ll catch up with you…’ His voice drifted off. ‘…sooner or later.’

Hannah and Roger had left in the Cadillac limousine, and shortly afterward Edward Armstead’s standby Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce and chauffeur had taken him from the cemetery into Manhattan and dropped him off at the aluminum-encased Citicorp Building. He had ridden the express elevator to the twenty-sixth floor and headed for the office suite whose entry door bore the gold lettering: liddington

AND KRAUS, COUNSELLORS-AT-LAW.

Ushered into Horace Liddington’s familiar office, he enjoyed a quick high of anticipation at the prospect of coronation. The business of the dead was done for the day. The business of the living was all that mattered.

At the far end of the room, Horace Liddington was engrossed in some kind of document - probably the document - and with Armstead’s entrance he raised his head and removed his spectacles.

‘Ah, Edward, glad you could come right over,’ Liddington said, getting to his feet.

‘Wouldn’t miss it.’

Armstead had started across the Aubusson rug that stretched before the lawyer’s antique walnut desk, when he saw a silver tray holding brandy and cognac bottles and glasses on the secretaire that stood beneath a baroque mirror

with a gilt frame. Abruptly he detoured to the secretaire. ‘Mind if I have a drink, Horace?’

‘Please do, please do,’ Liddington said hastily.

Armstead uncorked a half-empty bottle of Remy Martin cognac and hoisted the bottle. ‘Can I pour you one?’

‘Thank you, Edward, but I’ll pass for now. But you - by all means you have one. I’m sure you can use it.’

‘I can use it,’ Armstead agreed, pouring more than an inch of cognac into the snifter. He inhaled the aroma, then slowly drank as he walked toward the elaborately carved French armchair resting next to the Louis XV fruitwood game table.

As he settled into the armchair, he saw Liddington watching him with concern.

‘If you’re worrying about Horace - don’t,’ said Armstead. ‘I’m all right.’

Liddington bobbed his head jerkily and lowered himself into his walnut desk chair. ‘It would be understandable if you didn’t feel all right. Losing a father - it doesn’t happen every day.’ He shrugged. ‘But as it must to all men, his time had come.’

‘I thought it would never come,’ said Armstead.

Liddington seemed taken aback.

Armstead smiled. ‘Have I shocked you? I’ve been in the wings a long time, Horace. I’m fifty-six. I never thought I’d get a chance to go on. But now it’s my turn. At least, I think it is.’ He took another sip of cognac and placed his glass on the table. ‘Is it my turn, Horace?’

‘Oh, yes - yes, of course. You were his only real heir. He had no meaningful charities.’

‘Well, let’s get on with it. Make it official, Horace.’

Liddington was unsettled. He made an effort to pull himself together. He drew the document across his desk closer to him. He took a moment to compose himself, ‘Would you like me to read you the will, Edward?’ He hurried on. ‘It’s a short testament. Hearst’s will was 125 pages long, I’ve heard. E. J.‘s is only 37 pages. Relatively short for so complex an estate. I could read it to you.’

Armstead grinned. ‘You mean formally, like in those movies where relatives get together in a room to hear the old man’s will?’

‘Well…’ said Liddington lamely.

Armstead sat up. ‘Just give me the essence. I’ll read the whole will when I have more time. You can send a copy over. Right now the essence. Did I get all of it? Or most of it?’

‘He left you the bulk of his estate. He provided a trust for his grandson - your son, Roger - and he gave the title to one of his seven homes, the chateau near St-Paul-deVence, to Hannah - to Mrs. Armstead. Of his public holdings, he owned half the stock, which he passed on to you. Hannah, of course, always owned the other half -‘