Most Americans are, and you’re the recorder—if not the inventor—of a real America out there.” Cuneo knew Caroline well enough to have obtained a good blueprint of her onetime lover. “But we’ll be driven into this no matter what.”
“In which case, Mr. Cuneo, why are you—and the British and all the others—swarming about Washington and Hollywood and the New York
Times
…?”
“
Our
paper is the New York
Herald Tribune
.” Cuneo chuckled. “You’d think that the
Times
, with a Jewish owner, would be helpful but Sulzberger is afraid of not seeming to be ‘even-handed,’ as he calls it, so we rely on Mrs. Reid and the
Tribune
to get our views to the people.”
“To the wealthy Anglophiles of New York, anyway—as Senator Borah would have said.”
Cuneo crossed himself, eyes to the ceiling. “Heaven forbid that we are so elitist. Anyway we have Walter Winchell and Drew for the great public. Walter’s column is in a thousand papers. That’s twelve hundred words or more a day, six days a week. Then there’s his Sunday radio broadcast, which I also help with. Millions hear us.”
“You do this for nothing?”
“I do it for the President. Not to mention the lawsuits my clients get themselves into which I have to get them out of. Drew’s the worst. Walter sounds fierce when on the attack but basically he’s an actor. Drew is a believer. Drew’s righteous. Drew’s a killer.”
Tim was impressed, the object of Cuneo’s exercise. But to what end? He asked; got an answer. “We need your help, that’s all.” Cuneo opened a briefcase on the banquette beside him. “Let’s see what your horoscope says. You don’t have to bother to give me your date and time of birth because I have it all here.” He was looking through a notebook. “Here we are. Sagittarius, Moon in the House of …” He muttered to himself. Then: “You will be unusually receptive to new ideas. Your native Sagittarian skepticism will quickly see through someone who is trying to influence you. That must be me.”
“Probably.” Tim remained cool. “I’m not a believer in astrology, you know.”
“Neither am I. But Hitler is, and so are most of the people who read Walter Winchell with moving lips. Also, a surprising number of politicians. Washington’s the city of clairvoyants. Life’s so uncertain for politicians.” Cuneo shut his notebook. “We’re syndicating nationally a distinguished Hungarian astrologist. Number one in his field. Hitler always reads him. Lately, our Magyar sees good things for us. Very good things.”
“This stuff … works?” Tim was surprised.
“Why not? Sort of like the polls, only not so tough to control. We have quite a time getting the good Dr. Gallup, when he polls our innocent folks, to ask our questions the
right
way.”
Tim was now at home. Hollywood studios had been using polls for years and they knew that the way a question was asked predetermined the answer. Movies and politics were uncertain activities not, if possible, to be left entirely to dangerous chance.
“We have some input with Elmo Roper’s poll. But that’s because his major client is
Time, Life, Fortune
magazines and Henry Luce is with us, at the moment. Roper says that sometimes he will do a poll to serve Harry’s interests only to find that Harry’s changed his mind and re-slants the poll. At Gallup we have a more discreet arrangement. We all think, Tim, that your picture could make quite an impression this spring.”
“I certainly hope it will.…” Tim was uninformative. Cuneo chewed rather than smoked a fresh cigar.
“The
real
figures—from Gallup and the rest—are not so good. For the Allies, that is.”
Curious to see how Cuneo meant to play him, he played Cuneo. “Well, we’re an isolationist country, and since we got nothing out of the last war, why go that route again?” Tim used the familiar isolationist line.
Cuneo nodded. “So why help England pull her chestnuts out of the fire
“In which case, Mr. Cuneo, why are you—and the British and all the others—swarming about Washington and Hollywood and the New York
Times
…?”
“
Our
paper is the New York
Herald Tribune
.” Cuneo chuckled. “You’d think that the
Times
, with a Jewish owner, would be helpful but Sulzberger is afraid of not seeming to be ‘even-handed,’ as he calls it, so we rely on Mrs. Reid and the
Tribune
to get our views to the people.”
“To the wealthy Anglophiles of New York, anyway—as Senator Borah would have said.”
Cuneo crossed himself, eyes to the ceiling. “Heaven forbid that we are so elitist. Anyway we have Walter Winchell and Drew for the great public. Walter’s column is in a thousand papers. That’s twelve hundred words or more a day, six days a week. Then there’s his Sunday radio broadcast, which I also help with. Millions hear us.”
“You do this for nothing?”
“I do it for the President. Not to mention the lawsuits my clients get themselves into which I have to get them out of. Drew’s the worst. Walter sounds fierce when on the attack but basically he’s an actor. Drew is a believer. Drew’s righteous. Drew’s a killer.”
Tim was impressed, the object of Cuneo’s exercise. But to what end? He asked; got an answer. “We need your help, that’s all.” Cuneo opened a briefcase on the banquette beside him. “Let’s see what your horoscope says. You don’t have to bother to give me your date and time of birth because I have it all here.” He was looking through a notebook. “Here we are. Sagittarius, Moon in the House of …” He muttered to himself. Then: “You will be unusually receptive to new ideas. Your native Sagittarian skepticism will quickly see through someone who is trying to influence you. That must be me.”
“Probably.” Tim remained cool. “I’m not a believer in astrology, you know.”
“Neither am I. But Hitler is, and so are most of the people who read Walter Winchell with moving lips. Also, a surprising number of politicians. Washington’s the city of clairvoyants. Life’s so uncertain for politicians.” Cuneo shut his notebook. “We’re syndicating nationally a distinguished Hungarian astrologist. Number one in his field. Hitler always reads him. Lately, our Magyar sees good things for us. Very good things.”
“This stuff … works?” Tim was surprised.
“Why not? Sort of like the polls, only not so tough to control. We have quite a time getting the good Dr. Gallup, when he polls our innocent folks, to ask our questions the
right
way.”
Tim was now at home. Hollywood studios had been using polls for years and they knew that the way a question was asked predetermined the answer. Movies and politics were uncertain activities not, if possible, to be left entirely to dangerous chance.
“We have some input with Elmo Roper’s poll. But that’s because his major client is
Time, Life, Fortune
magazines and Henry Luce is with us, at the moment. Roper says that sometimes he will do a poll to serve Harry’s interests only to find that Harry’s changed his mind and re-slants the poll. At Gallup we have a more discreet arrangement. We all think, Tim, that your picture could make quite an impression this spring.”
“I certainly hope it will.…” Tim was uninformative. Cuneo chewed rather than smoked a fresh cigar.
“The
real
figures—from Gallup and the rest—are not so good. For the Allies, that is.”
Curious to see how Cuneo meant to play him, he played Cuneo. “Well, we’re an isolationist country, and since we got nothing out of the last war, why go that route again?” Tim used the familiar isolationist line.
Cuneo nodded. “So why help England pull her chestnuts out of the fire
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