INVESTIGATIONS: The Mystery Man

Throughout the House investigation of the Internal Revenue Bureau scandal, one name kept popping up with mysterious regularity. It was the name of Henry Grunewald, a shadowy Washington operator who apparently enjoyed a large and useful set of acquaintances among the influence peddlers. Theron Lamar Caudle, the ousted Assistant Attorney General, testified that it might have been Grunewald who called Chicago Attorney Abraham Teitelbaum and warned him to pay off a tidy item of $500,000 if he wanted to stay out of income-tax trouble. Charles Oliphant, the resigned Revenue Bureau counsel, admitted that he was a close friend of Grunewald and had talked to him about the Teitelbaum case. Frank Nathan and Bert Naster, the two Florida promoters identified in Teitelbaum's testimony as shakedown agents for a Govern ment "clique," were both friends of Grunewald. When Mystery Man Grunewald finally appeared on Capitol Hill last week, the investigators could hardly wait to unravel his fascinating story.

But things went wrong, right from the start. "Why, I've seen that guy around a hundred times," said one waiting photographer. "I thought he was just an ex-pug." Grunewald, a stumplike man with a florid face and a squashed nose, seemed willing enough to talk. His lawyer, however, had different ideas. Mincing around in front of Grunewald was dapper William Power Maloney, who chirruped: "He's not answering any questions." "Say ah," teased a reporter, but Henry wouldn't. Then lawyer and client disappeared into the subcommittee's hearing room.

Out of Order. Maloney fumed and shouted that his man would talk only at an open session, and the closed hearing broke up without a word of testimony from the mystery man. Next day the subcommittee suddenly decided to oblige Lawyer Maloney, and opened the doors. Brooklyn's Democratic Representative Eugene Keogh, substituting for Committee Chairman Cecil King, was armed with a gavel and a special pounding block for the big show. But before five minutes had gone by it was obvious that Maloney, his bluff called, was not going to let Grunewald answer questions even in open session. The lawyer tried to read a statement. Keogh, whamming away with his gavel, shouted: "Mr. Maloney, you're out of order. Mr. Maloney, the subcommittee is not listening to you." Roared Maloney: "I cannot see how you can fail to hear me."

Finally, Keogh agreed that Grunewald might read Maloney's statement. Grunewald fumbled with the pages, read haltingly, without even changing the phrases which referred to "my client." Essence of the statement: Grunewald wasn't going to answer any questions, because the subcommittee had turned itself into a trial court and was judging and convicting defendants without due process of law.

After an hour and 45 minutes of gavel-banging and intermittent bellowing, the subcommittee had the answers to just two questions: 1) Grunewald's name, and 2) his age (59). Grunewald was ordered to appear again in six weeks, and the committee adjourned for the holidays. The groundwork for a contempt-of-Congress citation had been laid, but that procedure might take as long as two years. What the subcommittee needed was Grunewald's testimony, now.