In the brilliant autumn of 1951, Estes Kefauver first entered the American scene as a Presidential candidate. Awkward as Ichabod Crane, tall as Bunyan, Lincolnesque in profile, this lean index finger of a man stirred the voting public who saw in him a frontier fighter with the bloody scalps of gangsterdom slapping slick against his hips.
His hand was long, thick and strong. And handsomely manicured. It was thrust out in an ever-ready greeting. “My name is Estes Kefauver,” he would announce in a soft drawl. “I’m running for the Presidency and I’d be honoured to have your vote.”
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