Philip reached for his hat and the check. Three accounts gone in two months. What would old Foster say? And, as he walked glumly out the door behind Peabody, he heard the voice again. ‘Philip,’ it coaxed, ‘we had so much fun last night. Why can’t you remember?’
Steven Foster returned to his office in the middle of the afternoon. He walked through all the departments of the agency, looked into all the offices, stopped and talked to a man here, a girl there. Foster had been in advertising for over thirty-five years. He had started his own agency with Brown, long since dead, twenty years before. There had been times when he had written most of the copy – he had even helped with layout – when the agency was hard-hit by the depression and they were losing most of their clients. He was of the old school of advertising men, a man who could write a book or a rateholder, sell banks or soap.
He took a paternal pride in his force and showed an interest in their welfare that was frequently unwelcome. It was not uncommon for him to stop a secretary whose eyes seemed tired and whose face was pale and command her ‘to get more sleep at nights’. And he had been known to sniff a copywriter’s breath. He walked into the art department without knocking and loved to make detailed comments on finished artwork that drove the art directors out of their minds. Each ad. had to be personally approved by him – he was reputed to know every schedule in the agency. On occasion he had kept the production men working day and night to get an intaglio layout proofing up right – he had once even invaded the precinct of a syndicate’s rotogravure shop to demand a sharper definition in the printing of a client’s trademark. But he made up for this driving mania for perfection, or so he reasoned himself, by his generosity. His wages were among the highest in the business, his employees shared equally in the agency’s profits, his Christmas bonuses were enormous. But as one paste-up boy put it, ‘I’d rather do without an extra finn at Christmas so’s I didn’t have to worry every day in the week that the next minute I’d find old S.F. breathing down my neck telling me to move the logo a sixteenth of an inch and watch that I set that cut down at exactly a 40 degree angle.’
The aloof severity that marked Steven Foster’s manner was actually a kind of restraint. He was naturally a man who itched to get his hands into everything, who was supremely confident that he could do any man’s job better than that man. Often he could, but he had learned that he could not always prove his abilities. And he was the same way about his loves and hates. He liked few people. He loved many and hated many. A man could become his deep friend, without the man’s knowing it, within the duration of a handshake – and a man could become a bosom enemy in as short a space. But Foster kept his feelings hidden, revealing them, if at all, only in crisis. As a result, everyone feared him, even his daughter – for whom he held the deepest love.
When he had finished his stroll through the agency, Foster returned to his own office and seated himself behind the broad desk. He kicked open the bottom drawer on which he rested his foot, picked up his telephone and asked the switchboard girl to tell Miss Grey to come in to see him. While he waited for Philip’s secretary to arrive, he bit the end off a fresh cigar, lighted it and exhaled clouds of smoke at the ceiling.
Like many wealthy men, he was unused to having people say no to him and when it happened he was hurt; although he usually hid his feelings behind a gruff taciturnity. His temper was particularly short at this moment because Dorothy had refused to agree to divorce Philip. Foster had argued with her for an hour at lunch, yet she had remained steadfast. ‘You know that I have usually followed your advice, father, but you must realize that this is one problem that I have to solve for myself. You can grumble and berate me as much as you like, but I shall make up my own mind.’
Her adamancy especially rankled Steven, since he had never liked Philip and was pleased that Dorothy’s marriage was not working out. His reasons for not liking Philip were, for him, the best ones. He knew no Banters, had never heard of the family, and none of his friends had either. But Dorothy had insisted on marrying him, and he had been unable to prevent her since she had been of age. He had toyed with the idea of disinheriting her, but had dismissed that as being petty. Actually, he had been more than generous. He had given the puppy more than enough rope: a good job, a handsome apartment, a responsibility in the agency. He chuckled. It was working out just as he thought it would… although no one could say he had not been willing to give Philip a chance…
‘Yes, Mr Foster?’ Miss Grey had come into the room without him hearing her. She was standing in front of his desk, a slight smile on her face. Good girl!
Steven Foster glanced at her, and then nodded his head. He did not speak.
‘Mr Banter came into the office about four o’clock yesterday afternoon. He had not been in all day. He seemed as if he had been drinking. I am not sure as I did not get close enough to him to catch his breath.’ The girl spoke mechanically as if she were reciting. ‘I waited around until five-thirty, at which time he came out and told me to go home. Remembering your instructions not to do anything suspicious, I left. However, I gave the charwoman a dollar and asked her to tell me if Mr Banter was still there when she cleaned his office. She told me this morning that he was still in his office at six o’clock, and that he was very drunk. She said he had his typewriter out on his desk, but he was just staring at it. He had not written a thing.’
The girl paused and looked at Foster. He nodded his head again, and she went on. ‘This morning Mr Banter arrived about ten o’clock. He had been drinking. He went into his office and, a moment later, called me in. He asked me why I had let somebody use his typewriter. I told him that nobody had used his typewriter but himself. Then why was it open on his desk? he asked. I told him that he had left it open the night before. He got very angry and told me that I was to make sure that his typewriter was shut up before I left. Apparently he had forgotten that I left ahead of him last night.’
Miss Grey stopped, and stood waiting for her employer to speak.
‘Where is Mr Banter now?’
‘He went to lunch with Mr Peabody shortly before noon. His appointment was for one o’clock. He has not returned.’
The old man smiled. ‘Thank you, Miss Grey. That will be all for now.’ He held up his hand as she started to leave. ‘Except that you might tell Mr Banter to see me as soon as he comes in.’
Miss Grey opened the door. ‘Yes, Mr Foster,’ she said.
She shut the door and Steven Foster sat staring at it, chewing vigorously at the end of his cigar. ‘I’ll teach the puppy!’ he said.
Philip had a drink, and then another before he returned to the office. He would not have come back that day, if he had not had an appointment with old Foster at four. As it was, he needed the false courage of the whisky.
He joked half-heartedly with Sadie on his way up in the elevator, and was careful not to look at the starched elegance of the receptionist as he entered the offices. He did not go back to his own cubicle, so Miss Grey did not have a chance to deliver her message. Philip knew that there was no use putting off the inevitable. He strode right into Steven Foster’s private office.
The old man was still sitting, chewing on the end of a now dead cigar, his feet propped up on an open drawer. He did not look around when Philip came into the room, but he did glance up when Philip laid the presentation down on the polished surface of the desk.
‘How many O.K.s did you get?’ Foster asked.
Philip shook his head.
‘Not a one?’
Philip did not answer.
‘What does he want us to do?’
Philip cleared his throat. Everything was bright and clear now. He heard no ringing, no voice. But still it was all he could do to hold on to himself. He stared at the hard lines of Steven Foster’s face, the etched wrinkles and the wide, compressed angle of the mouth, the obscenity of the limp cigar. He felt himself sinking into that face, being devoured by it…
‘There will be no new campaign
,’ he said. ‘We have lost the account.’
The old man took his cigar out of his mouth and laid it gently in the gold-plated ashtray. He stood up slowly. He walked slowly around the large desk until he was standing directly opposite Philip.
‘I am going to give you a month’s notice, Philip,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Through the end of December. Call it a Christmas present if you want.’ He held out his hand.
Philip took it and shook it grimly. There was nothing else to do.
Miss Grey saw Philip go into Steven Foster’s office. She went to the water-cooler, which was near the president’s office, and stood by it. She had finished two Dixie Cups of water and was about to start on a third, when she saw Philip come out of the door. His face was flushed, his lips compressed, his eyes defiant. Miss Grey turned slightly so that as he went past the water cooler, he would not see her. As soon as he had gone down the hall to his own office, she followed him. But she did not go back to her desk. Instead she knocked on the door of the office next to Philip’s. And when a masculine voice cried, ‘Come in!’ she went inside.
This office was as large as Philip’s and hers put together, but four desks occupied it. Two of these were empty, at a third a young woman was diligently typing – she did not look up when Miss Grey entered – and at a fourth a young man was sitting staring out of the window with his hands behind his head. Miss Grey went to this last desk. The young man looked up at her.
‘What is it, Alice?’ he asked.
‘I’d like to see you tonight, Tom. For just a few minutes.’
The man smiled, he had a nice smile, and looked at his watch. ‘The usual place? After work?’
Alice Grey nodded her head.
‘Good,’ said the young man.
The girl at the other desk went on typing.
‘The usual place’ was a restaurant on the lower level of the R.C.A. building. Alice Grey was there at ten minutes after five, and she waited another ten minutes before Tom Jamison arrived. They found a booth and ordered beers.
‘What do you have to tell me that couldn’t wait until I came for you at eight? Or did you forget we have a date tonight?’
Miss Grey reached over and squeezed his hand. ‘I didn’t forget, of course. But I just learned something that was too good to keep.’
‘What?’
‘I think that Philip Banter is going to be fired!’
Tom looked at her, barely suppressing a smile. ‘Are you sure?’
‘No, I’m not sure. But he’s been getting worse and worse. And, you know, I’ve had to report everything he did to Mr Foster each day. Well, when I told him he was drunk again last night, you should have seen his face! He thanked me, but he was very angry. Then I saw Philip go into his office and come out within two or three minutes. Something had happened, Tom – I’m sure! I could tell by the way Philip acted. I’m thinking that he fired Philip this afternoon!’
Tom sipped his beer. ‘What has this to do with me?’ he asked coldly.
Miss Grey bit her lip. ‘But, Tom, this is just what we’ve been working towards.’
‘Just because Philip loses his job – that doesn’t mean I get it again.’
‘Who will S.F. put in his place but you? Someone will have to take care of those accounts. You always did it well, before Philip came. Oh, Tom, this is what we’ve been working towards for months!’
Tom Jamison allowed himself a smile. Actually, he agreed with Alice that if Philip had lost his job, old Foster would give it back to him. And why not? Had Foster ever had any reason for taking him off those accounts in the first place, except that of making room for Philip? Now, Tom would get a little of his own back.
But all he said was, ‘Drink up, Alice, and let’s get out of here. Someone might hear us talking.’
* Steven Foster referred to the mysterious death of Frances Raye, in which Dr Matthews was innocently involved. The psychiatrist solved this mystery with the aid of the police and gained some fame. cf. The Deadly Percheron.
3
‘Oh, Philip, how beautiful! How sweet of you!’
Dorothy could not keep from beaming. Philip was pleased by her pleasure. It was ever-surprising to him to see how ingenuously happy a woman could be over a simple gift of flowers. Childish, yes, but wonderful – a constant in an inconsistent world.
‘Whatever made you think of them, darling?’
She was fussing with the stems, filling a vase with water, arranging them on the mantelpiece. While he watched, he noticed for the first time that she was wearing a dinner dress. Were they going out? He would have to remember to ask her.
‘I saw them in the window,’ he said, ‘and I thought of you.’
Dorothy had finished arranging the blood-red flowers, but she seemed loath to leave them; she stood looking at them, her head tilted upwards. Philip could discern the whiteness of the part in her glossy hair. He walked over to her, placed his hands gently on her bare shoulders, turned her about and kissed her. She was warm and sweetly scented.
‘It was nice of you to think of them tonight, Philip – when we are having company that we can show them off to.’
There was a circular mirror above the fireplace; Philip looked into it, over her shoulder, and saw his own long face grow grim. ‘Company? Tonight? Whom?’
‘Jeremy and a friend. He called up this afternoon and asked if we’d be in. I tried to get you at the office, but the switchboard girl said you and father were in conference. Why, Philip, what’s wrong? Are you ill?’
Dorothy put her arm around him and helped him to the sofa. Her dark eyes were suddenly anxious, her hands quick to feel his brow, to unbutton his shirt – her voice was sincerely worried.
‘Your face changed so abruptly, Philip. You’re still pale – tell me what’s wrong.’
‘I’m all right. I was… startled.’ It had been a shock. He had quite forgotten about the ‘Confession’. He must hold on to his wits. He dare not let her know.
‘Well, if you’re sure you’re all right…?’
He patted her hand. He was very fond of her: the gentleness of her ways, the ease with which she moved, her sincerity. ‘I’m all right, Dorothy. I don’t know what came over me, but it’s passed.’
‘I was telling you about Jeremy, when all at once I thought you were having some sort of an attack.’
‘You said Jeremy called and told you he was bringing a friend. Are they coming to dinner? Did he mention his friend’s name?’
‘Some girl. He said we hadn’t met. He said he wanted me to see her. Philip, do you know what?’
‘No.’
‘Philip, I do believe Jeremy’s in love! It certainly sounded like it over the ’phone. Oh, I hope he is! It would do him so much good. You know I’ve always said…’
Philip stood up. He staggered. Dorothy jumped up, caught at him – but by then he had found his balance.
‘Philip, are you sure you’re all right? You almost fell.’
‘I’m perfectly all right. I’ll go in and change my clothes now. Nothing is the matter with me. It was just that something you said startled me.’
‘But, Philip, I was only telling you about Jeremy. Why should that have startled you?’
‘I must have been thinking about something else at the time. I’ll go in and change now.’
‘I’ll be in the kitchen with cook if you need me, Philip.’
He looked back at her as he left the room, and he saw that she was watching him. She looked like a little girl in a sophisticated dress. A worried little girl.
Philip felt sorry for his wife. He almost felt like crying.
He sat on the bed, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, thinking. Was the impossible about to happen? Was all that the ‘Confession’ predicted about to come true? No, he couldn’t believe that. This was a coincidence. To think otherwise was superstition. And it was to deny his own will. The rest of the prophecy would not happen because he would kee
p it from happening. If he knew the danger he had to face, as he did, he could avoid it. He would not allow himself to look at this girl Jeremy was bringing, not even one glance.
But it had been a shock. Wasn’t it strange how he had managed to forget that damnable story? Not so strange, after all. You don’t get fired every afternoon, and when such a calamity does befall you tend to think of nothing else. If the ‘Confession’ was so good, why didn’t it predict that? No, of course, the manuscript had said nothing about what would happen that afternoon. It concerned itself only with what was to happen that evening.
Why couldn’t he have continued to forget about it? If it was going to happen anyway… He had been completely happy in Dorothy’s happiness, her unalloyed joy over his gift. He had even managed to stop thinking about the things Foster had said, the curt way he had discharged him. And then she had said that – practically the way she had said it in the manuscript. Or had she used the same words? Was this only a trick of his imagination? He could not tell without re-reading those pages still safely locked in his desk drawer at the office.
Why not plead illness? Why not go to bed? Dorothy would believe him since she already feared that he was ill. If he said he was sick, then he would not have to meet Jeremy or his friend.
Or his friend. Was he admitting the possibility that Jeremy’s friend would be the woman in the manuscript? Did that mean that, so soon, he was ready to give up? Was superstitious panic this close to the surface? A few mysterious occurrences, none of them definite proof of the manuscript’s predictions, and he was ready to abandon all logic, all reason, to a savage irresolution!
The Last of Philip Banter Page 5