The Proud Shall Stumble

by Gerald N. Lund

  “I know.” Then a tiny smile played around the corners of his mouth. “But can you honestly tell me that when you were getting ready this morning, you didn’t think, ‘I want Frank to see how beautiful I am. I want him to see what he turned his back on’?”

  It had caught Celeste totally by surprise, and she was clearly startled by his question. Then she emphatically shook her head. “I can honestly say that thought never crossed my mind.”

  “You lie,” Frank laughed softly.

  “I know,” Celeste said, giving him her first genuine smile of the day. “But don’t let it go to your head.”

  2:48 p.m.

  Frank had worked on his research project until lunchtime. He compiled all of the notes he had made in Germany and began organizing them into what would eventually become his presentation outline. Realizing how exhausted he really was, he had made himself a toasted cheese sandwich and opened a can of Campbell’s tomato soup. After that simple lunch he had gone up to their bedroom and slept for two hours.

  Now he was prowling around the house, restless and frustrated. There were a thousand things that needed doing, but all he could think of was Celeste and their conversation. And when Margitte crept into his thoughts, he mentally lashed himself for his stupidity. He more fully understood now that he had hurt them both very deeply.

  Finally, he turned to the stack of mail piled on the desk in their study. Celeste had been gone for two months, Frank for two and a half weeks, and a large pile on the floor had been inside the door below the mail slot. He had picked it all up and put it aside before Celeste came. Now he decided to dive into it.

  He sorted through it, tossing aside the magazines, catalogs, and other incidental mail and focusing on a stack of six envelopes with the name and address of the New England Colonial Bank and Trust. That was their bank, because that was her father’s bank. But these were not the usual bank statements. These were larger envelopes, and to Frank’s surprise, when he opened them, he found there were monthly reports on the stock Celeste had purchased with her trust fund money back in December. They were addressed to Mr. Frank Arthur Westland and Mrs. Celeste Babette Dickerson Westland, which made Frank smile. He had told Celeste it was her money, but she had put both of their names on the investments.

  Frank did a quick cursory read of each one and started to set them aside. Then something caught his attention, and he went back and studied them more closely. When he finished that, he rummaged through the desk drawers and found a notepad. Then he got a pencil and started taking notes as he studied the reports more closely.

  An hour later he sat back, staring blankly at the pile of stock dividend reports before him. Then he turned and carefully read through his pad full of notes again. Finally, he opened another drawer and took out the phonebook for the greater Boston area. He searched through the B’s, found the number he wanted, and ­dialed it.

  “Hello?” It was a man’s voice.

  “Is this Jeremy Blackburn?”

  “Yes. And who is this?”

  “It’s Frank Westland, Jeremy.”

  “Hey! I thought you were in Germany.”

  “I was. Just got back last night.”

  “Great. What’s up? I’d love to have lunch together before we jump back into the grind. I’d like to hear about how it went over there.”

  “I’d like that,” Frank replied. “I’m still sorting out my schedule, but I’ll give you a ring. But I’ve got a question for you.”

  “Fire away.”

  “You’re an economist. So I assume you know something about stocks.”

  “I should hope so. I teach two classes on the stock market this term,” Jeremy said.

  “Great. So here’s my question. What can you tell me about selling stocks on margin, margin calls, and margin maintenance levels?”

  “Whoa!” Jeremy laughed. “Don’t tell me that Frank Westland, who thinks that a savings account in the bank is a risky investment, is thinking about getting into the stock market.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Margins are heavy stuff, my friend. And that will take a while because you have to understand the wider context of how buying and selling stocks works before you can understand margins. But, it’s a good time to get in. Stocks are booming. People are calling it the new gold rush, the quickest way to accumulate significant wealth.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Frank said. “What if I bought you dinner tonight? Let’s say at the Brae Burn Country Club. Then we could take whatever time it takes for you to educate a physicist who is a babe when it comes to financial matters.”

  “You’re on. Name the time.”

  August 19, 1929, 8:53 a.m.—

  New England Colonial Bank and Trust, Boston

  When Reginald Dickerson came around the corner from the bank’s parking lot, Frank quickly ducked down behind his car. But his father-in-law wasn’t looking in his direction. Someone had appeared at the front doors and opened them. Reginald smiled at the woman and disappeared inside. She relocked the door.

  Frank moved back into the shadows of the building that was directly across the street and watched the top floor closely. When the lights in the corner office came on, he relaxed a little. He knew that the president and chairman of the board rarely came down into the main part of the bank during a normal working day. He went back to his car and climbed in, his eyes fixed on the front door of the bank.

  9:00 a.m.

  The moment he saw the woman at the door again, Frank was out of the car with his briefcase in hand. He waited a moment for passing traffic and then darted across the street. The woman was just unlocking the two side doors. Frank smiled and nodded at her as he stepped up to the revolving doors. “Good morning,” he said cheerfully.

  “Good morning, sir. How are you today?”

  “I’m wonderful. Thank you for asking.”

  Frank went inside, letting his eyes quickly take in the situation. The lobby of the New England Colonial Bank and Trust was all polished marble, polished mahogany, and polished brass. Frank looked for a moment and couldn’t find a single smudge on any of it. Polished to perfection, as always. The whole west wall of the lobby was taken up by ten tellers’ cages. There were four tellers in their cages, all ready and waiting for their first customers. They smiled at him as he entered. Behind the cages, the large steel vault could be seen. Currently, its massive door was open, though there was a metal latticework door blocking entry into the vault itself.

  The rest of the bank’s main floor was divided off from the lobby by a waist-high mahogany railing with posts set in circular brass bases. Behind the railing were numerous desks with nameplates like Mr. Oscar Robbins, Senior Loan Officer; Miss Gwen Roper, New Accounts; or Mr. Wilbur Whitworth, Accounts Manager. The woman who had opened the bank went through a swinging half door in the railing and took a seat at the nearest desk. Her nameplate read Mrs. Minerva Anderson, Customer Relations. Most of the desks were already occupied by their owners, and they were busily engaged in their work.

  Frank debated whether to start with one of the tellers but then decided they would probably send him to one of these desk officers anyway, so he turned and headed for Mrs. Anderson. She had just sat down when she noticed him approaching. She got to her feet again, the bright smile instantly back.

  “Yes?” she said as she reached the railing and stopped. “May I help you, sir?”

  “Yes, thank you. My name is Frank Westland. My wife and I have an account here, and—”

  “Ah, yes,” she said brightly. “I thought I recognized you. You’re Celeste’s husband.”

  “Yes, I am,” Frank said, glad that she hadn’t said, “You’re Mr. Dickerson’s son-in-law.”

  “We heard that you were back from Europe now. Welcome home, Mr. Westland. How may I help you?”

  Frank hesitated. He had planned this out carefully, but now he wasn�
��t sure if her recognizing him would work in his favor or to his detriment. But she was here, so he reached into his pocket and withdrew the safety deposit box key he had found in the desk drawer at home and held it up. “First of all, I need to get into our safety deposit box for a few minutes. I need to check on a couple of things there. Then—” He gave the woman an embarrassed look. “I apologize for this, but I just got back yesterday. All of our things are still in storage.” It was technically true, if you considered their home a storage unit. “And I’ve got a meeting this morning where I need the information on our bank account. Is it possible to find that out?”

  “Of course. Checking or savings?”

  “Uh . . . both, if it’s not too big of an inconvenience for you.”

  “Not at all. And did you just need the account balance, or do you need to see the accounting sheets?”

  “The latter would be more helpful for my needs. Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all. How far back would you like me to pull the monthly statements?”

  That took Frank aback. He hadn’t thought about that. “Um . . . I think the last three months will suffice for my needs this morning. If I need more, I’ll come back.”

  “All right.” The woman moved forward and opened a gate in the railing for him. “I’ll get the sheet to sign you in for your safety deposit box and then I can take you back. While you’re in the vault, I’ll have those records pulled.” She pointed to an empty desk near the window. “You won’t be allowed to take the records out with you, of course, but you can spend as much time as you need with them over there.”

  “You are most helpful,” Frank said, giving her his warmest smile.

  The woman went to one of the empty teller’s cages and came back a moment later with a half-sized black leather ledger book and a ring of keys. She took Frank’s key from him, wrote down the number of the box, signed beside it, and pushed the book toward him. “Sign there beside my name, Mr. Westland.”

  Frank did so and followed her back to the vault. She used both keys to open his box, removing hers when she was done but leaving his in the open door. She stepped back. “When you’re finished, replace the box, shut the door, and remove your key. That secures it again. Then come back to my desk and I’ll have those other papers for you.”

  “I will. This should only take me about ten minutes. Thank you.”

  The two or three hundred safety deposit boxes were in another vault at the back of the bank. All three walls were lined from floor to ceiling with the heavy metal boxes. There was also a small table and a single chair in the room.

  Frank closed the partition door between himself and the vault door and then removed the box with his number on it. It was long enough and wide enough to hold legal-sized papers and was about six inches tall. When he lifted the lid, he grunted in satisfaction. As he had hoped, the box was half filled with stock certificates. He removed them all and then took his notepad and a pen from his briefcase and set to work.

  About five minutes later someone knocked softly on the partition. “Mr. Westland?” The voice was muffled, but it was definitely male. Frank felt his heart give a little leap as he turned his head. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Westland, this is Peter Fuller. I am one of the executive vice presidents of the bank. May I have a word with you?”

  Though his heart was suddenly pounding, Frank kept his voice light. “All right. I’m almost finished here. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

  “Mr. Westland, please. There is an urgent matter we need to discuss. Please put your safety deposit box back in its place and come out so we can talk.”

  Frank got up and went to the door. He opened it only an inch or two and peered out at the balding man in a business suit. Frank didn’t know a lot about banks, but he did know that while customers were opening their safety deposit boxes, their privacy was paramount. “What is it?”

  “There has been a restriction. . . .” Mr. Fuller stopped, realizing that was not the best choice of words. “A question has come up about your account that needs to be resolved. If you’ll come out, I can explain further.”

  Frank wanted to punch the door. This was Reginald’s work, of that there was no doubt. “A question?” he repeated, still making sure he was blocking any view into the room. “I have not been informed of any question.”

  “I believe that you have been out of the country, sir.”

  “True, but I’ve been back for a full day. I had no notifications in my mail. No messages from the bank. What is going on here?”

  “That is what I wish to resolve. If you will please step out, I’m sure that we can—”

  “I’m almost finished, Mr. Fuller. I’ll be out in just a few minutes.” Frank started to shut the door, but suddenly Fuller was pushing back, not trying to open it but stopping Frank from shutting it. “Mr. Westland, until this matter is resolved I cannot allow you to remove any items from your safety deposit box.”

  “Oh, well, that’s easy enough. I have no plans to take anything out of here.” And with that, Frank pushed the door shut.

  Five minutes later he opened the door wide. “All right, Mr. Fuller. I am done. Thank you for your patience. As you can see, everything has been returned to the box.”

  Mr. Fuller’s expression was a curious mixture of anger, perplexity, embarrassment, and determination. “I am so sorry, Mr. Westland, but I must ask you to open your briefcase and confirm that you have taken nothing out of the safety deposit box.”

  Frank decided to get a little huffy. “This is more than unusual, sir. I thought that the contents of a person’s box were strictly confidential.”

  Mr. Fuller’s face flushed. “Uh . . . that is true, but this is a highly unusual circumstance. And I assure you that it has nothing to do with you personally, Mr. Westland. It is a bank matter, but it must be resolved.”

  Nothing personal? Frank wanted to laugh in his face. But he decided it was time to back down. “No problem,” he said cheerfully. He set the briefcase on the table and withdrew a thick sheaf of papers, careful to make sure his notepad was on the bottom and not visible. “These are research notes I made while I was recently in Germany. It’s for my professorship at M.I.T. I only had one copy, and since they are very valuable, I was making another copy for safekeeping.

  Another small lie, but who was counting? “Will there be anything else?” Frank asked, walking out of the vault. Mr. Fuller followed closely and shut the metal grating.

  “I’m afraid so. Mrs. Anderson informed me of your request to look at the monthly statements of your checking and savings accounts. That is a most unusual request, Mr. Westland. The bank sends you and your wife monthly statements, and you are expected to keep those for your records.”

  “Did she tell you—”

  “Yes, she explained about things being in storage. But I am confident that you can access those records without too much difficulty.”

  “Not by eleven o’clock,” Frank snapped, deciding it was time to get a little nasty with this officious little underling of Reginald Dickerson’s. That’s where his orders had come from, and it infuriated Frank that Reginald was trying to shut him out. “I am meeting with some people on a possible investment opportunity. I need to know how much money is in our accounts.”

  “Does your wife know about this?”

  Frank, momentarily startled, gave the man a hard look. “Is that really a question you are allowed to ask? We are joint signers on the account.”

  Mr. Fuller backpedaled instantly. “Of course not. I apologize. I just. . . .” He shrugged. “We can give you the account balances for each month on both accounts if you’d like, but I’m afraid we cannot pull the past records without your wife being here as well, or without permission of the president of the bank.”

  Having Reginald come down was the last thing Frank wanted, but he needed more than balances. He hit on a possible compromi
se. Speaking in a more conciliatory tone, he said, “Look, Mr. Fuller, I’m not trying to make things difficult for you. But the account balances alone are not enough. Mrs. Westland and I have separate incomes, so a lump sum figure doesn’t help. We’ll both be investing, but with possible different options.”

  Relief flooded Fuller’s face. “Oh. I see. Mrs. Anderson can easily compile separate figures for the both of you. Would that suffice?”

  Frank thoughtfully considered that, enjoying making Fuller squirm some more, and then finally nodded. “That would be fine. Thank you, Mr. Fuller. I didn’t mean to be difficult.” He glanced up at the big clock on the wall. “I’m just feeling a little time pressure.”

  “I understand. It’s no problem.” Mr. Fuller pointed toward the main entrance. “There are some chairs by the front door. If you would wait there, I’ll have Mrs. Anderson bring the information to you as quickly as possible.”

  “That would be wonderful. Thank you so much.”

  “You are welcome.” He opened the gate for Frank and stepped back. Frank took three steps and then turned back. “Oh, one other thing.”

  Fuller actually winced. Frank smiled pleasantly. “I’d like to withdraw all of the funds that I have deposited in the savings account except for five hundred dollars. My funds will be easy to identify because M.I.T. sends my checks each month directly here to the bank.”

  “And what about your wife’s deposits?” Mr. Fuller was tense as an alley cat again.

  “Oh, no. That will be up to her. She may come in a little later.”

  Fuller actually smiled. “Then that should be no problem, Mr. Westland. Would you like it in a check or cash?”

  “Cash, I think.” Frank hadn’t expected that question.

  “Your balance is well over seven thousand dollars, Mr. Westland. Are you sure you want to take that much cash out onto the streets?”

  Frank tried not to look surprised. With Reginald and Babette constantly paying off numerous expenses for their daughter, he and Celeste had decided to have the university send his checks directly to the bank. He hadn’t really thought about how much cash he would be withdrawing. “Hmm,” he said. “Your concerns are well founded. Is it possible to get a bank draft, or whatever you call it, so I could deposit it to another bank? Even an out-of-state bank?”