‘Raccamond, every woman is a whore, but the whores are the ones who never learned the game: every banker is a poker shark but the Eddie McCaheys are the poor fellows who don’t get away with it. What is a whore? A poor girl who never had a chance to go into business with a man and set up a little home of her own. The same with the little swindlers. I’m sorry for them. Haven’t you got a heart, Raccamond? Are you all for profit, dignity, reputation? Have you forgotten what sort of business you’re in? You’ll turn into a crank if you’re not careful. And I don’t have any cranks round me, Raccamond. Listen, there’s only one rule in business. Anyone’s money is good. That’s my rule. When money walks in the door, takes off its hat and says, “Here I am; I want to live with you,” the least of the polite things you can do, is to say, “Good day; take a seat.” How else are we to get business? You’re crazy if you’re waiting for clean money. Did you ever hear of clean money?’
Aristide bumbled on, ‘Yes, but women are difficult. Women don’t like gangsters, swindlers, and gamblers. What can I do? How will I explain? If it gets about—’ He turned his great neurotic lamps of eyes on Jules. ‘I can’t face her; I don’t know what to say, Mr. Bertillon.’
‘You make me laugh, Aristide. You go and see Mrs. Wilson and see what she says to you. I know that type. If she’s wronged send her up to me. But I bet she won’t be. Apologize if you want to, but don’t take arsenic. She’ll get over it. She’ll call herself a fool. She’s one of the few women clients we ever had that I really liked. And if she draws out her account; I don’t care. Women are tough but they’re yellow. They squeal as soon as the shoe pinches. They squeeze the last penny out of you and when they’re licked they expect a free loan. If I had my way I’d fill the bank with gangsters and sweep out the girls. They’re not sporting. Run along, Raccamond. It’s not as bad as you think. And don’t go round pulling that long face and telling people about the tragedy that’s happened in your life. Forget it. That’s the secret of success: forget every morning the scandals and insults of the day before. That’s the way to keep a pure heart and be happy though in business.’ He laughed Raccamond out the door, and went kicking his heels round the corridor to William’s room. But when he pushed open the door there, he frowned at William and Alphendéry whom he found there.
‘I say, I’ve got a hunch. Why don’t we fire Raccamond? I know all about his business; but he’s a crank. They spend all their spare time developing manias. He’s foaming at the mouth about how he’s going to explain to Mrs. Wilson about Eddie McCahey and how he’s going to build up the reputation of the bank. He’s got to explain to all Paris how poor old Eddie got into our stock-exchange room.’ His carillon rang out. ‘D’ye hear. Fire him.’
‘You fire him,’ said William.
‘Listen, I didn’t take him on. You two said he had the biggest accounts in Paris.’
‘No. You said that Jean de Guipatin said he was the best man Claude Brothers ever had.’
‘I never said that. I’m superstitious about him … I said I wouldn’t have anything to do with him. That’s what I said from the beginning. He must be a fool. He’s a Flying Dutchman … always appears in storms, always scuds before a shipwreck! He’s bad luck.’
Alphendéry laughed hopelessly. ‘How can you be so primitive, Jules? You’re no better than an Australian black with your superstitions.’
‘You’re crazy,’ said William with disgust.
‘What’s the use of being rich if you can’t be crazy?’ flung out Jules. ‘I have ideas and I pay other people to carry them out. They may sound crazy but they’re right because I pay for them. And then, I’m lucky. You may argue right and I may sound wrong, but I’ve got the wind with me and so I’m right even if I’m wrong.’
‘What a race of liars you all are!’ sighed Alphendéry. ‘You work day and night at your schemes and then you love to pretend it’s all pure luck; you just lie on your back with your mouth open and luck throws in pâté de foie gras.’
‘Ptt!’ said Jules. He darkened. ‘Listen, what’s this nominees’ game you thought up, Alphendéry? Why didn’t you come round this morning when I asked you? Why doesn’t anybody here do what I ask him?’
Alphendéry began, soothing, glinting, smiling, ‘I’ve been thinking about it, Jules. I wanted to get it pat before I put it to you. It sprang up from something Henri Léon said. You know, he’s got trusts for his whole family. But it’s not that.’
Jules melted at the sight of Alphendéry glittering, dewed with thought, melting with fertility, waxy with imagination, intent. Alphendéry seized this new love in a moment and began weaving a little figure of himself. ‘A Jew is like a spider because he sits and weaves; he is an alien because he can think; the Jews are not like the Goyim, no sitting round at polo matches, no “oo won?’ They think out schemes all the time, they have to think from babies … that’s why they’re not good leaders, too. Decision, giving commands, shouting at people, slitting Gordian knots, is often a way of expressing mental confusion.’ The telephone rang.
‘What?’ said Alphendéry: ‘What letters? FAQ? Yes, of course. FAQ.’
‘FAQ,’ said Jules, in a volatile state of mind: ‘I like that: sell five thousand: FAQ short for fakir.’
‘A businessman of genius,’ said Alphendéry, grinning wearily, ‘is no smarter than a pair of dice thrown up n times: the factors against his success are too numerous—hence his tragic belief in the coup that is to make him master of the situation. FAQ—‘fair average quality.’ Sell it short!’
‘Well, sell FAP if there’s a stock called that: I won’t be satisfied until you sell something.’ Jules interrupted, ‘I’ll tell you what, sell Allis-Chalmers.’
‘And why?’
‘I have a hunch.’
‘What hunch?’
‘Tony is leaving Aline for a girl called Alice Palmers.’
Was Jules mocking? Alphendéry didn’t know. He found that the bank was eighty-six thousand shares short on a nine per cent margin and he refused to sell any more. He had had two margin calls from Legris Brothers in the morning, and Jules had refused to put up any more margin. Was it charm, or was Jules partner to some secret undertaking with Legris Brothers?
‘This isn’t a life,’ murmured Alphendéry, disgusted, ‘it’s an insane asylum and I’m the keeper, not knowing what’s going on in their heads. I just have to take out the alarm clocks and alligators that they think they swallow, from time to time. And then they have the laugh on me: they know what’s what on the subject of alarm clocks.’
* * *
Scene Forty-four: City Whispers
E. Ralph Stewart took a pleasure in spitting out all his irritable idiosyncrasy in company, but his letters showed a brilliant and sometimes cool businessman, the ideal type of his class, and a perfect indicator of what the quickest (if not the most mellow) minds in the city thought. Finding Bertillon elfish and enigmatic, the straight-spoken Stewart communicated his ideas to Alphendéry. He looked upon Alphendéry as a man of his own type and stature—a poor boy who had risen by brains, personal attraction (for men), and lucky pertinacity to an undue influence in a jealous profession.
Early in July, Alphendéry spoke to him on the telephone, cautiously indicating that the Bertillon Bank had an interest in sterling and asking his opinion. Stewart wrote back:
3rd July, 1931
Dear Alphendéry,
I have been occupied and so unable to write to you before this. I am so rushed that even now I can’t send a personal note, which excuse. I think we both have the same ideas but local interests vary. Here is my view in a few words. Governments’ expenses must continue and be increased in all countries. Inflation will follow government expenses whether these are for unemployment payments or war expenditures, or both. My impression is that there will be peace long enough for every nation to be put on a war footing. In the meantime sporadic wars will be fostered and encouraged to
give an outlet and a try-out for the war materials. In any case, this seems to spell inflation. As to the mode and rhythm of inflation, as you put it: inflation starts in commodities and moves to currencies and stock markets. I see copper, tin, rubber, and wheat up in the next few months. The French and U.S. governments are one hundred per cent gold covered and so they can increase their credits and currencies to any amount.
In all countries the cost of living and wages must go up, or if not the latter, social insurance must increase. Of course, it is the rentier who will again be done in. Interest paying to the nonproductive class of rentiers must cease, for this is a type of social insurance we cannot now afford. It will be more economical in some little time from now for the nation to be divided scientifically into the two producing classes. I mean capital and labor. I have been divining this since 1929 and I think the events of the next six months to a year will bear me out.
Naturally there is much speculation; the Continent is busy. It has been my experience that August is one of the busiest months in general but there is no question that this year we will be snowed under.
The May report has caused a lot of discussion and some anxiety. Labor men are anxious about a rumored split and it is believed here that MacDonald will try to go to the country on a split, with a coalition following, to save sterling. But whatever the returns show, my belief is as I said above that some currency history will be written this year.
I hope all is well with you. You mentioned your health. The trip to Greece would be interesting. As for me, I would not be away from London until at least November.
Sincerely,
E. Ralph Stewart
Alphendéry showed this letter to Jules. ‘You see, he is sure of inflation. Let’s send some more of our gold to London. We can make a fortune on the bars of gold we have lying idle here.’
‘Sure, send it,’ said Jules. ‘Ring up the gold brokers and ask them to take care of it.’
When William saw the fatal letter, he strolled into Jules. ‘I say, you didn’t sign any contract with Carrière, did you?’
‘No,’ said Jules.
‘It’s just as well; the beggar seems to have all the clues.’
‘Ah, he’s not smart,’ said Jules. ‘They all know, don’t they? Didn’t Léon come here months ago with his check technique? Why, the Swiss banks must turn down a dozen projects a day for selling sterling forward. Everyone knows it. But who can hold out? I’m not going to sell sterling that fool way. I’ve got my Securities Guarantee Corporation formed by Adam Constant and I’ve got my gold. I’ll make plenty when sterling breaks and I can wait any length of time.’
A few days later, E. Ralph Stewart was in Paris and so was Davigdor Schicklgrüber, Lord Zinovraud’s man. The news of Bertillon’s gold transfers had got round the city somehow, even though no one had broken the seal of professional secrecy. Paul Méline found himself in the bank, quite by accident, trying to place a large block of shares just being brought out by one of his concerns, the Interland Finance Corporation, and Lord Brookings-Plessis tumbled in, in a good humor, to tout and panhandle in his usual profitable way.
Ralph Stewart avoided the crowd and was upstairs on the second floor explaining to Alphendéry, ‘A few businessmen like myself in the Midlands have formed a secret sort of vigilant committee, to study the present crisis and to suggest and propel any measures that we think should be taken to save the country. The people can’t be trusted and should not be trusted with the destinies of a nation like ours in a time like this.’
‘You don’t have to worry,’ said Alphendéry, ‘your Labour Party is conservative and your trades-union officials once elected are in by divine right—they can’t be kicked out.’
Stewart, unlike his usual self, was cool and amused, ‘They don’t suit the fishers in troubled waters, but they don’t suit us either. They’re in their own political game. You outsiders don’t understand English politics. They’ve kept the country away from prosperity for two and a half years.’ He flushed and a faint irritation appeared. ‘If by any accident they remain in or they are returned, we’ll use practical measures. We’ll withhold credits from them; we’ll destroy confidence in the country and send foreign holdings abroad. We’ll break the Labour domination one way or another. It wasn’t the Labour Party that made England and it hasn’t the right to ruin its credit …’
‘Why, that may be the City view,’ said Alphendéry, ‘but what about the rest of the country? The West, the industrial North, Scotland? The mines?’
‘The City is England,’ said Stewart obstinately.
* * *
‘
Scene Forty-five: Christian Stockbroker
I told you the market would go up,’ said Ralph Stewart to Alphendéry. ‘Things couldn’t keep at that level. It isn’t natural. Was Bertillon still a bear when the market turned up?’
‘Not so much,’ Alphendéry told him. ‘We cashed in before the turn.’ This was a lie.
‘I’m expanding. I’d like you to come over and see our new premises in Austin Friars: finest in the city. Did that boy of yours—Constant—send you any information? Do you really think he can get anything worth-while like that? I doubt it, I tell you, going there without introductions. Now, if you’d let me take my time and introduce him properly. I hear he was seen down in Shorters’ Court with Mulloney from Mulloney and Moonsteyn: showy fellow that Mulloney. Your man actually went round to the jobbers. My dear fellow, that’s absolutely not done!’ Stewart bridled and reddened at the idea.
‘And the jobber told him in fact what we wanted to know about Royal Dutch and C.P.R.,’ laughed Alphendéry.
‘Yes, but my dear fellow, you can’t do it—you can’t do things that way! No one can see the jobbers, my dear fellow, but ourselves. And we don’t see their books!’
Stewart was quite ruffled. Alphendéry began to wonder if he had come to Paris especially to tell him this. But no, his business sense was too good for that. Stewart looked at a pretty woman passing and cleared his throat. ‘Mme. Bertillon is a handsome woman,’ he remarked. ‘I like the European woman—simply can’t stand the English woman. They say, Mme. Bertillon has a lot of money in her own name.’
‘I believe she has. She was an heiress.’
Stewart was calmer and said with a gleam of humor, ‘Financial types are divided into two: those who end by ossifying, preserving, and protecting their estate; those who create eternally and so disappear without leaving anything but crusts behind. In this business it is old age which appears to have the temperament suitable for money survival—mean, narrow, querulous, hard, and conserving. Unpleasant, isn’t it? Now, Bertillon I don’t take to be that type?’
His little trip, thought Alphendéry, is to test our solvency or see what good clients we may be: nothing else—and of course, everyone relishes an excuse for a trip to Paris. While he was pondering this and fishing for a reply—it was hot, the air was blossomy, ripe, Stewart went on pregnantly, ‘There are only two ways of getting on in life—have so much money that you can tell everyone to go to hell or owe so much that you can tell everyone to whistle for it.’
‘I am certain Jules is in one of those positions,’ laughed Alphendéry, slyly looking up at the tall choleric Englishman.
‘I’ve got a smart young fellow in this week,’ pursued Stewart. ‘David Cohen, twenty-five. I have much more faith in Jews: they rarely let a Gentile down, always Jews, if anyone. But I’ve been in business all my life and never found them dishonest; quite the contrary. Of course, my opinion is not too popular. But I make my own. He was on the Commercial and Financial Chronicle, worked in some Yankee firm too, knows transatlantics backwards, and we’ll have a big business in them later on, when things look bad in Europe and better in England and America. Now, I’ll tell you frankly, Alphendéry, I don’t believe in stealing the best men of other firms, but I always try to if I have a good excuse. Bertillon’s-
very-nice-fellow’ (he suddenly said, apparently all in one syllable) ‘but-don’t-know-if-h’m-his-position-neither-do-you, neither-does-anyone. The-point-is-that-if-you-want-to-change, that’s-what-I-mean-and-want-to-throw-in-your-lot-with-us-and-can bring-some-of-those-accounts, when they’re thinking of moving to London, you know. I’ll be more than delighted to have you. Most extraordinary sympathy Englishmen have for you.’
‘Well, thanks very much.’ Alphendéry was touched. ‘Of course, just now, I couldn’t. Jules is a funny fellow and would take it as desertion. That’s what makes it difficult. If it comes to that, I’ll come in with you—on some serious basis, of course.’
‘Certainly, a junior partner, something like that. Naturally depends on the kind of accounts.’
‘A lot of people love me,’ said Alphendéry, ‘but between loving me and handing me their accounts is an Atlantic.’
The little pink lip, the little scrub mustache over the rat teeth trembled irritably, but no, Stewart was smiling and his eyeglasses were dancing. ‘I have confidence in you, Michel. H’m, h’m, Bertillon reminds me of a firm I worked with before the war—Incarnat, Oliver, and Company. You must have heard of them, although you were a boy then. Still, they made quite a name for themselves. Had a capital of about three million pounds, some days more, some days less. Every day they put the whole kitty on the table, gambled the whole amount every day: arbitrages, Yankees. They sent more orders for Yankees through London than the whole of the New York market. They made the market in Union Pacific, U.S. Steel—few others.’ His glasses glittered and his pink sharp face became softer and boyish. ‘It was exciting, by Jove, despite the risks. I wouldn’t mind going through it all again. There were some headaches—but isn’t all business headaches?— and nowadays no one gets the thrill we got in those days. My first job. By Jove, we had fun. At one time they had a short position in Union Pacific which exceeded the floating supply in the market! Were they ruined? Not that time. They had to come to terms with them, my dear fellow! The fact that they had oversold alone saved them. They had to come to terms with them: otherwise a world panic would have resulted. They would have been alive yet, but the World War got them. They didn’t believe a war was coming. It did. That was the end. They were left nursing a million quid of enemy bonds and stocks with all the markets in the world closed. Bertillon gives me the old familiar tingle when I come into his room. (It’s just instinct and I may be wrong.) Only, he’s not a partnership. He’s one man. A sort of Quixote with a couple of Sancho Panzas and a donkey and it doesn’t work. No Sancho Panza ever yet stopped a Quixote from getting his nose broken by a windmill. I sympathize with him. By Jove, yes. The Northwest Mounted, the Chicago gangsters, and a scrimmage in Mespot don’t compare with a plunge in stocks. But there’ll be another war one of these days and he’ll guess wrong. I’m thinking of you, Alphendéry. London will then be the natural deposit bank for all these Continentals; one war scare and they’ll fly to us. Why not forestall them? I am. Not now, of course. Even that fellow of yours, Aristide Raccamond, sees it. He wrote to me, you know, offering to throw me business. Not a dull fellow. I see he’s one of your directors now.’
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