JC1 The Carpetbaggers

by Robbins, Harold

  "I didn't think you cared that much about the horses," I said. "You never come down to the corral."

  "I don't," he said quickly. "It's you I care about. You've still got a lot to learn."

  I laughed. "Fat lot I learned from your hitting a bronc on its head."

  "You learned that Nevada couldn't ride that horse until I made it possible."

  "So?"

  My father turned. He was a big man, over six feet, but I was taller. "So," he said slowly, "no matter how big you get, you won't be big enough to wear my shoes until I let you."

  I followed my father into the dining room. Rina's back was to me and her hair shone like silver as she raised her cheek for his morning kiss. There was a quiet triumph in my father's eyes as he straightened up afterward and looked at me. He didn't speak as he sat down in his chair. He didn't have to. I knew what he was thinking. He didn't have to hit me over the head.

  "Joining us for breakfast, Jonas?" Rina asked politely.

  I stared at her for a moment, then at my father. I could feel the sick knot tying up my guts. "No, thanks. I'm not hungry."

  I turned and walked hurriedly back through the dining-room door, almost colliding with Robair, who was just entering with a tray. By the time I got back to the corral, Nevada was walking the bronc up and down, breaking him to the meaning of the reins. Father had been right. The horse wasn't giving Nevada any trouble.

  And here it was twelve years later and I could still hear his voice as it had echoed quietly on the back porch that morning.

  "Let go, old man, let go!" I said angrily, my fist smashing down on the empty desk. The pain ran crazily up my arm into my shoulder.

  "Mr. Cord!" I looked up in surprise. Morrissey was standing in the open doorway, his mouth partly open. It took an effort for me to bring myself back to the present.

  "Don't stand there," I snapped. "Come in." He entered the office hesitantly, and a moment later, Forrester appeared in the doorway behind him. Silently they came into the office.

  "Sit down and have a drink," I said, pushing the bottle of bourbon toward them.

  "Don't mind if I do," Forrester said, picking up the bottle and a paper cup. He sloshed himself a good one. "Mud in your eye."

  "Up the General's," I said. "By the way, where is the old boy?"

  "On his way back to the city. He has a date with a toilet-paper manufacturer."

  I laughed. "At least, that's one thing he can test for himself."

  Forrester laughed but Morrissey sat there glumly. I pushed the bottle toward him. "You on the wagon?"

  He shook his head. "What are we going to do now?" he asked.

  I stared at him for a moment, then picked up the bottle and refilled my paper cup. "I was just thinking about declaring war on the United States. That's one way we could show him how good our plane is."

  Morrissey still didn't crack a smile. "The CA-4 is the best plane I ever designed."

  "So what?" I asked. "What the hell, it didn't cost you anything. It was my dough. Besides, how much did you ever make out of building planes? It doesn't amount to one-twentieth of your annual royalties on that trick brassière you designed for Rina Marlowe."

  It was true. But it had been McAllister who'd seen the commercial potential in the damn thing and applied for a patent in the name of Cord Aircraft. Morrissey had a standard employment contract, which provided that all his inventions and designs belonged to the company, but McAllister had been a sport about it. He'd given Morrissey a ten-per-cent interest in the royalties as a bonus and last year, Morrissey's share was in excess of a hundred thousand dollars. The market was getting bigger all the time. Tits weren't going out of fashion for a long time.

  Morrissey didn't answer. But then, I hadn't expected him to. He was one of those guys who don't give a damn about money. All he lived for was his work.

  I finished my drink and lit a cigarette. Silently I cursed myself. I should have known better than to let a chance remark about my father bug me like that. I could afford it but nobody likes to throw a million dollars down the drain.

  "Maybe I can do something," Forrester said.

  A ray of hope came into Morrissey's eyes. "Do you think you could?"

  Forrester shrugged. "I don't know," he said slowly. "I said maybe."

  I stared at him. "What do you mean?"

  "It's the best plane I've seen," he said. "I wouldn't like to see us lose it because of the old man's stupidity."

  "Thanks," I said. "We'd be grateful for anything you could do."

  Forrester smiled. "You don't owe me anything. I’m one of those old-fashioned guys who wouldn't like to see us caught short if things suddenly started popping."

  I nodded. "They'll start soon enough. Just as soon as Hitler thinks he's ready."

  "When do you think that will be?"

  "Three, maybe four years," I said. "When they have enough trained pilots and planes."

  "Where'll he get them from? He hasn't got them now."

  "He'll get them," I said. "The glider schools are turning out ten thousand pilots a month and before the summer is over, Messerschmitt will have his ME-109's on the production line."

  "The general staff thinks he won't do much when he comes up against the Maginot line."

  "He won't come up against it," I said. "He'll fly over it."

  Forrester nodded. "All the more reason for me to try to get them to check out your plane." He looked at me quizzically. "You talk like you know."

  "I know," I answered. "I was there less than nine months ago."

  "Oh, yes," he said, "I remember. I saw something about it in the papers. There was some kind of a stink about it, wasn't there?"

  I laughed. "There was. Certain people accused me of being a Nazi sympathizer."

  "Because of the million dollars you turned over to the Reichsbank?"

  I shot a quick glance at him. Forrester wasn't as simple as he pretended to be. "I guess so," I answered. "You see, I transferred the money just the day before Roosevelt slapped on his restriction."

  "You knew the restriction was about to be placed, didn't you? You could have saved yourself the money by just waiting one day."

  "I couldn't afford to wait," I said. "The money had to be in Germany, that was all there was to it."

  "Why? Why did you send them the money when obviously you realize they're our potential enemy?"

  "It was ransom for a Jew," I said.

  "Some of my best friends are Jews," Forrester answered. "But I can't imagine shelling out a million dollars for one of them."

  I stared at him for a moment, then refilled my paper cup. "This one was worth it."

  His name was Otto Strassmer and he started out in life as a quality-control engineer in one of the many Bavarian china works. From ceramics he had turned to plastics and it was he who had invented the high-speed injection mold I’d bought and sold to a combine of American manufacturers. Our original deal had been on a royalty basis but after it had been in effect for several years Strassmer wanted to change it. That was in 1933, shortly after Hitler came to power.

  He'd come into my hotel room in Berlin, where I’d been on my annual visit to Europe, and explained what he wanted. He was willing to relinquish all future share in royalties for a flat payment of one million dollars, to be held in escrow for him in the United States. This was agreeable to me, of course. His share of the royalties would amount to much more than that over the licensing period. But I didn't understand why. So I asked him.

  He got up out of his chair and walked over to the window, "You ask me why, Herr Cord?" he asked in his peculiarly accented English. His hand pointed out the window. "That's why."

  I walked over to the window and looked down. There in the street in front of the Adlon, a group of brown-shirted young men, scarcely more than boys, were tormenting an old frock-coated man. Twice while we were watching, they knocked the old man into the gutter. We could see him lying on the edge of the sidewalk, his head in the gutter, blood streaming from his nose. The b
oys stood there for a moment watching him, then walked away after kicking him several times contemptuously.

  I turned to Strassmer questioningly.

  "That was a Jew, Herr Cord," he said quietly.

  "So what? Why didn't he call the police?"

  Strassmer pointed across the street. Two policemen stood on the opposite corner. "They saw everything that happened."

  "Why didn't they stop them?"

  "They are under instructions not to," he answered. "Hitler claims that Jews have no right under German law."

  "What has this got to do with you?"

  "I am a Jew," he said simply.

  I was silent for a moment. I took out a cigarette and lit it. "What do you want me to do with the money?"

  "Keep it until you hear from me." He smiled. "My wife and daughter are already in America. I would be grateful if you'd let them know I'm all right."

  "Why don't you join them?" I asked.

  "Perhaps I will — in time. But I am German," he said. "And I still hope this madness will one day pass."

  But Herr Strassmer's hopes were not to be realized. This I found out less than a year later, as I sat in the office of the Reichsmarschall. "The Jews of the world are doomed, as are the Jews of Germany," he said in his polite voice. "We of the New Order recognize this and welcome our friends and allies from across the sea who wish to join our crusade."

  I was silent, waiting for him to speak again.

  "We men of the air understand each other," he said.

  I nodded. "Yes, Excellency."

  "Good," he said, smiling. "Then we do not have to waste time." He threw some papers on the desk. "Under the new laws, the Reich has confiscated the properties of a certain Otto Strassmer. We understand there are certain monies due him which you are hereby instructed to pay over into the Reichsbank."

  I didn't like the word "instructed." "I have been trying to get in touch with Herr Strassmer," I said.

  Göring smiled again. "Strassmer had a severe breakdown and is presently confined to a hospital."

  "I see," I said. I got to my feet.

  "The Third Reich will not forget its friends," the Reichsmarschall said. He pressed a button on his desk.

  A young German lieutenant appeared in the doorway. "Heil Hitler!" he said, his arm upraised in the Nazi salute.

  "Heil Hitler!" Göring replied negligently. He turned to me. "Lieutenant Mueller will escort you to the Messerschmitt plant. I look forward to seeing you again at dinner, Herr Cord."

  The Messerschmitt plant opened my eyes. There was nothing like it building airplanes in the United States. The only things comparable were the automobile production lines in Detroit. And when I saw some of the sketches of the ME-109 that adorned Messerschmitt's office, I didn't have to look twice. It was all over but the shouting unless we got up off our collective asses.

  That night at dinner, the Reichsmarschall got me to a corner. "What did you think of our factory?"

  "I'm impressed," I said.

  He nodded, pleased. "It is modeled after your own plant in California," he said. "But much larger, of course."

  "Of course," I agreed, wondering how they got in there. Then I realized it was no secret. Up to now, we'd never got any government work; all we'd built were commercial airlines.

  He laughed pleasantly, then turned to move away. A moment later, he came back to me. "By the way," he whispered. "The Führer was very pleased about your co-operation. When may I inform him that we will receive the money?"

  I stared at him. "On the day Herr Strassmer walks into my office in New York."

  He stared back in surprise. "The Führer won't like this," he said. "I told him you were our friend."

  "I'm also Herr Strassmer's friend."

  He stared at me for another moment. "Now I don't know what to tell the Führer. He will be very disappointed when he learns we shall not receive the money."

  "In that case," I said, "why disappoint him? One Jew more or less can't matter to Germany."

  He nodded slowly. "Perhaps that is the best way."

  Exactly a month later, the little German engineer walked into my office in New York.

  "What are you going to do now?" I asked.

  "First, I'm going to join my family in Colorado and rest for a while," he said. "Then I must look for work. I'm no longer a rich man."

  I smiled at him. "Come to work for me. I’ll consider the million dollars an advance against your royalties."

  When he left the office, I gave Morrissey the O.K. to go ahead on the CA-4. If my hunch was right, there wasn't enough time left for any of us. But it was another story to make the U.S. Army believe that.

  I looked across the desk at Forrester.

  "I'll get back to town and make a few calls to Washington. I still have a few friends down there," he said. "I'll stop by and talk to the General. Maybe I can persuade him to listen."

  "Good," I said. I looked at my watch. It was almost twelve thirty. The stockholders' meeting ought to be over by now. McAllister and Pierce should be back in the hotel with Norman tucked safely away in their back pockets.

  "I have a one-o'clock appointment at the Waldorf," I said. "Can I drop you off?"

  "Thanks," Forrester said gratefully. "I have a luncheon date that I'd hate to miss."

  He came into the Waldorf with me and cut off toward Peacock Alley as I walked over to the elevators. As I stood there waiting, I saw a woman rise to meet him. It was the same one I had seen him with out at the field. I wondered vaguely why she hadn't waited for him out there.

  Idly I watched Rico, the maître d', lead them around the corner to a hidden table. I walked over to the entrance and stood there until he came back.

  "Ah, Monsieur Cord." He smiled. "Dining alone?"

  "Not dining, Rico," I said, pressing a bill into his ever ready hand. "A question. The lady with Colonel Forrester — who is she?"

  Rico smiled knowingly. He kissed his fingers. "Ah, most charmante," he said. "She is Madame Gaddis, the wife of the General."

  I looked around the lobby as I walked back to the elevators. The General should be somewhere around. From what I had seen of his attitude toward Forrester, I figured there had to be more than just Army and airplanes between them.

  I spotted him as he crossed the lobby to the men's room next to the nearest bank of elevators. He was scowling and his face was flushed. He looked like a man who needed more relief than he could find where he was going.

  I waited until the door swung shut behind him before I walked over to the elevators. For the first time since I’d landed the CA-4 at Roosevelt Field, I began to feel better. Everything was falling into place now.

  I wasn't worried any more. The only problem that remained was how many planes the Army would buy.

  3

  What I wanted most was to grab a shower and take a nap. I hadn't got to sleep until five o'clock that morning. I dropped my clothes on a chair and walked into the stall shower, turning on the needle spray. I could feel the tightness leave my muscles under the soothing warmth. The telephone rang several times while I was in the shower. I let it ring.

  When I came out, I picked up the phone and told the operator I didn't want any calls put through until four o'clock.

  "But Mr. McAllister told me to call him the moment you come in," she wailed. "He said it was very important."

  "You can get him for me at four o'clock," I said. I put down the phone, dropped on the bed and went to sleep like a baby.

  The ring of the telephone woke me. I looked at my wrist watch as I reached for the receiver. It was exactly four o'clock.

  It was Mac. "I’ve been trying to get you all afternoon," he said. "Where the hell have you been?"

  "Sleeping."

  "Sleeping!" he shouted. "We have a board meeting over at the Norman offices. We're due there right now."

  "You never told me."

  "How in hell could I, when you wouldn't answer your phone?"

  "Get General Gaddis for me," I told th
e operator. "I think he's registered here."

  I lit a cigarette while I waited. The receiver crackled in my ear. "General Gaddis speaking."

  "General, Jonas Cord here," I said. "I’m in my apartment. Thirty-one fifteen in the Towers. I’d like to talk with you."

  The General's voice was cold. "We have nothing to discuss. You're an unconscionably rude young man— "

  "It's not my manners I want to discuss, General," I interrupted. "It's your wife."

  I heard him sputter through the telephone. "My wife? What's she got to do with our business?"

  "A great deal, I believe, General," I said. "We both know whom she met in Peacock Alley today at one o'clock. I can't believe that the War Department would look favorably at a personal animosity being the basis for rejecting the CA-4."

  There was a silence over the telephone.

  "By the way, General," I asked, "what do you drink?"

  "Scotch," he answered automatically.

  "Good, I'll have a bottle here, waiting for you. Shall we say in about fifteen minutes?"

  I hung up before he could answer and called room service. While I was waiting for an answer, a knock came at the outer door. "Come in," I yelled.

  From the bed, I saw Mac and Dan Pierce enter. When they came into the bedroom, Mac's face wore its usual worried look but Dan's was wreathed in smiles. He was on the verge of getting everything he ever wanted.

  Room service finally came on. In the background, I could hear the clatter of dishes and suddenly I was hungry. I hadn't eaten since breakfast. I ordered three steak sandwiches, a bottle of milk, a pot of black coffee, a bottle of Scotch, two bottles of bourbon and a double order of French fries. I put down the telephone and looked up at them. "Well, how'd it go?"

  "Bernie squealed like a stuck pig." Pierce grinned. "But we had him by the short hairs and he knew it."

  "What about his stock?"

  "I don't know, Jonas," Mac said. "He wouldn't talk to Dan."

  "I spoke to Dave Woolf, though," Dan said quickly. "I told him to get the old man in a selling mood or we'd throw the company into bankruptcy."

  "You got the Section Seven Twenty-two ready?" I asked Mac. He knew what I was talking about — a petition to appoint a receiver in bankruptcy.