by Emma Lathen
After this, Thatcher found it impossible to let the existence of Owen Abercrombie affect him. Except favorably. Was it possible, he asked himself as Brewster summoned a taxi, that the Abercrombie arrest had eclipsed Bradford Withers’ bêtise? Was it too much to hope that gunfire at Lincoln Center had diverted CASH’S attention from the Sloan?
After all, Owen Abercrombie’s maniacal outburst did tend to monopolize attention. How long had it been since anybody thought of that quite likable man, Arthur Foote? Of course the police were still pursuing his murderer, but there was no doubt that Wall Street was much more interested in the attack on Edward Parry.
To the extent of assuming that Arthur Foote’s poisoner and Edward Parry’s assailant were one and the same man.
But were they?
And if so, why?
No good answer suggested itself, so Thatcher leaned back and watched the sun brighten the colors worn by the clerks and secretaries streaming up from the IRT. Indefatigably nature touched the aridity of even this man-made desert, nourishing the human spirit as surely as it fed flowers and bushes.
It rapidly developed, however, that nature had an uphill fight. Thatcher got his first intimation of this when the taxi turned off Broadway, only to be waved to a halt by a uniformed policeman.
‘What the——?” demanded the driver, who gave no evidence of having breakfasted well. Usually Thatcher let these little exchanges complete themselves without his participation. Today, however, a general predisposition toward peace and harmony caused him to hitch himself forward. But before he could contribute to the conversation, a squad car screamed to a halt beside them. As they turned to watch, three blue-coated policemen flung open the doors and pelted down to Exchange Place, nightsticks in hand.
“——do you want me to do?” the cabby snarled.
The policeman was willing to tell him in some detail. After completing a picturesque recitative, he withdrew.
“Officer,” Thatcher called out, handing his driver a bill and hurrying to alight. “What’s going on?”
The policeman, busy fending off other taxis who were now creating a tangle that would last for some hours, had time for only four words.
“Trouble at the Sloan!”
“Good God!” said Thatcher.
He started to struggle through the huge crush, at the same time mulling the possibilities. Embezzlement? Then, why the police horses, dancing dangerously down Exchange Place, with grim-faced riders, wielding sticks, shouting commands that the surging mob get back?
Fire? Then where were the fire engines, the alarm bells? Only the whine of police sirens rent the air. Thatcher was jostled slightly as another team of uniformed men, breathing hard, charged past him. Above the din of thousands of people trying to see, trying to get to work, trying to move, there were shouts and confused noises from ahead. From, John Putnam Thatcher realized, the Sloan.
“Here, there, you can’t . . .”
A human chain of policemen behind a barricade of wooden horses barred the approach to the Sloan lobby.
“What’s going on?” Thatcher demanded.
“Just move on.”
With a spurt of rage, Thatcher elbowed his way to the red-faced policeman who was shouting directives.
“Now listen here. I’m a vice-president of the Sloan,” he began in icy tones. “And if . . .”
The harassed policeman capitulated immediately. “OK., OK. Let him through. Get in there, and see what you can do!”
Thatcher barely had time to digest these ambiguous words as he slid past the policeman and hurried the 25 steps to the great glass doors (intact) of the Sloan.
Without pause, he pulled them open, then stopped dead in his tracks. The nature of the problem was instantly and painfully clear.
The lobby of the Sloan Guaranty Trust, terrazzo with mosaic inlay, was totally obscured. Kneeling on every available surface were, perhaps, 500 Blacks with a sprinkling of white faces among them. They were singing, very beautifully, and very softly. Instead of the muted clacking and cheerful clicking of a busy bank, the great glass lobby with its tortured friezes and elephantiasis-ridden foliage was, except for the muted hum from outside which became a punctuating burst whenever the doors were opened, echoing with the solemn harmonies of devotional anthems.
Well, there was one question answered. CASH had not forgotten.
The staff, naturally, was confused. But respectful, thought Thatcher, edging inside. He noticed Henley, the office manager, back to the wall, fix horrified eyes on four young girls at his feet as they clapped their hands softly and reverently.
“Well, here you are, John!”
Even Everett Gabler was whispering. He came sidling along the wall to Thatcher. As he did, he inadvertently trod on a brown hand.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said anguishedly.
“That’s quite all right. Didn’t hurt a bit,” replied a pleasant-faced matron. She resumed her singing.
Gabler whipped out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.
“What is all this?” Thatcher inquired.
“A kneel-in,” said Gabler.
“A what?”
“A kneel-in,” Gabler replied. “The minute the doors opened this morning at eight o’clock, these people marched in and started all of this, praying and singing! Shocking thing to do in a bank, but it is imposing in its way, don’t you think?”
Thatcher agreed that it was and suggested retreat to the Sixth Floor and the Trust Department, leaving Commercial Deposits to handle its own problems. As he spoke, Henley, the manager, finally reached their side. Behind him, looking baffled, was a policeman, resplendent in gold braid.
“Thank heavens you’re here, Mr. Thatcher. Mr. O’Hara is in Washington, and I don’t know what to do!”
“We can clear ’em out,” said the policeman in a low growl. Then, conjuring up violence and bloodshed, he gloomily added, “That is, if that’s what you want!”
Thatcher sighed inwardly. It was not, technically speaking, his responsibility to deal with this. But Henley was clearly out of his depth and O’Hara, fortunately in Washington, would also have been out of his depth, he thought uncharitably. It was obviously unthinkable to let Bradford Withers handle this. Henley, wringing his hands, broke in:
“I understand they’re protesting Mr. Withers’ remarks,” he said, looking anxiously over his shoulder at the congregation. He was not mistaken; the tempo of the singing was picking up.
“Perhaps we should try to get to your office to talk,” Thatcher suggested. At this, Henley registered enormous relief; well might he. He had just shifted his burden to other, stronger shoulders.
Reaching the office was not easy. All available floor space was packed. Standing behind the counters, looking beleaguered, and rather bemused, was the depleted staff.
“A lot of people can’t get in,” said Henley apologetically over his shoulder as he led the way. “Oops! Oh, sorry, sir!”
“Quite all right,” caroled back an elderly black gentleman, without breaking the beat.
“Rock, chariot, I told you to rock!”
“Oh dear,” moaned Henley, picking his way forward.
They followed him, Indian file, until they had reached the comparative comfort of the tellers’ area. There, Thatcher noted with a gleam of amusement, one of the young women had momentarily forgotten that her first allegiance was to the Sloan. Caught up by the rhythm, she was tapping her foot, and softly joining in:
“Rock, chariot, I told you to rock!
Judgment goin’ to find me!”
As the dignitaries passed, she put hand to mouth in an endearing gesture of guilt. Neither Henley nor Everett Gabler noticed her. John Putnam Thatcher did.
With a sudden grin, he winked at her. He was, however, grave and sober as he marched into Henley’s office and listened to his plaints, and to the ominous, though less voluble, prognostications from Captain Bielski.
“Well, it seems clear enough,” he said decisively. “If these people ar
e determined to stay, we certainly are not going to throw them out.”
Bielski looked relieved. So did Henley, until he thought about the day’s business.
Thatcher cut his lament short. “The major problem seems to be order on the outside,” he said.
“Don’t worry,” Bielksi reassured him. “The riot squad is on its way.”
They looked at him in silence for a moment.
“Ah . . . yes,” said Thatcher. “Well, that should convince the staff of the value of physical fitness, if nothing else does. Now, Henley, all you have to do is hold the fort down. We’ll try to work something out.”
At some stage, Thatcher knew, the singing would end and Richard Simpson would emerge.
“Yes, yes,” said Henley, perceptibly reviving. “What about the employees who are late today?”
With an effort, Thatcher reminded himself that Henley, in the last analysis, was a clerk, not a banker.
“I’d just forget about them,” he said gently.
Henley was disappointed.
“Low level tyrant,” Thatcher said to himself, pondering this unattractive type as he and Gabler escaped to the executive elevator bound for the sixth floor.
He missed Everett Gabler’s critical remarks on Walter Bowman’s latest research report.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” he murmured as they stepped out of the elevator. Here, too, there were gaps in the familiar ranks normally stationed behind files, calculating machines, and typewriters. But since the trust officers to a man preferred using the executive entrance, they were all present. Thatcher entertained no illusion that they were working. Predictably, only Everett Gabler could rise above five hundred Blacks singing spirituals in the lobby.
“Pharmaceuticals,” he was saying with spinsterish disapproval. “Now, John, you know as well as I do that the drug houses are already overpriced. I see no reason . . .”
“Do I detect a moral disapproval of oral contraceptives?” asked Thatcher, leading the way to his own office in time to shock Miss Corsa yet again. “No, Everett, I don’t have time for that right now. We’ve got a lot of things to do. . . ”
Just then Charlie Trinkam arrived, reporting cheerfully that the throngs on Exchange Place were growing. And the television crews had arrived.
“That’s another thing,” Gabler began disapprovingly as Miss Corsa rang through. Bradford Withers was on the line.
“John!” The voice was vague and faintly aggrieved. “John, what is all this? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s some sort of fracas going on downstairs. Somebody should do something about it.”
Thatcher counted to ten. Then: “The police are doing what they can,” he said carefully, ignoring Trinkam’s broad grin.
“The police? What is all this . . .?”
“Brad, we’re having a kneel-in. Yes, K-N-E-E-L-. . . yes, protesting your remarks . . .”
The telephone erupted into turkey gobblings.
Rather sharply, Thatcher retorted, “No, I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to go down. Yes, we’re keeping an eye on the situation. Yes . . . yes . . .”
He hung up and sighed. With considerable tact, his subordinates did not comment.
Instead, they started a brief consideration of Bowman’s critique of the pharmaceutical industry. This, unfortunately, caused Thatcher’s attention to revert to one of the day’s earlier musings, the poisoning of Arthur Foote. It was not so odd that it had slipped from the center of attention, not when Wall Street was being reminded of the attacks on Edward Parry by kneel-ins, trade-ins, by television interviews, and by the dread specter of the coming March on Wall Street.
“Good God!” he said aloud. “If a kneel-in can disrupt one of the Sloan’s divisions, can you imagine what a full scale March on Wall Street will do?”
Trinkam raised his eyebrows. “To be honest, I haven’t been able to think of anything else.”
Determinedly, Thatcher brought a fist down on his desk.
“We’ve got to strike back!”
“But how?”
For a moment Thatcher pondered.
“They’re singing the ‘Battle Hymn of the Republic’!” said a new voice. Ken Nicolls stood in the doorway. It was evident that the junior trust officers, delighted to have their routine interrupted, were making periodic reconnaissances of the lobby situation.
Suddenly Thatcher snapped his fingers and smiled broadly.
“That’s it!” he announced.
Trinkam, Gabler and Nicolls stared at him.
“That’s it,” he repeated. “Now, Charlie, I want you to get over to Philborn and tell him to get the glee club ready. Nicolls, call the custodian . . .”
With a martial air that Hugh Waymark would have envied, John Thatcher dispatched his junior officers to a number of urgent tasks.
“And hurry!” he said in parting. “Now, Miss Corsa, I want you to get Ed Parry for me. No, I don’t know where he is but . . . what’s that?”
“Mr. Robichaux,” she countered briskly.
“No, I don’t want Robichaux,” said Thatcher authoritatively.
“He’s on the line,” she reported.
There was no escape.
“Tom, I’m in a hurry . . .”
“Understand you’ve got trouble over there,” Tom shouted.
“To be precise,” Thatcher replied, “a kneel-in.”
There was a long pause.
“Well, good for them,” said Tom Robichaux astonishingly.
Thatcher removed the receiver from his ear and inspected it. What was Robichaux saying?
“You know,” the hedonist continued, “I had a little talk with Francis last night, and by God! It hit me.”
“What hit you?” Thatcher inquired with genuine interest.
“Why, this civil rights business,” said Robichaux. “Never really saw it before. But, dammit, I’d be kneeling-in myself . . . No, I’d be breaking your glass windows, that’s what I’d be doing. . . .”
In a world gone mad, it was not particularly strange that Tom Robichaux was going mad with it. The picture of him heaving rocks through the Sloan’s great windows was, in fact, irresistible. But Thatcher was still curious to discover how the wily Francis Devane had managed to engage his partner’s support for the civil rights movement. Robichaux was happy to explain.
“Well, Francis put it to me. ‘How would you like it,’ he said, ‘if you had 14 million dollars, and they wouldn’t let you buy a seat on the Exchange, simply because you’re Black?’ Well, that hit me, John, I don’t mind admitting it. Never thought of it in that light before. But for God’s sake, what does color matter when a man has 14 million dollars—that’s the way I see it.”
“I’m sure you do,” said Thatcher. There was much to be said for an uncomplicated outlook.
Robichaux’ voice dropped into a confidential range. “Of course, this may cause me trouble. But I’m a man of principle . . .”
“Trouble?”
“Celestine. She’s big in the UDC— United Daughters of the Confederacy, you know. She comes from Macon. But on a thing like this . . .”
“Who was that lady I saw you with last night?” Thatcher could not resist asking. Robichaux did not recognize the quotation.
“You mean Saturday night? A very interesting woman, Zelda. She’s a social worker, would you believe it?”
Thatcher, who would not, indicated again that he was in a hurry.
“Yes, well the reason I called you was that I wanted you to hear the latest. They’ve just told Francis. The SEC is going to come out with a statement later today, something about investigating racial bias in the New York Stock Exchange, with a view to legislation. The Governors want to beat the timing.”
Nicolls stuck his head in the door, nodding.
With an uplifted hand Thatcher held him motionless as he continued to listen to Robichaux.
“That’s fine, Tom. It works in with something I have in mind. You’ll have to clear it with Francis. Now, list
en, this is what I want you to do . . .”
A moment later he was turning to Nicolls and listening to his report.
“Fine,” he said, consulting his wristwatch. “We don’t have much time. Now, you’d better root out the electrician and be sure we have the microphones ready.”
Nicolls nodded and listened to further instructions. Over his shoulder, Thatcher saw Trinkam dispatching clerical help on errands.
“We’ll have to hurry,” Thatcher said.
“Yes, sir!” said Nicolls, suppressing a salute in the nick of time.
“And, Nicolls,” said Thatcher, “I need scarcely tell you that if that kindergarten of yours in Brooklyn Heights does not turn out to be fully integrated, your employment at the Sloan is hereby terminated.”
With a brisk wave, he strode down the hall toward Walter Bowman’s office.
Nicolls stared after him blankly.
Miss Corsa, handling three telephone calls simultaneously, took pity on him.
“Don’t worry. That was one of Mr. Thatcher’s little jokes.”
Chapter 17
Sing Ye Heavens and Earth Reply: Al—le—lu—ia!
AT THAT VERY MOMENT, Richard Simpson was cleaving his way enthusiastically toward the Sloan.
He had a very clear idea of how the next two hours would shape themselves. The early morning kneel-in, coupled with a careful leak from his own staff about an important announcement, had ensured the presence of all the major networks. Cameras would abound, while young men with microphones hung deferentially on his every word. Against a solemn background of choral spirituals he would deliver an eloquent statement about the rights of man and the sanctity of selling off Vita Cola. Then there would be a few stern questions, cast in a rhetorical frame, addressed to the iniquities of Bradford Withers.