The Complete Stories of Morley Callaghan

by Callaghan, Morley; Atwood, Margaret;

  The jury was selected quickly because there were no challenges from Roger Ouimet. They were salesmen, electricians, managers and an insurance man. One by one, they walked to their chairs, and when they were all together, their faces in two rows bunched against the sunlit window, they did look like men of common sense. Then Scotty stood up and the charge was read. “Not guilty,” he said firmly.

  They didn’t need a special prosecutor to handle Scotty’s case. It was too simple, and was being handled by George Henderson. His tired eyes, his gray mustache touched up a little, and the network of red veins in his cheeks, told everybody why he had missed having a distinguished career. “John Slocombe,” he called, linking both hands behind him under his gown and swinging around to look for the bank superintendent.

  The thin gray man in a gray suit, grimly doing a job he hated, clutched the rail and never let go, as Henderson, in his ponderous style, brought out that he had been with the bank for fifteen years and a superintendent for five. Then he told how he had discovered that Bowman had misrepresented the security he had got from Lane; he had represented to the bank that he had taken thirty thousand shares of Western Oil as security for fifteen thousand dollars he had loaned Harry Lane. The market value of these thirty thousand shares at the time he made the loan would have been equal to twice the amount of the loan. The fact was he had taken only fifteen thousand shares as security. Of course, by the time the deception was discovered the shares were worth about a thousand dollars.

  “Did you ask Mr. Bowman why he misrepresented the amount of security he had got from Lane?”

  “I did.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he had wanted to have the loan cleared.”

  “And why the misrepresentation of what he had done?”

  “I asked him why, of course, and he said that after he had committed himself to making the loan he felt he owed it to Harry Lane to go through with it; he believed in it. There seemed to be no risk at all. The head office couldn’t have the confidence in Harry Lane that he had and he said it was all a matter of confidence.”

  “He admitted he misrepresented the conditions of the loan?”

  “Well, there it was, and he admitted it.”

  “Will the witness please speak up,” the judge said testily. “Speak out. You have nothing to be ashamed of. It’s hard to hear anything in this court. Now what was it you said? Turn this way a little.”

  Clearing his throat the superintendent said, “It was the day the stock crashed — before noon, and I came in. He had been busy and hadn’t heard about it, or I suppose he could have rushed out and bought shares to cover himself for next to nothing, but there I was confronting him — well, he said he was afraid he would be prosecuted,” and Slocombe’s voice faded as he looked at Scotty.

  “I know this is an unpleasant task for you,” the judge said gently. “But it is an honorable one.”

  “You said Mr. Bowman admitted that his misrepresentation of the security he had taken on this loan would leave him charged with fraud.”

  “Or possibly conspiracy.”

  “There’s no charge of conspiracy with anyone. Just this admitted fraud.”

  “Oh, but I object,” Ouimet said, rising slowly, “My friend goes too fast. Mr. Bowman has pleaded not guilty. All that the witness has brought out is Mr. Bowman’s recognition of his awareness of certain facts that might lead to this charge.”

  “That might be very well put in the defense counsel’s argument to the jury,” the judge said, smiling.

  “Well, those are the facts,” Henderson said. He didn’t want to make a big thing of it. It wasn’t necessary. Linking his hands behind him under his gown he shrugged. “Your witness.”

  “Mr. Slocombe,” Ouimet said, with a courteous little bow and a friendly smile as if he only wanted to be helpful, “how long have you known Mr. Bowman? I mean in your banking business.”

  “About fifteen years, sir.”

  “And what was your opinion of his character?”

  “I had the highest opinion of him.”

  “Not a blemish on his reputation?”

  “No, sir.”

  “In fact, would you not say that in your own bank he had always been considered a man of the highest integrity?”

  “That’s true,” and for the first time he was at ease with himself.

  “Mr. Slocombe,” Ouimet said, walking slowly toward the jury, “supposing Mr. Bowman had made this loan to Harry Lane, just as he did — irregular and all as it was — and it had been repaid within a week with interest, as Mr. Bowman believed it would, what would have been the procedure?”

  “Well, we might never have discovered that there had been a misrepresentation, I suppose.”

  “And he might not be here in the dock at all?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I can’t tell about ifs and buts.”

  “Oh, I know bankers are cautious, but if Bowman’s confidence in Harry Lane had been justified . . .”

  “That wouldn’t justify the misrepresentation.”

  “Now look here,” Ouimet said amiably, and he smiled at the jury, “if Lane had repaid the loan, as he promised to do, in a few days, and picked up his security, where would we be?”

  “But the thing was discovered.”

  “All right. Now has Mr. Bowman always shown good banking judgment?”

  “The very best.”

  “Till he came to his friend Lane?”

  “Well, yes, until this affair.”

  “By the way, when you questioned him about misrepresenting the security he had got from Lane, did you ask what in the world happened to his judgment?”

  “I did.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He was upset. Seemed to feel he had committed himself, and had confidence in Lane.”

  “He seemed to feel under an obligation, a personal obligation?”

  “As far as I could see,” the superintendent said, with a helpless gesture, “it was just because he was Harry Lane.”

  “Just because he was Harry Lane,” Ouimet repeated softly, and as he sauntered away and pondered, everybody, waiting and watching, heard him quietly repeating the words over and over. “Thank you, that’s all,” he said finally. When the superintendent left the dock Henderson said, “Call Harry Lane.” They called “Harry Lane.” The policeman at the door repeated “Harry Lane,” and it echoed along the corridor.

  They all turned as he came in, but the jurors had the best view of him as he approached the box, his head up, his shoulders back like a man with some military training. He was thirty-two, about five-foot-nine and slender, and he had curly black hair and good teeth. Pale as he was, he still had his distinguished air. He had on a navy-blue suit and a white shirt and a blue tie with a thin red stripe in it, and though Scotty too had on a good suit, it didn’t look like Harry’s; he couldn’t wear clothes as Harry could, and the old fighter, Mike Kon, the tailor, whispered, “He probably got that suit from Saville Row. What a pleasure it would be to make a suit for him.” Haggerty, grinning, needled him, “Better stick to those wrestlers and ball players who wear those suits of yours, Mike. It’ll be a while before you move up to the carriage trade.”

  They all expected Harry to have an easy confident manner, for he was always sure he belonged wherever he was. Coming from an old family he had always belonged to the places where people with money went. He belonged to the Royal Golf Club, the M.A.A., he had been a Zate, and his father, when he had been alive, had belonged to the Mount Royal Club. He had been incredibly lucky in the war, where he should have been shot down a dozen times, and his luck held when he came home and got his soft job with Sweetman. Everybody could see he didn’t want to be anything else but what he was, alive and back home among his own people and feeling lucky with the beauty and joy of being alive. When he drove his Jaguar he waved to the cops at the intersections. He was a carelessly generous impulsive smiling man, who counted on everybody sharing his goodwill, and had had a l
ot of luck in this too, and seemed to appreciate it. But he was a man of many charming and slightly theatrical gestures. If he bought a pack of cigarettes he always bought one for the friend with him; he never passed by a panhandler. He overtipped everywhere. He wore bright checked English jackets and bright scarves and looked like a polo player in them. Two months ago he had bought an expensive English lightweight felt hat in New York, very light gray; he could roll it up in a ball in his hand without wrinkling it, and when Ted Ogilvie had admired the hat he had insisted on giving it to him. Standing out there in the corridor Ted had been wearing the hat. All these gestures seemed to be little tributes to something or other that nobody understood.

  But he made a bad impression as soon as he got into the box. He went to yawn, then tried to suppress it quickly as his friends, watching him, smiled. But the yawn wasn’t one of his gestures. He was really tired and troubled. He had been up nearly all night. He had gone home early enough, but before he could get undressed and into bed there had been a knock at the door. It was the young blond wife of the rich old painter, who was sixty, living in the apartment upstairs. For a month her husband’s nerves had been going to pieces. Worrying about everything, he was really afraid of being left alone. Now he was upstairs, she said, repeating that he had no friends and threatening to kill himself. “I know it’s silly,” she had pleaded, “because he hasn’t a worry in the world. He likes you, Harry, won’t you come up? You’re good for him.” He had sighed and grumbled a little, then he had gone upstairs to drink with the old painter and cheer him up with amusing stories which he acted out for him. It had been comical really. All that was the matter with the painter was that every time he looked at his young wife he felt old and insecure. “Things look different when you’re around, Harry,” he kept saying and wouldn’t let him go till four in the morning.

  Back in his own place he couldn’t sleep. He kept going over and over the story he had to tell about Scotty Bowman, starting with that day on the street when they had met accidentally. He himself had been feeling lighthearted and he had told Scotty about his luck. A few months ago, his friend McCanse, of McCanse and Ashworth, the brokers and investment financiers, had given him five hundred shares of Western Oil. McCanse, an old air force comrade, insisted he owed his life to him. The stock then had gone to a dollar a share. He was feeling good that day because McCanse had just got a wire from the drilling superintendent telling him of reaching oil in the sands; in three days the well would be brought in. If the stock merely repeated the pattern of the other oil stocks, McCanse insisted, it would be worth five dollars a share in three days.

  “Things come your way, Harry,” Scotty had said enviously. “Lucky in war, lucky in love.” He knew McCanse, of course, and had the highest respect for his word and judgment. It had been snowing a little and as he slowly raised the collar of his coat his eyes turned inward. “Don’t you understand, Harry,” he said, “if you had fifteen thousand shares you would make at least seventy-five thousand; maybe a lot more,” and his eyes were like a shrewd businessman’s; he seemed to be concerned as a banker might be concerned for a client. “I haven’t got fifteen thousand, Scotty,” he said, laughing. But that was what banks were for, Scotty said, smiling. “Scotty, there’s the question of security.” And as a banker Scotty seemed to ponder over this. It was too bad, really too bad, and then he had said, what about McCanse; would he let him have fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of the stock, trusting him for a few days? If he would, the bank might take it as security at the present market price for a very short-term loan. “But, Scotty, wouldn’t you have to get the approval of God Almighty for such a loan?” Smiling, Scotty said, “That’s right, and it’s a good thing,” and he thought it over. “Of course, bank loans are made as much on reputation as on security, Harry. I don’t know. I’d have to think it over. You have a good reputation. Anyway, it would be up to the head office. Don’t let me build you up. But why don’t you see if you can get the stock?” And he had said, “I can get the stock all right, Scotty. But for heaven’s sake, why don’t you go to a broker and buy some for yourself?” Holding up both hands and smiling broadly, Scotty had said, “Don’t talk about me now. Very much against the rules, you know, Harry. Anyway, I’m broke. Harry, I’ll think it over — yes — no harm in that. I’ll see if it’s worthwhile sounding out the head office. If it is, I’ll call you.” He hadn’t expected to hear from Scotty.

  The next day Scotty had telephoned and asked him to see if he could get the stock. McCanse had been willing to wait a few days for payment. A day later Scotty had phoned and asked him to come in again, and he had, and Scotty told him the loan had been approved. So he had paid McCanse at once for the shares, and then he had come back and gone out for lunch with Scotty at Drury’s. Afterwards, when they were crossing the square in the bright crisp sunlight, some pigeons had come waddling toward them on the walk and he had thrown an empty cigarette pack at them, and then Scotty had said quietly, “As for me, Harry, I may have been of some service to you, how would you like to let me have five thousand of those shares now the thing’s gone through?” “How would I like to?” He laughed, hiding his embarrassment, as he wondered uneasily if this had been in Scotty’s mind from the beginning. Not that he minded him getting the shares. He felt taken in, and he didn’t like it. “Of course, they’re yours,” he said. “You can pay me for them when you’re able to.”

  After the collapse of the stock, bank officials and then detectives started asking questions. They said Scotty had fraudulently misrepresented the security on the loan to the head office. One night Scotty came to see him and told him he was going to be arrested. “I’ve heard it said there’s a bit of larceny in everybody, Scotty,” he said harshly, and he started to abuse him for getting him involved in the fraud. But Scotty, standing at the door, looked like a beaten old man. When he came in he wouldn’t take off his overcoat, and when he sat down in the chair by the window there were two little pads of snow on the toes of his rubbers. “All right, Scotty, this is all yours,” he said, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the toes of those old-fashioned rubbers.

  “Harry, listen to me,” Scotty pleaded. “I’ve told them you’re not involved at all. I’ve told them I was trying to be big and do you a favor, and you’re blameless. The blame is all mine and I’ve taken it. All you need to do is tell the truth,” he said.

  “Why did you do it, Scotty? I’d have bet my life on you.”

  Looking bewildered Scotty said slowly, “I don’t know, Harry. I got thinking it over and for just a few days I lost my head. Money in chunks never seemed to come my way and I was handling it all the time, Harry.” Their eyes met and he knew Scotty had been corrupt about the thing from the beginning. Then he looked away. It was a painfully embarrassing moment for they had been friends, and he was sure he knew what had happened to Scotty: in the last two years he had spent too much time in the company of promoters and entertainers who sat in Dorfman’s and talked about throwing their money around, and they had made him feel poor. “It seemed to be such a sure thing, Harry,” Scotty said. “The kind of thing that always happens to a guy like you and not to me. I believed in your luck and you, Harry, and wanted to get in on it, don’t you see?”

  “No I don’t,” he said, but he did, and it upset him. It was sudden remorse that his own life could charm and seduce a good man like Scotty. He wondered if somewhere along the way he should have lit a candle; there and then he touched wood on the arm of the chair as Scotty watched him with a bitter smile. Then Scotty talked about his wife and children and how he would lose his job and his pension. “There’s just one thing, Harry,” he said desperately. “About those shares I asked for after the loan. It was after the loan, you know. All they want to know is about getting the loan. If you mention those shares it’ll look like a cooked-up deal,” and then he patted the top of his gray head nervously. “Anyway, it might look to people — I know that wouldn’t stop you — but if you mention it they’ll go hard on me. You know my w
ife, Harry. For the sake of my wife and children.”

  “Scotty, I’ve got to tell the truth.”

  “I know you’ll tell the truth, and everybody else knows it. Harry, you don’t have to add everything up for them.”

  “Oh, hell, Scotty,” he said, and he was ashamed that a man who had once had so much integrity should be there abjectly pleading with him for the sake of his wife and children. “I’ll tell the truth, Scotty, I mean all about getting the loan and where I stood and no more. After all, it’s not for me to say what was in your mind.”

  Facing them in the witness box Harry wanted to tell the truth and nothing but the truth as he affirmed he would do taking the oath; then he turned and looked at Scotty, who was watching him with a friendly trusting expression in his eyes, and then he looked to the right of Scotty, under the clock, where his wife was sitting, and he watched her fumbling in her purse for her glasses which she put on, and as she eyed him steadily the fear in her face disturbed him.

  Then Henderson asked him who he was. “I want to start right at the beginning with you,” and he had to tell about the meeting that afternoon on Crescent. He told the whole story as it had happened up until the time he got the loan.

  “Now Mr. Lane, I put this to you,” Henderson said, hitching at the shoulder of his gown, “when the subject of the loan came up you were sure you were going to make a lot of money, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, I thought it was a sure thing.”