Cash McCall

by Cameron Hawley

  “Is he a client of yours?” she asked anxiously.

  “No, indeed.”

  She seemed relieved. “Then there’s no reason why you can’t tell me all you know about him?”

  “I know very little, Maude.”

  “Tell me what you do know.”

  “It’s mostly hearsay. Nothing but gossip.”

  “I want to know that, too.”

  The prize of release dangled before the eye of his mind. Obviously, the thing to do was to make McCall seem like a very desirable catch. But that, he realized, would be a difficult task, forcing him to submerge all the attitudes and opinions to which he had committed himself with his contributions to the Quarterly. In fact, the essay on which he had been working last night was an attack on just such holier-than-thou lawyers as Winston Conway who, despite all his stuffed-shirt pomposity about professional ethics, kept himself in champagne and Cadillacs with the juicy fees that he must be extracting from Cash McCall who was about as sharp an operator as ever took a capital gain.

  Still toying with the letter opener, protected from the necessity of an immediate reply to Maude Kennard’s question by the pretense of difficult recollection, he decided that it might be possible to tell her the absolute truth, thus not compromising his own honesty—and yet in no way detract from McCall’s luster as far as Maude was concerned. Her standards were not his own.

  Experience suggested the one thing about McCall that would most impress Maude Kennard. “I suppose you know that he’s a very wealthy man?”

  “How wealthy?”

  “I’d have no way of knowing.”

  “Very wealthy?”

  “I’d suspect so—from what I’ve heard. The gossip has it that he’s piled up a fortune of several million dollars in the last seven or eight years.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Possible? Of course.”

  “I didn’t think anyone could make that kind of money these days.”

  “Why not?”

  “I mean that he couldn’t have kept it. Wouldn’t income tax have taken most of it?”

  He was surprised that she was so naïve. It was out of character for Maude Kennard. Or was she trying to trick him? Perhaps. But then it might be true that she didn’t know. There were a great many people who didn’t. “That’s a rather commonly accepted myth, Maude—that no one can pile up a lot of money these days. The truth is that some enormous fortunes are being made.”

  “Legally?”

  “Yes, legally.”

  “I know that it can be done in oil—that there’s some kind of special tax deal on an oil well.”

  “Yes, there’s a depletion allowance on natural resources. It’s very beneficial where it’s applicable, but you can still get rich these days without an oil well.”

  “By greasing the right palms in Washington?”

  “Yes, that’s happened in a few instances, but it’s not the common case. Most of this new crop of big-money men go out of their way to stay within the law. Your Mr. McCall, for example. I happen to know that he’s represented by Jamison, Conway & Slythe and Winston Conway isn’t the kind of lawyer to miss a loophole. No, Maude, it’s quite possible to get to be a millionaire these days and still stay within the law. Goodness knows there are enough of them around to prove it. You should know that.”

  “I?”

  “No man without a millionaire’s income could afford to eat in that restaurant of yours.”

  “They aren’t millionaires,” she laughed. “They’re on expense accounts. It’s the expense account business that keeps the Fontainebleau Room alive.”

  He shook his head. “Not all of them. I noticed the Wilger boys in line last week. Harry and his brother Ed.”

  “Wilger?” she puzzled. “I don’t believe I know them.”

  “Quite so—and that’s typical. These new millionaires make a point of not being known. It’s quite different from what it used to be. I recall the nouveau riche crop that came out of the first World War. We had one of them move in near our place—vulgar, loud-mouthed, ostentatious, a horrible sort of creature. Bought the old Kinsbury mansion—lovely old house—but he had it painted bright yellow with red shutters. Put an electric sign with his name on it in the front yard. Poor Father couldn’t raise a curtain of his bedroom without seeing it. Didn’t get a decent night’s sleep for five years.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “This new generation are a different stripe,” he went on, talking more easily now that he had worked the conversation around to one of the points that he had made in what he had been writing last night. “Our new crop of millionaires have their big houses, but not out on the main road. They get away somewhere—a gentleman’s farm—but with a screen of trees to hide the mansion house. Of course, that’s only one variety—the white-fence crowd—but if you get around the country enough you realize how many of them there are. Been out in Bucks County lately?”

  “No.”

  “Virginia, Maryland, Kentucky, the Eastern Shore—oh, it’s everywhere. Over in Jersey, up in Connecticut, around every big city—millions of miles of white fence and behind every mile of it you can be reasonably certain that there’s some man who’s found a way to make money and keep it. Your Cash McCall, of course, is a different brand—the city type—a big suite in a hotel or in some fancy apartment house. I was involved with one such establishment out on the Main Line. You probably haven’t even heard of it—the Carwick Arms?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Not very many people have. The promoters planned it that way. No advertising—back in the woods on a dead-end drive—gatehouse with a watchman. Do you know what the minimum rental is?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Eighteen thousand a year. Twenty-four apartments and every one of them rented before the roof was even on the building.”

  “Makes me sound like a piker,” she laughed. “I’m only charging Mr. McCall a thousand a month.”

  “I’d guess he could pay five times that and still stay solvent.”

  “But how does he do it? I still don’t see how anyone can make that kind of money. I suppose I’m a little stupid, but you make me feel like a babe in the woods. Apparently I haven’t known what’s going on in the world.”

  Her earnestness was obviously genuine now and he found his mind warmed by her pleasant recognition of his superior knowledge. He spent a long pause attempting to phrase the principles of the methods by which men like Cash McCall were making their fortunes and then, discouraged by complexity, began to search his mind for a pertinent example. Association suggested the Padua Furniture case … but that had been McCall himself … better to keep it anonymous. But why? It was common knowledge all around town, openly discussed at The Wharf. There was no reason why he shouldn’t use it as a case in point. “Have you heard of the Padua Furniture Company?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “It was an old furniture company, family owned, factory out in Ardmore. I was involved in a very minor way because a client of mine had acquired a little block of stock through marriage into the family. As is so often the case with those family companies, Padua had been quite successful as long as the old gentleman was alive. After the sons took over, it was a different story. They managed to do well enough during the war but when the demand for furniture slacked off they started going downhill. The company was offered for sale—on the market for some time as a matter of fact—and was finally purchased by Mr. McCall for about a half million dollars. He reorganized it, converted the plant to the manufacture of cabinets for television sets, and then sold out to Andscott Instrument for—well, this is purely rumor but it seems to be fairly well substantiated—something over a million dollars. Of course, he may have put in a little money to convert the plant, but the story has it that he made close to a half million for himself.”

  “But wouldn’t income tax take most of his profit? If he was up in the half million bracket—”

  “That’s the point,
Maude. That half million he made—if he did—wasn’t earned income. It was a capital gain. Consequently, the most he had to pay was a top rate of twenty-six per cent. That’s one of the easiest ways to make money and keep it these days—work things to get a capital gain.”

  “But why would those people sell out for only a half million if their company was worth so much more—or were they just fools?”

  “No indeed. Actually, that was a good price from their point of view. It was far more than they could ever have hoped to make out of earnings. And they had some tax hurdles, too—a potentially bad situation as far as estate tax was concerned. The deal was made in a way that cleared up that situation.”

  “But if half a million was a fair price, why was Andscott willing to pay a million?”

  “Two reasons. First, McCall had increased the value of the company by getting it into the production of cabinets. Second—this is conjecture, but a likely possibility—the merger helped Andscott’s tax situation. There was probably a big loss carry-over to reduce the tax on their own earnings. Then, too, the purchase may have favorably affected their excess profits base. There are many cases, Maude, where one company has bought another company and got the full purchase price back out of tax savings in a very few years. I suppose all that is a little difficult to understand but—”

  “Not at all,” she said crisply. “It’s all a matter of juggling tax situations.”

  “That’s what most business is today.”

  “Apparently you can make more money by buying and selling a company than you can by operating it?”

  “That’s often true under today’s tax laws.”

  “And it’s all legal?” she persisted.

  “Yes. The law provides certain alternatives and the taxpayer has the right to select the most favorable.”

  Her quick laugh was unexpected. “Sounds like nice work, if you’re clever enough to pull it off—and apparently Cash is.”

  He nodded, not missing the fact that she had called McCall by his given name.

  Her laughter persisted as an amused smile. “His nickname seems quite appropriate, doesn’t it?”

  “Nickname?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps so. I’d taken for granted that it was a family name. Had a client by that name once—old Philadelphia family—the Hamilton Cashes.”

  Her voice picked up the easily casual quality of his own. “What do you know about Cash McCall’s family?”

  “Family? Not much, I’m afraid.”

  “He seems very much of a gentleman.”

  “I’d guess that to be an acquired characteristic. Goes with the type. When you start digging in, you usually find that these new-money men have much the same background—poor family, no opportunities, none of the advantages. That’s what gives them the drive to do the things they do, the desperate desire to get ahead and have all of the things they never had as children. It’s that desperation that gives them such an advantage over—” Clay Torrant cut himself off, suddenly aware that he had absent-mindedly slipped into something dangerously close to criticism. “Of course, I don’t know that that’s the case with McCall. As I said before, I know very little about the man, almost nothing.”

  “I want to know more about him,” she said, crisply demanding.

  “But I don’t know any more, Maude.”

  “There are ways to find out more, aren’t there?”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know how to—”

  “Remember that report you showed me on Winkless?”

  “Winkless?”

  “The man who was threatening to hold up the deal when we were buying the place next door.”

  “Oh, yes. We got a Lockwood on him, didn’t we?”

  There was the quick feint of a smile, then the thrust of her voice. “That’s what I want you to get me on Cash McCall—a Lockwood report—complete—everything they can possibly find out about him.”

  A protest rose to his lips, but she cut him off. “I’m no fool, Judge. I want to know the score. You can’t blame me for that, can you?”

  “No, of course not. I—”

  “Then you will handle it for me? Good. You can understand why I don’t want to be involved myself.”

  “Maude, there may be—”

  “I want it as fast as possible. Bill it to the hotel—attention Mr. Pierce. He’s authorized it. But no detail on your bill. Just mark it legal services.”

  Her fingers had wrapped her bag as if she were preparing to leave and he felt the hopelessness of protest, the onrush of the same defeat to which she had always subjected him.

  “You’re such a dear person,” she said, rising. “The one real friend that I’ve always been able to count on.”

  He stood, managing a weak smile. Maybe it was the thing to do … help her all he could … if she married Cash McCall he would be free … then she could get her claws into Winston Conway.

  “Oh, one last question,” she said. “On this capital gains business, you have to hold a property for a certain length of time, don’t you? I mean, with a business you’d have to operate it for a while before you sold out?”

  It took him a moment to make the abrupt change of thought. “Yes, six months.”

  “Only six months?”

  “That’s the required holding period to establish a long-term capital gain.”

  “Then why do you suppose that Cash has held on to the hotel as long as he has?”

  “Hotel?”

  She gave him a sharp glance of surprise. “Oh, didn’t you know that he owned the Ivanhoe? I thought that you would—from handling the real estate transfer when we bought that place next door. Didn’t you represent the owners?”

  For a moment his mind was blank. Then he remembered how Atherson had made such a point of not telling him who was back of either the Ivanhoe Corporation or the Frontage Holding Company. So it had been McCall. He should have suspected something like that.

  “I had no contact with anyone except Will Atherson,” he said and then, feeling a need to explain, added, “As a matter of fact I’ve never met Mr. McCall.”

  “You haven’t?” Her eyes were charged with pleasure. “I’ll have to arrange that sometime.” She backed a step, a prelude to departure. “Thanks so much for helping me, Judge. There are so many things that Cash never has the time to explain and I do hate being a silly little ninny who doesn’t understand things. That’s why I’m so grateful to you for helping me.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t help you very much.”

  And then she was gone and he was aware that she had kissed him on the cheek. He waited, wondering why it meant so little. Almost nothing. It was the same kind of kiss that his daughter had given him the night she came to tell him that she was marrying Charles.

  Slowly, feeling the weight of age, he walked to the window and watched the rain-wet street until he saw Maude Kennard come out of the revolving door, waiting until she disappeared around the corner. Back at his desk he felt a vague sense of loss, too ephemeral to be crystallized into regret, yet momentarily mind-filling enough to keep him from realizing that Miss Fitch was watching him through the open door.

  4

  Walking briskly down Broad Street, Maude Kennard felt herself buoyed by the self-satisfaction of a skilled performance. She had all the confirmation she needed that Cash McCall owned the Ivanhoe. There was still much to be learned but she knew enough already to make her realize what had to be done … and quickly. It took only six months to establish a capital gain. Cash might make up his mind to sell the hotel at any minute. There was no time to lose.

  She glanced at the white card that she had taken from her purse and checked the address. Sansom Street. At the corner she saw it—Laurette in a flowing script across a small shop window. It had been three months since the card inviting her to attend the dress shop’s opening had turned up in her morning mail. Three months was about the right time to wait. There would still be good things in stock but hope would have dwindled
to its lowest ebb. By now Rose Bahm would be starting to worry whether the opening of her own shop was as good an idea as it had seemed when she had quit her job at Wanamakers.

  Maude Kennard saw that Miss Bahm was alone in the shop—they usually were by the third month—and she noted, too, the hungry eagerness in the little woman’s eyes as she came forward to greet her.

  “Why, it’s Mrs. Kennard,” Rose Bahm said revealingly, too eagerly, as if she had accidentally said aloud what she had intended to say only in the aloneness of her mind.

  “How nice to see you,” Maude said with contrasting reserve.

  “This is just wonderful, Mrs. Kennard. You know what I was saying to myself the other day? I was to the Ivanhoe for lunch with this gentleman that’s the representative of a very good house—lovely things in his line. Maybe you saw us? He goes to Paris himself every year. Italy, too. Well, this is his very first trip to Philly. You know, like a tourist they all got to see the Liberty Bell and eat at the Ivanhoe? Well, I was saying to myself when I saw you there in the Fontainebleau Room—now wouldn’t it be nice if some day Mrs. Kennard would drop in for a minute, just so I could show her the lovely things I got. You know what I mean?”

  Her eagerness was a little pathetic. It always was along about the end of the third month. But you didn’t dare let it get you.

  “I guess it was maybe a couple of months ago,” Rose Bahm said as if afraid that her story of lunching at the Ivanhoe hadn’t been believed.

  “I had intended to come before,” Maude said. “Guests do ask about shops, you know, and I never feel right about recommending a place until I’ve gone there myself.”

  “I’m glad you could come,” Rose Bahm said, her voice finally under control, less the frightened shopgirl now, more the proprietor of the exclusive little shop where every customer received the personal attention of Laurette herself. “Won’t you sit down, Mrs. Kennard. I’ll show you some of my things.”