Even going ahead with the new Administration Building had made a deep hole in surplus—but Gil agreed, and Harrison Glenn backed him up, that the office building couldn’t wait. It was bad business to give customers the impression of the Suffolk Moulding Company that they were getting from his old office in the mill building.
That year at the annual meeting, Grant Austen was elected Fourth Vice-president of the American Association of Plastic Molders. The next year he was Third Vice-president, working his way up the ladder to the Presidency—and it would have happened if Heckledorf hadn’t been chairman of the nominating committee that year. There was a lot more underhanded politics in the Association than most people realized. Heckledorf had his gang and they thought they were the Association. But there were plenty of members who knew what was going on and realized that Grant Austen should have been Second Vice-president. If that hadn’t been true, they wouldn’t have given him that testimonial dinner and presented him with a scroll honoring his Quarter Century of Outstanding Service to the Plastics Industry. Andscott had taken a whole table at the dinner and, as Harrison Glenn had said, it was indeed a tribute when a man’s customers paid twenty dollars a plate for the privilege of honoring him.
Disillusioningly, it was less than a week later that Andscott had started getting new bids on the T21 moldings and he’d been forced to shave the unit price another six cents in order to hold the business. Cost savings would have justified the price cut if he had seen his way clear to spend sixty thousand dollars on the kind of press that the competitive bidder planned to use, but how could anyone have known then that business was going to hold up the way it had?
Grant Austen looked up at the plaque on his wall. A quarter century was a long time. Actually, it was more than that now—thirty years if you counted back to those first days with old Fred.
It was a long time since he had heard from Fred, longer than he realized until he stopped to think about it, no word since that letter some time just after the war started. Fred had been in Tulsa then, fooling around with some new invention. Grant Austen had replied to his hard-luck letter with a check for five hundred dollars. The check had been cashed but he’d never heard again from Fred. It didn’t matter. The five hundred had long since been charged off as a “bad debt.” After tax it didn’t mean a thing. And he could afford it. Fred was probably dead. He never had been much of a businessman—four thousand dollars for a half interest in the Suffolk Moulding Company. If he’d had sense enough to hang on, he could have been a millionaire, too.
2
Gil Clark had been waiting for twenty minutes in the anteroom of Harrison Glenn’s office, rankled by the delay, thinking how pointless it was that he had not broken his speed run from Suffolk with a stop for a sandwich. He was beginning to feel the dull throb of a headache, more acceptably chargeable to hunger than to the nervous tension that he always felt while waiting to enter the president’s office. Acceptance of the alternate explanation would have been an admission of a fear that he was certain did not exist. He was not afraid of Harrison Glenn—there was no reason why he should be—but there was, invariably, this belly-tightening mixture of tense anticipation.
There was one explaining association. It was the same way he had always felt when, as a boy, he had been called into the library to face his grandfather, often as not to be offered some kindness, rarely for censure, but always feeling something that was vaguely associated with his Sunday School confusion at the frightening duality of a deity that was said to be the fountainhead of man’s love for man, yet was reputed to be capable of surpassingly cruel punishments for minor transgressions.
His grandfather was one of the few men for whom Gil Clark had felt almost total admiration. Harrison Glenn was another. Although they were unlike physically, both had been men whom it was impossible to imagine as ever being guilty of any act that would breach a gentleman’s code of honor. It was Harrison Glenn’s reputation for unflinching integrity that had brought Gil Clark to Corporation Associates. After two years with George Farrar and Nick Peters at Simonds, Farrar & Peters had all but destroyed his faith in personal honor, Harrison Glenn had restored it.
A buzzer sounded and Miss Neal said, “You may go in now, Mr. Clark.”
He stood up, straightening his tie, feeling as if the breath in his lungs was unexpellable, tentatively reaching out to the doorknob. The door swung to the touch of his hand and he saw Harrison Glenn sitting at his desk, the giant body inhumanly motionless, making him seem more than ever an unyielding monolith rough-hewn out of some coarse-grained stone, a monument to the endurance of man’s belief that silent immobility was somehow a demonstration of wisdom. Gil had never made up his mind whether or not Harrison Glenn was as wise as he seemed, but he knew that there were clients of Corporation Associates who paid large fees to have him sit at their conference tables and considered themselves well compensated by his presence, even though he often sat through a whole afternoon without uttering a word. In any event, surpassing wisdom was not, by Gil Clark’s standards, a prime requisite for an admirable man.
“Sit down, Clark,” Harrison Glenn said.
Gil sat.
“What happened?”
“Not much more than I told you over the telephone, sir.”
Harrison Glenn’s giant hand went up to touch the roughly folded edge-seam of his ear. “You think Austen will really sell?”
“Yes sir, he—definitely, sir.”
“Did he say so?”
“Say so? Of course.”
“He said that he was ready to sell?”
“Yes, he—well, we spent a half hour or so talking about what his tax position would be. He wouldn’t have gone that far if he hadn’t made up his mind.”
“Why?”
“Why, sir? You mean—?”
“Why does he want to sell?”
“Well, for one thing, Andscott has him pretty much over a barrel. You see—well, I’ve been hammering at him for two or three years not to keep on taking more and more Andscott business—you’ve seen my recommendations—but he’s just followed the path of least resistance. Andscott business has been the easiest to get so he’s just gone on taking more and more of it. He’s at the point now where it’s fifty-five to sixty per cent of his total volume. Well, yesterday Andscott turned on the heat. They want some trick new television cabinet—takes an enormous press to do it, a lot of other equipment, too. Austen figures that it would mean an investment of somewhere around a quarter of a million.”
“And he doesn’t want to make it?”
“The point is this, sir—I didn’t get this from Austen himself, but Paul Bronson told me—Andscott won’t give him any guarantee of volume. On top of that, they’re even asking Suffolk to finance the construction of the molds—and if Austen doesn’t do what they want, they’re threatening to pull all of their business. You can see what that would do to Suffolk Moulding, more than half their volume lost.”
“Sounds like a squeeze play to force Austen into selling.”
“That’s my conclusion, too. Don’t see how it can be anything else.”
“Didn’t think General Danvers would stoop to that sort of thing. Are you sure of your facts, Clark?”
Gil hesitated, warned to caution by the tone of the president’s voice. “Well, Paul Bronson gave me the story and there’d be no reason for him not to tell me the truth.”
The president’s giant fist unfolded into an enormous hand that he wiped slowly across the glassed surface of his desk. “Has Andscott actually made a move toward buying him out?”
“I can’t say about that, sir,” Gil replied. “But I did overhear a telephone conversation while I was in Austen’s office. He called Atherson of the Freeholders Bank and told him that there had been ‘a new development in the Andscott situation.’ Then he made an appointment to come down here to see Atherson tomorrow noon.”
“Do you think Andscott has actually made a definite offer?”
“Possibly—but I doubt it.
I don’t think it’s gotten that far. You see, after he talked to Atherson, Austen asked me what I thought he could get for the company. From the way he talked—well, this is more of a hunch than anything he actually said—no, I don’t think he’s had a definite offer yet.”
“Then isn’t it possible that his seeing Atherson tomorrow may be nothing but an attempt to borrow the money to go ahead with this new press setup?”
Gil shook his head. “Yes, that’s possible, sir, but I don’t think that’s it. Austen wouldn’t be so worried if it were that. He could get the money easily enough if he wanted to. The company is in good shape—no debts, not even a current bank loan. He’d have no trouble raising two or three hundred thousand.”
A scowl came to Harrison Glenn’s face, the change of expression so slowly accomplished that the movement of his features was almost imperceptible. “Then I fail to see why he feels himself squeezed into selling.”
“Because—” Gil stopped, aware of the difficulty of expression that so often plagued him in the president’s presence. “The truth is—well, actually, I don’t think this Andscott business is the real reason he’s selling, it’s only the precipitating incident.”
Harrison Glenn’s scowling stare was a demand for explanation.
“What I mean,” Gil went on, “is that—well, I’ve sort of sensed this coming. He’s been making a mess of managing the company and I think it’s finally beginning to penetrate. He’s just smart enough to see that he’d better get out while the getting is good.”
“You don’t have much respect for him, do you, Gil?”
Gil recognized the danger of an honest reply, but faced it squarely. “No sir, I don’t.”
The president’s voice rumbled, “Grant Austen started from nothing and built the Suffolk Moulding Company into a fine business. No man who can do that is a fool—nor is he stupid.”
“Of course,” Gil said in demanded agreement. “I realize that he must have had a lot on the ball at one time. He couldn’t have done what he did if he hadn’t. The point is, sir—well, the way it looks to me, he’s just run out of gas.”
There was the encouragement of Harrison Glenn’s mumbling, “Yes, that happens sometimes,” and Gil went on. “He’s been running the same company for twenty-five years—actually, it’s thirty if you go clear back to the beginning—and maybe he’s gotten bored with it, I don’t know. Or maybe he’s just getting old. At least—”
Too late, Gil realized that his tongue had tripped him into a trap. Harrison Glenn was deep in his sixties, a good ten years older than Grant Austen. “Mentally old, I mean,” he said in hurried correction. “Some men go to seed and some don’t. Anyway, with Grant Austen the drive just isn’t there any more. And it’s a darn shame, too—Suffolk Moulding is a fine little business—or at least it could be with the right kind of management.”
He cut himself off, aware that nervousness was making him talk too much. He watched Harrison Glenn’s face, wondering whether the president was still annoyed because of that slip of the tongue that had labeled Grant Austen as an old man.
But as had happened so often before, the stone mask of Harrison Glenn’s face had effectively hidden what he was really thinking. Unexpectedly, there was the dull explosion of his voice saying, “Dangerous attitude, Clark.”
“What’s that, sir?” Gil asked after a moment of blind groping.
“You like that company, don’t you?”
“Like it? Well, I—”
“Always a mistake to let yourself get too fond of any company,” the president rumbled. “Like a doctor falling in love with a patient. Destroys your perspective.”
Gil was still groping. “That hasn’t happened to me, sir.”
“Sure?”
“I don’t think I’ve lost my perspective.”
“Be honest, Clark,” Harrison Glenn demanded. “You want to hang on to Suffolk Moulding, don’t you?”
“Of course. It’s a good account.”
“I don’t mean as a client. You’d like to run that company yourself, wouldn’t you? Isn’t that what you’re hoping—that someone might buy it and put you in there to manage it?”
Gil laughed an automatic denial. “I’m not crazy enough to imagine that anything like that could happen!”
Or was he? Could it be that his mind had been sheltering a subconscious hope so fantastic that he hadn’t dared acknowledge it? Was that why he had experienced that choke of excitement when Grant Austen had said that he might sell, the wrench of fear that had twisted inside of him at the prospect that Suffolk Moulding might fall into Andscott’s hands?
“Tell me this,” the president said. “If that were your company—if you were Grant Austen—would you sell out?”
Gil waited out a moment of blankness, attempting to force a saving smile. “I guess the point is, sir, that I’m not Grant Austen.”
“You wouldn’t sell, would you?” Harrison Glenn broke in, defying denial.
“No sir, I—of course not.”
“Then why did you advise Austen to sell?”
Gil felt himself reeling as if the words had struck him a blow. For a moment he couldn’t believe that he had heard correctly.
Harrison Glenn repeated the question.
“But I didn’t, sir.”
“Sure of that? Be careful now, Gil. This is no idle question. Did you, or did you not, suggest to Grant Austen that he sell the Suffolk Moulding Company?”
“Absolutely not, sir.”
“How did the matter come up? I want the whole story, step by step.”
Gil waited through a thought-collecting moment. “Well, I’d brought down a report on a readjustment of their depreciation policy—one of Austen’s brainstorms but I had to go through the motions of giving him an answer. I’d just started to show it to him when he asked me to hold up, said that he had something else he wanted to discuss with me. He told me then that he was thinking about selling the company and wanted to know what I thought about it.”
“He opened the subject?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
“I said that I thought it was an idea worth considering.”
Harrison Glenn held him with unblinking eyes. “Did you tell him that he might make a lot more money—come out better in the long run by selling out rather than continuing to operate his business?”
“No, sir. It was Austen who said that.”
“Austen said it?”
“Yes.”
“What was your reply?”
“I said that I thought it was possible that he might—depending on how much he could get for the company and the tax situation that would be created by the sale.”
“You did not—at any time—advise Grant Austen to sell his company?”
Gil Clark choked back the rising gorge of resentment at the president’s pounding inquisition. “I did not advise him to sell. I did agree that it was an idea worth considering.” He had made his words sharply precise, emphasizing the difference between advice and agreement.
There was no hint of understanding in the stone face but, surprisingly, the barely moving lips said, “Don’t get your back up, Gil. There’s a point to this. I must be absolutely certain that Austen himself initiated the idea.”
“He did.”
“And you think he has a deal on to sell to Andscott?”
“Yes sir. I—well, there’s one thing I didn’t mention before. Atherson of Freeholders has a lot of interest in Andscott Instrument. I know that from my days over at S.F.&P. And he’s been Grant Austen’s banker since the beginning of the company. Wouldn’t he be the logical man to act as an intermediary?”
The great paws of Glenn’s fists slid slowly across the desk. “That’s a little thin, Clark—possible, of course, but—”
“But there’s this, too—after Austen told me that he was planning to sell, I said that even though he had one deal boiling, he shouldn’t jump too fast. The point is that he did not deny that he did have one
deal on the fire.”
“What did you mean—that he shouldn’t jump too fast?”
“Well, I told him that selling a company was like selling anything else—the more possible buyers he could line up, the better price he could probably expect. I may have gone a little too far in suggesting it, but I told him there was a possibility that we might—that you might—be able to put him in touch with someone interested in buying his company.”
There was an astounding break in the mask of Harrison Glenn’s face, almost a smile. “The hell you did!”
“I hope that I didn’t—well, I thought that if someone other than Andscott bought Suffolk, at least there might be a chance of our holding the account. I knew there’d be no chance at all if Andscott moved in.”
Harrison Glenn seemed not to have heard, turning slowly in his chair. Then, surprisingly, the giant body started to unfold and he stood, moving toward the window with a shoulder-weaving shuffle. Gil felt the tightening tension of the unexpected. This was out of character, the seated statue rising and walking away from its pedestal. Harrison Glenn rarely rose from his desk chair.
The president stood at the window, his enormous shoulders almost spanning its width, his voice booming back from the reflecting glass. “Good work, Gil. Glad you got your oar in.”
Gil rose, welcoming not only approval but also relief from the constraint of sitting. “Do you mean, sir, that you know someone who might be interested?”
“Was at one time,” the president said in a gruff grumble. “Don’t know whether he still is or not. Haven’t been able to get in touch with him yet.”
“Who’s that, sir?” Gil asked, not conscious that the question was an impropriety until Harrison Glenn pointedly evaded an answer.
“Stay close enough to your office so that I can reach you in a hurry,” the president ordered. “He may want to talk to you.”
Accepting the dismissal, Gil Clark turned to the door. As he glanced back he saw that Glenn was still looking out of the window and, even with allowance for his natural immobility, his stare seemed too fixed to be pointless. Gil’s impression was too unsure to be given the weight of certainty but it seemed that the object of Harrison Glenn’s attention was the distant top floor of the Hotel Ivanhoe.
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