Cash McCall

by Cameron Hawley

  He had started to protest that he wasn’t retiring, but before he could frame a reply he became aware that if he argued that he wasn’t retiring they would all want to know what he was going to do. He couldn’t tell them. There hadn’t been time enough yet to think about that part of it.

  The round-table conversation had then turned to Business Week’s current prediction that the downturn in consumer buying would be short-lived and mild. Strangely, no one asked him for his opinion and, even more strangely, when he finally offered it, he could not escape the impression that somehow, overnight, everyone had gotten together and agreed that his judgment was no longer worthy of any special respect. There would have been an entirely different attitude around the table, he knew, if he had only been able to explain that he sold out for two million dollars—a good half million more than the company was worth—but that was something he was barred from doing. Even if he had been free to speak, it was doubtful whether they would have believed him. It was one of those things that sounded too good to be true.

  His office, when he returned to it, had been the same purgatory of undisturbed silence. Once during the afternoon he invented an excuse to wander out through the office building but the foray proved unrewarding. He was given only the briefest of glances as he passed through the accounting department, and the lawyers clustered around the big table in the display room had not even interrupted their methodical paper turning long enough to look up. The doors of the offices that had been assigned to Winston Conway and Gil Clark were both closed.

  Encountering his own employees as he walked through the office building he had sensed a startling difference in their attitude toward him. Several failed to speak. It was almost as if there had been a general acceptance of the fact that they were no longer obligated to deference and, now released, were relishing their delinquency. When he returned to his office, Miss Berk was gone. There was a note on his desk saying that she was doing some work for Mr. Clark. It did not conclude with an invitation to call her if there was anything he needed.

  A man of a different cast of mind might then have begun to question the soundness of what he had done. Grant Austen did not. The evident defection of his supposedly loyal employees became the first real proof that he had done the right thing when he had sold the company. In much the same clear-eyed way, he saw the factory for what it really was. Through the window behind his desk he examined it with a new sense of detachment, judging it now with his awakened mind, seeing all that tolerant familiarity had made him overlook before—the rust-blotched corrugated iron on the end of the tool shop, the mossy shingles on the roof of the old mill building, a broken window through which a pigeon flew as he watched, a crumbling hole in the paving of the areaway, an over-age lift truck grinding its gears as it backed away from the loading platform with a barrel of flash scrap. Oddly, everything seemed to have shrunk in scale. The whole plant, like the object of an old and long-discarded love affair, aroused only the feeling of wonder that he could ever have found it so entrancing.

  In the middle of the afternoon, telling Miss Berk to send the unanswered mail on his desk to Gil Clark, he had walked out, unable to longer endure the pointlessness of his presence at the office. Halfway across town, suddenly realizing that so early an arrival at home would necessitate an explanation to Miriam, he drove out through the country, aimlessly following back roads, killing time until five o’clock.

  Miriam had greeted him at the door, handing him the evening newspaper. A hasty search finally revealed a small item—on the front page, it was true, but with only a single-column headline and one short paragraph under it—and there was nothing in it beyond the report that rumors were being circulated that control of the Suffolk Moulding Company had been purchased by Philadelphia financial interests. There was no mention of his name, only the statement that company officials declined to confirm or deny the report. The whole item reflected the newspaper’s ridiculous editorial policy—giving a whole column to a chicken-corn-soup dinner put on by the Farm Women’s League, but less than a tenth that much space to something that was a thousand times more important to the community.

  He had taken the paper into his library but the atmosphere was unpleasantly reminiscent of his office and he came out quickly, suggesting that they have dinner at the Country Club. He had half expected Miriam to protest that it was too late now to stop things in the kitchen. Instead, she seemed extraordinarily pleased. Lory’s refusal to accompany them had been a disappointment, almost prompting him to change his mind but, afterwards, he had decided that it had all worked out for the best. If Lory had been along she would have wanted to talk about the company. Miriam put no such demand upon him. She had, once or twice, edged toward asking about his future plans, but she had not pressed him for a commitment and, later, when he had said that maybe a nice long trip would be something worth thinking about, she reached across the table to pat his hand and say, “Grant, I’m so happy. Now we’re going to really begin to live!” It was the most solid support that anyone had given him and he had been surprised that it came from Miriam. All in all, it had been a quite successful evening—except for his impulsive ordering of Lobster Newburg which, as he should have known it would, kept him awake for a long time.

  Despite sleeplessness, he had awakened early that next morning, getting up at once but resolving not to go to the office until late, visualizing a pleasant lingering over breakfast. But Lory had seemed strangely jumpy, anxious to get out to her studio, and when Miriam had left the table for the third time to answer another telephone call about some fool hospital meeting, he had given up and gone to the office.

  An hour later he had been on his way back home. No sooner had he arrived at the office than Gil Clark had come in—Miss Berk not even bothering to announce him—bringing back all of the mail he’d been sent yesterday. He’d told Gil that he’d be on his own in a few days, anyway, and might as well start getting used to it but Gil, of course, had protested that he had no authority to take over. All that had meant was that he was beginning to get buck fever, finding out that there was a lot more to running a company like Suffolk Moulding than anyone ever realized!

  Grant Austen had not, until he was outside the plant gate that morning, actually made a conscious decision to return home. But he was confronted with the fact that there was nowhere else he wanted to go—he had no taste for lunching again at the Hotel Conomissing—and, driving out Mill Street toward Orchard Hill, the prospect of a day at home had actually seemed rather appearing.

  Parking his car in the drive, he had gone in the back door to be confronted with what seemed full evidence of some catastrophic explosion—a table upside down, chairs scattered about, a throw rug tossed over the balustrade, a lamp shade on the newel post, bric-à-brac on the bottom steps—and then Miriam stepping suddenly through the living-room arch, wearing some rag of a dress, a scarf binding her hair, and red rubber gloves on her hands.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she had apologized. “I had no idea you were coming back,” then turning to call, “Anna, let that go for a minute and we’ll straighten up here in the hall. Be as quiet as you can now—and we’d better forget about the waxing.”

  He had protested and gone into the library, Miriam following to explain, “It doesn’t matter, dear. It’s just the Friday cleaning. We can let it go until tomorrow.”

  He had wanted to tell her that tomorrow would be no different, that he would be home every day from now on, and that he didn’t expect to be treated as if he were a special guest in his own home. But what came out was, “There’s no reason why you have to scrub floors, Miriam. Goodness knows, we can afford—”

  “But, Grant, you simply can’t get anyone who’ll—” And then she had looked at him, annoyingly tolerant. “I know, dear. We’ll work something out.”

  After she had closed the door, the distant bee buzz of the vacuum cleaner had stopped. Then, after another moment, there was no longer even the muffled clatter of furniture being moved. He had sat for a long t
ime, consciously trying to think, but the dead quiet had dulled his brain.

  Then Miriam had come back, her dress changed, the scarf and red rubber gloves gone, opening the door after an anxious tapping, peeping in to ask, ridiculously, if he would be there for lunch.

  How could she imagine that he wouldn’t be there for lunch? And then, no less annoyingly, she asked if there was something wrong at the office. His reply had been a too-sharp denial, but his regret had vanished a few minutes later when the telephone had rung and, picking up the receiver, he had found that Miriam, already on the line, was saying to someone, “—but I’ve got Grant home now, you know, so that changes everything. From now on I won’t be able to—” Flash anger had made him want to shout back that he was not a doddering old man who needed a senile invalid’s perpetual care, but consciousness of eavesdropping had made him let the receiver slip out of his hands, anger slowly dissolving into the admission that it wasn’t really Miriam’s fault. She, too, was having a little trouble getting oriented. But what she had to be made to understand was that he didn’t want his life changed—except in the way that he wanted it changed.

  The afterthought was a reminder and he sat bolt upright now, pushing back the satin quilt, amazed that he could have been awake as long as he had without remembering what, before he had fallen off to sleep, he had been so certain would be his first thought this morning. The lapse was alarming and he wondered for a moment if this was another case of a midnight idea that wouldn’t stand the cold light of day. No, it was as sound now as it had been last night … he knew what he wanted to do … and he had Winston Conway to thank for it … for that and a lot of other things, too.

  A yawn dismissed the embarrassed realization that his initial impression of Winston Conway had been totally wrong. Seeing him that first day, meeting him there in the office lobby, Conway’s too-handsome face and prematurely white hair had made him seem one of those politically destined attorneys who rely more on a sonorous voice and a photogenic profile than a good brain and a sound knowledge of the law. But there had been more than that involved in his original dislike. On Monday, Conway had asked him to stop by the office. The lawyer, it turned out, had been digging into the way stock had been transferred to Lory, and the number of irregularities that he had uncovered had been proof enough that he was no one’s fool.

  Fear is often the progenitor of respect and Grant Austen had been badly frightened, all the more so after Conway had started questioning the way that Alvin T. Manson’s estate had been probated. But in the strange alchemy of the human mind, the relieving of fear can transmute grudging respect into openhearted gratitude, and Winston Conway had relieved all of Grant Austen’s fears. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Austen. It’s obvious that your legal guidance has been somewhat less than adequate, but I’m reasonably certain that there’s nothing you’ve done that would be held to evidence a fraudulent intent.” And then he had said that Mr. McCall would certainly want him to be of any possible assistance—without, of course, interfering in any way with Mr. Austen’s relationships with his own legal counsel—and that he would be only too happy to help in any way he could, to advise on procedures that would reduce, to the lowest possible point, the tax for which Grant Austen would become liable as a result of the company’s sale.

  Gratefully, he had accepted Winston Conway’s offer, telling him that there was nothing to worry about as far as his own attorney was concerned. Old Frank Brookauser did all right handling the City Council when a complaint about odor from the plant had to be quashed, but it was plain enough now that Frank didn’t know much about income tax and, as Conway had said, that was the backbone of corporation practice these days. Frank would never in a million years have figured things out the way Winston Conway had. Of course, even with Conway’s plan, his tax was going to be more than he’d originally figured … gift tax on that last block of stock he’d transferred to Lory and a corrected declaration on his own personal income for last year … but he’d still have more than his million clear. That was all that really mattered … that and knowing where he was really going from here on out.

  After last night’s final session, settling twenty thousand as the extra payment … and that was something he had Winston Conway to thank for, too … squelching Gil Clark’s petty squabbling by telling him that Cash McCall wasn’t the kind of man who would worry about a little thing like an inventory write-down on some old molding material … Conway had invited him up to his room for a drink, just the two of them. It was then that the lawyer had given him the idea … no, not directly, but if Conway hadn’t invited him they would never have started talking about the old OPA days in Washington and, if that hadn’t happened, he might never have realized that Washington was what he wanted … no, not politics, just a chance to dig in somewhere and really do a job.

  Now, lying back in bed, Grant Austen put his plan to a final test. Methodically, he rechecked his reasoning, touching fingertips as he counted the points of argument, First, he knew Washington … all of the time he’d spent there during the war … and that had been the happiest period of his life. Second, there could be no doubt about his ability to make a contribution … he was a successful businessman who had proved his ability, not one of those college professors who were full of theory and not much else. Third, he came from Small Business and that was good politically … too many of the men who’d gone to Washington were from Big Business. Fourth, he was not only a businessman but an electrical engineer … and that tied in with electronics, and electronics was almost the biggest thing in the whole defense program. Fifth, he could afford it … plenty of money to live on, no matter how small the government salary might be. Sixth, he had an inside track to find the kind of spot where he really could do the most good … there wasn’t a man in Washington who knew the ropes better than Harlan Bostwick, Executive Secretary of the American Association of Plastic Molders … and Harlan was one of his best friends, always had been.

  Yawning, stretching, feeling truly relaxed for the first time in weeks, he turned his head and saw the coffee cups standing on the table between the two beds. He smiled reminiscently, pleasantly puzzled, wondering if Miriam had guessed what he had in mind. He hadn’t told her, of course … be silly to get her all excited until it was definite … but she must have guessed something. If she hadn’t, she wouldn’t have been so keyed up.

  For a moment, he thought back over his married life. The vague and never-defined feeling of inadequacy that had sometimes troubled him was now so faded that it was almost unrecognizable. Miriam was a good girl … maybe just a little self-centered sometimes … but perhaps that had been partly his own fault, his mind so full of Suffolk Moulding all the time … and Miriam never had been interested in the plastics business. But it would be different now … Washington would be right down Miriam’s alley … she’d really get a kick out of Washington!

  The only cloud in his mind was the necessity of waiting. Now that he knew what he wanted, he was anxious to get started. Unfortunately, Harlan Bostwick wasn’t in Washington. The convention was starting tomorrow and Harlan was already down at the Moon Beach Club getting things set up. He wouldn’t be back in Washington until Monday. That meant a loss of five days … but maybe five days’ rest before he got back in the saddle again wouldn’t do him any harm.

  Grant Austen closed his eyes, attempting to induce the return of sleep, but with no success. He was wide awake, more completely awake than he had been at any time in the last ten years.

  After a moment, he got out of bed, found his red brocade robe, tiptoed down the stairs, retrieving his briefcase from the sofa in the library. There were sounds from the kitchen but he got back upstairs without Miriam hearing him. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he took out the legal documents that had to be signed today and started to check through them. The first page exhausted his patience. What was the point? Everything was all right … if he couldn’t trust Winston Conway and Cash McCall who could he trust? They were a couple of really high-cla
ss men … yes sir, they sure were.

  3

  Gil Clark’s awakening required more than the recapturing of consciousness. There was the physical demand of opening heavy eyelids, the forced moving of cramped muscles, the deeper breathing that brush-burned the crown of his lungs. He felt flattened to the bed as, in his reminiscent nightmare, he had again been flattened to the deck of the carrier on that day at anchor in Anowok Bay when a B-26 from the Army field, both engines smoking, had all but crash landed on the ship.

  Half awake, the plane roar still in his ears, he nodded to the foggy awareness that he was in the Conomissing Hotel in Suffolk and unfolded a leaden arm toward the telephone. But the hammer pounding still thudded his brain, beating in the slow realization that it was a knocking at the door that had awakened him, not the ringing of the telephone.

  He remembered that his robe was in the bathroom and stumbled toward it, stealing the moment that it took to splash his face with cold water, not feeling the cold, hardly the wetness, finger combing his hair as he went to the door, opening it.

  A man lounged against the corridor wall, shadowed, straightening to full height with leonine grace, his face vaguely familiar but not recognized until he moved into the light. It was Cash McCall.

  Gil Clark was thunderclapped into full awakening. He had been trying to reach McCall for four days and four nights, bribing the telephone operator to keep calling the unlisted number of the suite on the top floor of the Hotel Ivanhoe in Philadelphia. He had not talked to him since that call in Philadelphia, last Wednesday afternoon. There had been neither guidance nor authority for all the decisions he had been forced to make after Grant Austen had walked out on Friday afternoon, washing his hands of all responsibility. Worst of all, the hour-by-hour operating problems that had piled in upon him had so completely absorbed his time that there had been no opportunity to prepare the presentation that Cash McCall had asked him to make on the desirability of Suffolk Moulding property as a research center for the Cavalier Chemical Corporation. He had spent most of last night, working until four this morning, trying to get something down on paper but, at best, he had made no more than a fair start. Too much of his mind had been absorbed with the major problem he would face this morning. This was the last day of grace with Andscott Instrument. Before nightfall, Andscott had to be told whether or not Suffolk was going ahead with the new press.