“Don’t worry about talking frankly,” Gil smiled. “As for General Danvers—you’re quite right in raising plenty of questions about his management of Andscott.”
“Then you think so, too?” Bergmann asked, clearly surprised.
Gil shrugged. “The facts speak for themselves, don’t they?”
“That’s the way it seemed to me,” Bergmann said, greatly relieved. “May I talk to you confidentially?”
A reservation leaped in to stop Gil Clark’s automatic assent, “Well, I’m here as Mr. McCall’s representative. Naturally, I’d have to talk to him.”
“Oh, of course—yes, I’d expect that,” Bergmann said quickly, but there was a hesitant pause before he went on. “Until a little more than a year ago—a year ago last September—I didn’t concern myself at all with the Andscott Instrument Corporation. As you know, the Foundation held a great deal of stock, but still—well, this will sound naïve to you, I suppose, but I never worried about what was going on down there. Mr. Andrews had put in General Danvers as president and I hardly felt like questioning his judgment.”
“And he was a famous man and apparently very able.”
“Quite so,” Bergmann said gratefully. “And we got our dividends regularly—that is until this case a year ago in September. It may not be important but I think you should know about it.”
“I’d like the whole story.”
“To be honest about it, I hadn’t realized that the check hadn’t come until our bookkeeper called it to my attention—two or three weeks after we should have received it. I thought there’d been a mistake so I called General Danvers. It was no mistake. But he said that it was only a temporary situation and not to worry about it.”
“The dividend had been declared?”
“Oh, yes, the other stockholders had been paid—Mrs. Bergmann’s brother owned some Andscott stock at the time and I knew that he’d gotten his check. He’s an attorney, by the way, and when it got on into November and the Foundation still hadn’t received our dividend, I talked to him about it. Frankly, I was a little worried.”
“I should think you would have been. That’s an extremely irregular procedure—declaring a dividend and then withholding payment.”
“Yes, so Harold told me, and on the strength of that I went down to see General Danvers. He explained that something unexpected had come up in connection with the television business, that the company was a little short of cash, but that we’d get our check very shortly.”
“And did you?”
“Yes, it finally came and I—well, actually, I thought no more about it.” He paused and his voice took on a shade of embarrassment. “Very soon after that, Mrs. Bergmann and I started seeing a lot of the Danverses. They entertained us and we took several trips together.” He paused and a shade of embarrassment came into his voice. “Perhaps I do General Danvers an injustice but—well, some things happened that convinced me that his friendship wasn’t completely sincere.”
“In the meantime, I believe, you’d gone on the Andscott board?”
Bergmann sighed heavily. “Yes, and I probably handled that badly, too. I’m no businessman—I realize that—but I couldn’t accept the soundness of what was being done. The instrument business was making a very good profit, but all of that and more was being put into the television business. I realize, of course, that it takes time to get something like that going, but it seemed to me Andscott was losing ground rather than gaining it. Instead of the losses getting smaller, they were getting bigger.”
“And you objected to the management policy that was being followed?”
“Yes, I—well, it seemed to me that the best thing to do would be to drop the television business. In research, when we find that we’ve started to follow some unproductive line, we get out as rapidly as we can, even if it does mean the loss of what we’ve put into it.”
“That’s an equally good rule in business,” Gil agreed. “Did you have any support in the board?”
“None at all,” Bergmann said, but with a hesitant reservation. “Actually, I—well, I did have the feeling that there were several who agreed with me but no one would speak up. You see, most of the directors are executives in the company and, naturally, they weren’t going to risk putting themselves in a bad light with General Danvers.”
“But aren’t there a couple of outside directors, too?”
“Yes, Mr. Bannon and Mr. Shaughn, but they—forgive me if I sound inexperienced in these things, Mr. Clark, but I couldn’t get over the impression that it was a case of noblesse oblige. They’re presidents of companies, too, and it seemed that they didn’t want to interfere with General Danvers any more than they would want some outside director to interfere with them in their own companies. I may be wrong but that’s the way it impressed me.”
“I don’t think you are wrong,” Gil said with a complimentary smile. “That’s an extremely common situation. So I gather your protest didn’t accomplish very much?”
“Nothing except to incur General Danvers’ displeasure—and even more seriously through what happened next. That may have been a mistake, too, but I’d been talking with Harold—this brother of Mrs. Bergmann’s—and he told me that the amount of stock the Foundation held entitled us to more than one member of the board.”
“Did you suggest that to Danvers?”
Bergmann’s pained expression described the unpleasantness of the occasion. “I probably went about it in entirely the wrong way. I didn’t mean it as criticism of General Danvers. He may be entirely right in the course he’s been following but—”
Gil cut in, sure now that he was on solid ground. “General Danvers is not right, Dr. Bergmann. The truth might as well be faced—the Andscott Instrument Corporation is rapidly approaching an extremely critical situation. It’s completely obvious that there must be a new president—perhaps a number of other new top executives as well.”
Bergmann looked as if he had been slapped. “I—I’d never thought of going that far.”
“There’s nothing else to do.”
“But—is that possible?”
“Yes,” Gil said quietly. “If you’re willing to do what has to be done.”
“I’ll do anything to save the Foundation,” Bergmann said slowly, a total commitment, grimly resolute and transparently honest.
Gil weighed the gamble and decided that the odds were heavily in his favor. “Dr. Bergmann, if you will give Mr. McCall a proxy to vote the Foundation’s shares, he’ll be able to elect a majority of the board, bring in a new president, do whatever needs to be done to put the company back on a dividend-paying basis again.”
Bergmann got heavily to his feet, shuffling to the window, looking out. “Who would the new president be?”
“I don’t know. Nor can I tell you what Mr. McCall’s plans would be for reorganizing the company. It will take some time and study to work that out. But you know what Mr. McCall did at Cox-Farrington.”
“Yes, if he could get a man to do what John Allenby has done.”
“I’m sure he would.”
Bergmann turned back from the window. “I said that I’d do anything to save the Foundation and I meant it. If that’s what has to be done, I’d appreciate Mr. McCall’s help in doing it.”
For an instant, Gil was taken aback by Bergmann’s assumption of the major responsibility. But it was actually true. The Foundation was the big stockholder, not Cash McCall.
“When can I talk to Mr. McCall?” Bergmann asked.
“Probably some time this evening.”
“Not before that?” Bergmann asked, disturbed. “I promised General Danvers that I would give him word by five o’clock on whether or not I’d support this idea of buying the molding company. If I could talk to Mr. McCall before that—get a little more idea of what he had in mind—”
“Suppose I do this,” Gil suggested. “I’ll try to get in touch with him and set up a meeting at the earliest possible moment.”
“I’ll be in town
after lunch,” Bergmann said. “Where can I reach you?”
“At Mr. Conway’s office,” Gil said, adding as he saw a telephone book within arm’s reach, “I’ll find the number for you.”
While he was looking up the telephone number, the door behind him opened and a nervously secretarial voice said, “I’m sorry, Dr. Bergmann, but if you’re going to make your luncheon date with General Danvers—”
“But I haven’t a luncheon date with him,” Bergmann protested.
“I left a note there on your desk. He called the first thing this morning.”
“Did you tell him I’d be there?”
“No sir—but I just thought you would.”
Dr. Martin Bergmann shook his head and Gil heard the door behind him close. He had written the telephone number on a page from his pocket notebook. Now he ripped it and handed it across the table.
“Thank you,” Bergmann said—and the words were far more than a meaningless formality.
8
Grant Austen was fully recovered from the disconcerting circumstance of his unobserved arrival at Moon Beach in a private B-26, disappointment more than offset now by the realization that arriving ahead of the crowd had given him the best of all chances for a talk with Harlan Bostwick. A call to the switchboard operator had produced the information that the association’s Executive Secretary was in the Congressional Room.
Getting off the elevator at the first floor, Grant Austen crossed the lobby, holding to a dignified saunter until he was safely through the doorway to the Annex, then speeding his pace to its top limit as he walked rapidly toward the Congressional Room where, beginning tomorrow morning, the convention sessions would be staged.
“Why, Mr. Austen!” he heard a feminine voice squeal as he came to the reception area that fronted the auditorium. Miss Witham and Miss Rogers from the association’s Washington office were behind the green-felted registration desk, party-dressed and newly permanented, both smiling so eagerly that he was uncertain which one had called the greeting. They were a couple of fine girls, neither of them ever forgetting that he had been on the Executive Committee back in ’49 when the resolution had been passed to bring both of them to Moon Beach every year as a reward for their loyal service to A.A.P.M. And it had worked out fine … after that first year, of course … and even that first year hadn’t really been their fault. They just hadn’t realized that a Moon Beach Special Mint Julip wasn’t one of the watered-down Martinis that you got at a Washington cocktail party … and that there was a limit to what an A.A.P.M. member had a right to expect from the Washington staff.
“But we didn’t think you were coming!” Miss Witham squealed excitedly, and Miss Rogers added in what seemed the same breath, “We mean we were afraid you weren’t!”
“Thought you were going to get rid of me, didn’t you?” he chuckled, a little out of breath.
“Why it just wouldn’t be a convention without you, Mr. Austen,” one said, and then the other, “Goodness me, you haven’t been down to see us in Washington for ages and ages.”
“Maybe you’ll be seeing more of me from now on,” he said with a sly smile that neither of them saw, both of them so excited about trying to find his badge for him.
“Things are a little mixed up,” Miss Witham said nervously, fingering through the big envelopes in the file box, and Miss Rogers added, “We’ll have everything straightened out in just a minute or two, Mr. Austen.”
“Now don’t you worry about that,” he said. “Just came down to see Mr. Bostwick for a minute. He in here?”
“Yes, he’s in there,” they both said, almost in unison. “And we’ll have your badge right away.”
He pushed through the door of the Congressional Room, finding himself in total darkness, pierced only by the arrowhead beam of a slide projector and a huge chart glowing red and yellow from the stage. From somewhere in the darkness, Harlan Bostwick’s sonorous voice called the instructions that directed the rehearsal and, feeling his way from chair to chair, Grant Austen edged toward the voice.
The American flag was on the screen now, frozen in furious flapping, and Harlan Bostwick’s shouts were close at hand. “There’s your cue! Fade in America, the Beautiful! Bring your houselights up on the dimmer!”
There was an enormous burst of needle-scratching from a tin-throated loudspeaker and the houselights exploded like a bomb burst.
“No, no, no!” Bostwick screamed. “I want an effect here! Who in hell is on those—”
The Executive Secretary’s breath seemed to suck back into his throat and Grant Austen found himself staring into a face that accused him of being a ghost.
“Grant!” Bostwick expelled the name as if it had used up the last whisper of a deep breath. “But I thought—good god, man, I had no idea you were coming. I thought that—I’ll do something about your room right now.”
Grant Austen stopped him as he moved toward the door, sure now that his suspicions had been justified … it had been no accident that there had been a mix-up at the desk about his reservation, nor that the girls hadn’t been able to find his badge. But there was no better way to put a man under obligation than to catch him off base and then be magnanimous about it. “Oh, that’s all right, Harlan. No harm done.”
“But your room?” Bostwick asked, his handsome face contorted with concern. “Did they take care of you at the desk? I never had any idea—I wouldn’t have canceled—”
“Now don’t you worry, Harlan. Everything’s all right. Best they could do was put us in the back wing but that doesn’t matter.”
“Grant, listen, I’ll go right out and see if I can’t do something about—”
Austen blocked him with an outstretched hand. “It’s only a couple of nights and I know you’ve got plenty on your mind without worrying about me.”
Harlan Bostwick swallowed uncertainly. “I just don’t know how to excuse myself, Grant. I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything, Harlan. Just forget it. Everything’s fine.”
“If there’s anything I can do to—anything at all—”
Grant Austen waited out a timed pause. “Well, there is one thing, Harlan—that is if you have a minute?”
“Of course, Grant, of course.”
“You see I’ve sold Suffolk Moulding and—”
“I know. That’s what threw me off. I—” He gulped a new breath and made a fresh start. “What have you got on your mind, Grant?”
“Well, the truth is, Harlan—” He saw the projector operator watching them and lowered his voice. “This is confidential, you understand, but—well, as I say, I’ve sold Suffolk Moulding—one of those offers that a man just couldn’t turn down—”
“That’s fine, Grant, fine. I figured it must have been something like that. By the way, who is this Gammer—?”
“What I’m trying to say, Harlan, is that I’ve got things fixed now so that I don’t have to worry any more about making money. From now on—well, you know I spent a lot of time down in Washington during the war, and one of the things that really impressed me was how much good the right man could do—I mean if he’s in the right spot. That’s what I wanted your advice on, Harlan. I know darn well there isn’t anybody around Washington that knows his way around like you do. Didn’t want to make any move before I talked to you.”
“I appreciate that, Grant, really do. Glad to tell you anything I can.”
“I thought maybe you would know some spot where—well, I mean where a man could do some good. You see, I’ve got the chance now—free and not having to worry about money any more—and I figure it’s something a man like me ought to do.”
“That’s a wonderful attitude, Grant, really is,” Bostwick said thoughtfully. “I’ll tell you what—suppose you give me a chance to turn this around in my mind. I’ve got this rehearsal on my hands and I have to get things set before the gang gets here on the special.”
“Sure, you bet,” Grant Austen said, starting to extend his hand.
But Harlan Bostwick had backed out of reach. “Be seeing you, Grant.”
The lights went off before Grant Austen reached the door and the sudden darkness aroused a feeling of blind panic. Was it possible that Harlan was giving him a brush-off? No, that couldn’t be! Harlan was one of his best friends … but Will Atherson … and Harrison Glenn … no, it was only because Harlan was busy with this rehearsal.
Bostwick’s shouts in the darkness were a solid confirmation. “All right, now, this time let’s get on the ball. This is our last chance to rehearse this opening so let’s make it good. Go back to that flag slide again!”
Grant Austen turned and, sight restored, saw the American flag on the screen.
“Ready!” Bostwick’s shout rang out. “Bring in your music—fade it, fade it—easy—”
The opening strains of America, the Beautiful floated in from the darkness, lifting to the swell of massed voices.
A choke came into Grant Austen’s throat as he listened. Yes, he was right … Washington was what he wanted.
Groping, he pushed out through the door, momentarily blinded by the blaze of light in the anteroom.
“Here’s your badge, Mr. Austen!”
Miss Witham held his lapel while Miss Rogers pinned on the square of transparent plastic. Looking down, his smile of appreciation was dimmed as he saw that the name card was not the clear white of a full-fledged Member but the watery blue of a Special Guest. His name was blankly alone, unsupported by any corporate association—just GRANT AUSTEN, that and nothing else.
9
The bedroom came alive as Miriam Austen unpacked. Familiar dresses in the closet and her own bottles and jars on the mirror-topped dressing table banished the barren lifelessness of the suite as effectively as opening the windows to the sea breeze had washed out the stale hotel-smelling air.
Through the open window she heard the faint sound of distant music … America the Beautiful. She began to hum, actually singing the phrases she remembered. Everything was going so wonderfully, so much better than she had dared to hope! That had always been her trouble … imagining all sorts of awful things that never happened … so frightened of running the gauntlet of eyes that would be watching her come into the hotel … and then there hadn’t been anyone at all! And then so afraid that something was wrong when Grant had talked to the man at the desk so long … but nothing had been wrong. It was always that way. Why couldn’t she learn? She had learned … she wouldn’t let it happen again … never, never, never!
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