Cash McCall

by Cameron Hawley

  “And that was Cash’s grandfather?”

  “Yes, his grandfather—and Cash is so much like him in so many ways. That’s one of Will’s theories, you know—that inheritance usually jumps a generation, that a son is much more likely to resemble his grandfather than his father. I’ve no idea whether there’s any scientific foundation for it, but it does hold true in a surprising number of cases—surely in Cash’s.”

  “Then you knew Cash’s father, too?”

  “Not really—I met him only once or twice—but Will knew him quite well. John? Yes, I’m sure that’s right—John McCall. He managed a wallpaper factory—Lancaster or Reading, one of those towns out there—and Will handled the firm’s banking. He was a nice enough man, I suppose, but the way so many businessmen get these days—dull and stolid and all full of wallpaper. You know the type, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, I do know,” Lory heard herself say, alarmed for an instant that her unthinking reply had been a too transparent allusion to her father.

  “Well, now, let’s see now how much I can tell you—goodness, I wish my memory for dates was better. Cash must have gone in with his father about ’37—no it was before Susan was married—probably ’36. I do remember meeting his father at Susan’s wedding and he was so pleased that Cash was going to work for his company. And for a while it did seem as if it would take—oh, quite a long time really. Let’s see, I can remember Will talking about what a fine businessman Cash was going to make that summer we were in Vermont. That must have been ’37. Yes, that’s about right, it was over a year. Then Cash just walked out, disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  Mrs. Atherson nodded. “To me it was perfectly understandable—he just wasn’t the sort of person who could stand to be bored to death with the wallpaper business—but Will has always insisted that it was because of his father’s death. I can’t quite believe that—Cash is much too self-sufficient—but in any event he disappeared.”

  “Was that when he was in India?”

  “Oh, then you do know this part of it?”

  “No, not really,” Lory said quickly, anxious not to miss anything that Helen Atherson might tell her. “I only know that he was there, that’s all. I’ve seen some of the things he brought back.”

  “Yes, that’s where he was when Will finally located him—India or Burma or somewhere out there. You see, the bank was the executor of his father’s estate and there were some papers that Cash had to sign.” Her expression indicated a suddenly recalled memory. “There was a little property that had been willed to Cash—a small block of stock, I believe—but he wouldn’t accept it. Insisted that everything go to his mother—actually his stepmother, his own mother had died when he was a child—which was very sweet of him, of course, but it didn’t mean an earthly thing. It wasn’t a year until she married some horrible old goat, really a quite impossible person—I believe Will said he’d made his money in road contracting or something of the sort. Dear me, I’ve let this tea oversteep, haven’t I?”

  As Helen Atherson poured, Lory asked, “How long was Cash in India?”

  “Now let me see,” Mrs. Atherson puzzled, the teapot suspended. “I really don’t know, my dear. Perhaps a year or two. I do remember Will telling me that he’d come into the bank—yes, it must have been the spring of ’39. I was just home from Boston—Anne’s first baby. Cream, my dear?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Will was so worried about the boy, afraid he wasn’t going to get along, and he tried to help him. There were several openings in companies that Will was interested in but Cash turned down all of them.” She laughed in amused reminiscence. “I shall never forget the poor dear’s face the night he came home and told me that Cash had made some enormous sum of money, buying and selling some company—and without a cent of his own capital, mind you! The thing that Will couldn’t get over, of course, was that Cash had seen the opportunity and he hadn’t! It had been right there under Will’s nose all the time—one of his own customers.” She paused, looking up from her tea cup. “You do know that’s what he does—buys and sells companies?”

  Lory found herself grateful for the chance to nod, but the feeling of poise that it gave her was destroyed by the consciousness of a question that demanded the marshaling of her full courage. “Do you know, Mrs. Atherson, if he’s ever been married?”

  Helen Atherson’s tea cup clattered down to its saucer. “Oh, you poor dear child, don’t you even know—”

  “I know it sounds silly to ask but—”

  “Of course it isn’t,” the older woman said, reaching out for her hand. “And I can understand perfectly how difficult it would be for you to ask him. No, Lory, he’s never been married—but I’m sure you’re much too sensible to imagine that there’s never been another woman in his life. Of course there has.”

  Lory feigned the poise that it took to carry her through the slowly subsiding sting of shock.

  “It’s not that I actually know that he’s ever been interested in another woman,” Helen Atherson added. “But it stands to reason there’ve been some. Just accept that, my dear, and don’t let it worry you. Some girls are so silly about this business of being the first. Believe me, it’s much more important to be the last!”

  “Really, Mrs. Atherson, I know you think that Cash and I are—”

  She was interrupted by the sound of a key in the hall door lock and turned to see Mr. Atherson enter the foyer. Cash was immediately behind him but Lory avoided his face, only chancing a quick glance to see what had made Mrs. Atherson say, “You two look as if you’d just made a million dollars.”

  “Or lost it,” Cash said, his smile at Atherson bringing no response.

  Lory offered tea but Mrs. Atherson had already moved to the coat closet, anticipating her husband’s explanation that they must leave at once.

  The two men stood talking together in the foyer as Lory helped Mrs. Atherson with her coat. Eavesdropping, she almost missed the whisper in her ear. “It’s much more obvious than measles, my dear—and I wouldn’t wait for June either.”

  The door closed on the Athersons and for a moment Lory did not know what to do with her eyes. What she felt was more than the simple embarrassment that Helen Atherson’s whisper had aroused. Since the instant of Cash’s return there had been a consciousness of wrongdoing, the feeling that she should not have stooped to furtive gossiping, that she was guilty of listening to words that should have been heard only from Cash.

  She saw the lip movement that had, always before, been the beginning of his smile but now, strangely, it was the precursor of an expression that might have been her own. It was almost as if he was thinking with her mind, as if there was a sharing of embarrassment. Was it possible that all of this had been something planned, that he had wanted Helen Atherson to talk to her? No, it had been too accidental for that.

  Cash’s eyes went to the tea tray and she asked, “May I give you some tea?”

  “Scotch would be better.”

  “Let me get it for you.”

  The smile came now. “All right—if you want to.”

  “I want to.”

  He dropped down to the green-leather couch. “It’s there in that cabinet.”

  Exploring, conscious that he was watching her, she found the door that opened on the racked bottles, then the trays of ice in the miniature refrigerator. There was something oddly reminiscent about what was happening but she did not realize what it was until, handing him the mixed drink, she heard herself say, “You look as if you needed it.” The words excited a flash of memory and she knew then what it was that made this seem so familiar … that night in her father’s library when he had decided to sell the company, saying that he wanted scotch instead of coffee, telling him that he looked as if he needed a strong drink. Recognition destroyed the parallelism, underlining the differences, smudging the similarities … yet …

  “Sit down, Lory,” Cash said as a quiet command. “I want to talk to you.”

 
Again there was the intruding memory of that night in the library, pushed back with difficulty because there was, unmistakably, that same expression on Cash’s face, apprehension blended with expectancy, a faint overpainting of something close to embarrassment. The rescuing difference was that this wouldn’t be about the Suffolk Moulding Company. Cash wouldn’t talk to her about business … this would be something else. It might even be …

  “Lory, I’ve just sold the Suffolk Moulding Company,” Cash said abruptly, “—and I want you to know what’s happening.”

  19

  “Why, Will Atherson!” Helen exclaimed, gaily incredulous. “You can’t possibly mean there was anything wrong about Lory having lunch in Cash’s apartment. After all, dear, this is the twentieth century.”

  “You know very well that I meant nothing of the sort,” he said tolerantly, but relieved that a contractor’s barricade jutting out across the sidewalk forced a single-file passage and gave him an excuse to drop his hand from his wife’s arm. He needed this clear moment to think through the details of handling the loan that he had promised Cash McCall the bank would make. Once everything was fixed in his mind, he could forget it until tomorrow morning.

  Even though he had committed the bank, the loan would probably be endlessly discussed in the board meeting tomorrow, Peregrine insisting on remaking his shopworn speech about the highflyers always stubbing their toes … but the old boy’s face would really be something to see when he found out that the loan was being made so that Cash could buy all the Andscott Instrument stock in the Jonas Scott estate!

  All the directors would, of course, be relieved to learn that Freeholders had finally completed the liquidation … but it would mean more than that to old man Peregrine … his daughter-in-law was a one-sixth beneficiary of the Scott estate.

  A frown crossed Will Atherson’s face as he realized that he was being unfair to Mr. Peregrine. It was a serious thing to suspect a bank director of self-interest. Peregrine was an upright man … if that were not the case, he wouldn’t be a director of the Freeholders Bank & Trust Company … but, as was unfortunately true for all men, there was a shady area where the demarcation was difficult to define. It would, for example, be very hard to say just where the line fell in relation to a daughter-in-law with a one-sixth interest in the Scott estate.

  Helen had passed the barricade and was waiting for him at the street corner. “It’s to the right, isn’t it, dear?”

  “No,” he said, firmly taking her arm again. “Straight down Chestnut.”

  “But, I’m sure—Will Atherson, have you been keeping something from me?”

  “Now, Helen—”

  “I knew it! You had that guilty look on your face this morning. You always do when you’re trying to keep a secret from me.”

  “I suppose,” he sighed, “I’m not as good at it as Cash McCall, am I?”

  He had meant the remark to be amusing, but somehow it didn’t turn out that way. Helen had missed the point. But maybe there wasn’t a point. After all, Cash had been quite right in not telling him why he wanted the Andscott stock … to have done so would have made Freeholders a party to whatever was going to happen and that might put the bank in an untenable position. As his father had once said, a banker’s life had to be lived on the knife-edge of always knowing just enough, never too much.

  “Will?”

  “Yes?”

  “Let’s stop at Comsey’s for a minute.”

  “Comsey’s?” he repeated, swallowing a sigh of defeat … confound it, if Cash McCall could get away with his secrets, why couldn’t he at least keep Helen from finding out every blessed little thing that ever entered his mind! But it was easier for Cash … he didn’t have Helen to contend with.

  “Florence said Mr. Comsey had gotten in a lot of lovely old English silver,” Helen explained. “And we’ll have to find something nice for a wedding present.”

  “All right, dear,” he said, patting his pockets to find his pipe.

  20

  “But I don’t think that at all,” Lory broke in. “I think it’s the most exciting thing that—do you really mean that you might make a million dollars?”

  “Or lose it,” Cash replied, repeating what she remembered he had said to Mrs. Atherson. “Everything depends on what we can do with Andscott Instrument. If we can get the company back on its feet again, there ought to be a good pay-off. If we can’t—” He glanced around the apartment with a dismissing shrug. “The Ivanhoe will probably lose a tenant.”

  “You don’t really mean that?”

  “Oh, but I do.” He hunched forward over his knees. “I’m gambling every cent I have, Lory—plus every dollar I can borrow. That’s why I wanted to see Mr. Atherson—to get another loan so I could buy a block of stock that will absolutely insure having control.”

  “And he gave you the loan?”

  “Luckily, the stock is in an estate that the bank is anxious to settle. They’ve been trying to dump it for months and months. But it’s another million dollars on the line.”

  Lory blinked, swallowing hard. “Honestly, I—well, I just never knew that things like this happened!”

  “That’s why I wanted to tell you about it,” Cash said, unaccountably serious. “I wanted you to know.”

  “But it will be a wonderful thing for so many people—everyone in the Andscott company—this Dr. Bergmann and his Foundation—” She let her voice fade, then added as a quick afterthought, “And for you, too, of course.”

  “That’s the part of it that doesn’t make sense.”

  “What part?”

  “My getting into this Andscott affair. It’s as senseless as all of the other crazy things I’ve done with my life. There’s no point to it. If I lose, I’ve tossed away enough money to let me live like a maharajah for the rest of my life. If I win, all I get out of it is some more money—and I didn’t need that.”

  “But think of the fun you’re having,” Lory said, remembering the glow of excitement that she had seen in his eyes when he had been describing the way the deal had developed.

  “This isn’t fun,” he said wryly. “At least I’m making an unholy mess of it.”

  “Of what?”

  “Trying to tell you what an off-beat character I am.” He raised his glass as if looking for the courage to go on. It was empty.

  She reached out. “I’ll get you another.”

  He shook his head. “Another drink might convince me that I don’t have to tell you—and I do.”

  “That you’re not an ordinary nine-to-five kind of man?”

  “Worse than that.”

  “Because you were bored with the wallpaper business?”

  He looked up sharply. “Mrs. Atherson talked to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hoped she would,” he said, a surprising confirmation of Lory’s earlier suspicion. “What did she tell you?”

  Lory hesitated, wishing that her lack of courage did not make so much of what had been said unrepeatable. “Well, she did say that the world was producing a very dull crop of men these days—but that you weren’t one of them.”

  For an instant, she thought she had earned a smile but Cash stood abruptly and crossed to the bar cabinet. He was facing away from her when he said, “She did tell you that I’ve never married?”

  “Yes,” Lory answered quickly, the single word expelled ahead of the rise of a chilling fear.

  There was the cold clatter of ice in his glass. “But she couldn’t have told you why—and that’s what I want you to know, Lory.”

  She waited for him to turn back to her, hoping that the expression on his face would be a denial of his words. It was not. His blue eyes were cold, the set of his jaw grimly resolute.

  “No man has a right to ask any woman to marry him unless there’s a reasonable chance that he can give her the kind of life she has a right to expect.” His voice was as flat as if he were reading from a textbook, only slightly more expressive as he went on. “A woman wants secur
ity and solidity—what every sensible person wants. I’ve never been able to offer that. I’m a gambler—nothing more, nothing less, rich one day and broke the next. And there’s nothing I can do to change myself into a different person. I know. I’ve tried. It doesn’t work. I can’t be something I’m not. Can you understand that, Lory?”

  Her nod was meaningless, only an acknowledgment that she had heard, not that she understood. What was he trying to tell her … that this was the end of everything … or the beginning of something for which there would be no ending?

  Cash sat down on the edge of the couch, an arm’s length away from her, and she saw then that there was nothing in his glass except the bare ice cubes.

  “No, Lory, you don’t understand,” Cash said. “I know you don’t. How could you?”

  “Does it matter?” she asked, the question more meaningful than she realized until she saw the reaction on Cash’s face.

  “Yes, it matters,” he said. “At least to me. Maybe that’s not reason enough to ask you to listen—but will you?”

  “If you want me to.”

  “I do,” he said positively. “At least I want to try to—maybe that’s all it will be, just a try.” He wrapped the glass in the long-fingered grip of his doubled hands. “I don’t know why this should be such a tough assignment—maybe because I’ve never done it before—but it is. Have you ever tried this—telling someone why you’re the kind of person you are?”

  “I don’t suppose I’ve ever thought about it.”