“It’s got this to do with it, boy—I’m going to be voting on whether or not you get those three hundred thousand shares.” The laugh trickled in again. “There’s no use playing cagy with me, boy. I’ve got the whole story. The General called me to get my vote on going ahead with the deal, but before I told him yes or no, I said I wanted to talk to you. Now don’t get me wrong, Grant—you and I are old friends and when the other guy’s got the high cards, I’m as willing as the next man to toss in—but I just didn’t want to see you doing anything foolish.”
From the first, Grant Austen had suspected that his failure to comprehend was caused by the difficulty of getting Lory and Cash McCall out of his mind, but it was plain now that the fault of understanding was not his but Harvey Bannon’s. “Harv, you’re off somewhere if you’ve got the idea that I’m selling the company to Andscott Instrument. Maybe Danvers thought he was going to get it—I guess he figured he had me in a spot where I couldn’t do anything else—but you’ll just have to tell him it’s too late. I’ve sold to someone else.”
“Someone else?” Bannon asked with a shocked scowl. “But you can’t do that—not when you’ve given an option to Andscott.”
“I never gave any option to Andscott. I never even talked to them.”
“You didn’t? But Danvers told me this morning—” An expression of startled comprehension came to Bannon’s face. “You say you’ve already sold to someone else?”
“Sure, you bet.”
“When?”
“Well, last week—that is, as far as settling the deal is concerned.”
“But it isn’t actually closed yet?”
“Sure—yesterday morning.”
“Who did you sell to?”
“I don’t know whether you’ve heard of them or not—Philadelphia concern—the Gammer Corporation.”
“Name doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“I guess it’s sort of—well, I suppose you might call it a holding company,” Grant Austen said, using the explanation that he had evolved in his talks with other manufacturers. “They invest in different industrial properties.”
“I see,” Bannon said with another mirthless laugh. “Funny I wouldn’t have heard about them—especially if they’re interested in the plastics business. Who’s behind it, Grant?”
Grant Austen hesitated, finally deciding that his pledge of secrecy had expired with the final settlement. “The man I dealt with was a Mr. McCall.”
“Not Cash McCall!”
“Yes, he’s the—”
“Good god, Grant, don’t you know—Grant, how did you ever let yourself get tangled up with that bastard?”
“But what’s wrong with—”
“Wrong! Don’t you know that he’s—well, I’ll be goddamned! So that’s the story, is it?” He got up from the divan, swinging around behind it, digging his clenched fingers into the upholstery. “I wondered why in hell Danvers was so close-mouthed. So he’s gotten himself in McCall’s clutches again.”
“Harv, I still don’t see—I got my price—the money’s in the bank—”
For a moment, Bannon seemed not to have heard him. Then he inhaled sharply, exploding, “What did he pay you for it? All right, all right, I know—none of my business—but I’ll bet you got a hell of a lot less from him than he’s going to get out of Andscott! Do you know what Andscott is going to have to give that bastard? Three hundred thousand shares of stock.”
“But, Harv, I—”
“At the market price, that’s three million dollars!”
“Three—” The next word lodged in his throat, choking him.
“Am I right?” Bannon demanded. “Isn’t that a lot more than he paid you? You’re damned right I’m right! If McCall hadn’t seen a way to take you for a ride, he’d never have been in on it in the first place. Grant, what were you thinking of? Why didn’t you come to me? I could have told you plenty about that bastard. Do you know what he did to us? Got us over a barrel with this wood-fiber company in Maine. Nothing we could do but buy him out. Do you know what we had to pay that son of a bitch? Six hundred thousand dollars! And just one year before—I swear it’s the truth, by god, and I’ve got a letter right in my files to prove it—that same company was offered to us by the owners for just exactly half that price. He took those poor bastards the same way he’s taken you. Grant, why in hell didn’t you come talk to me? I could have told you.”
“I don’t know, Harv—it just happened so fast—”
Bannon exhaled, his laugh more oddly misplaced than ever. “Well, I guess it’s water over the dam now. Nothing for me to do but call Danvers. I thought maybe if it was you, I could talk sense—but if it’s Cash McCall that’s out. When that bastard gets you by the short hair, he never lets go. Be seeing you, Grant.”
Helplessly, Grant Austen stared at the retreating figure of the president of the Cavalier Chemical Company. He wanted to cry out to stop him, to shout the words that would explain that he hadn’t been the fool that Bannon thought he was, but the paralysis of total humiliation locked his throat as rigidly as it froze the muscles of his body. Only his eyes were still functioning and he watched Bannon grow smaller and smaller, seeing the unexplainable effect that the passage of so tiny a figure was having—the marble pillars falling like dominoes, the floor rising as the pillars fell, up and up, past dead center and then whirling into the blur of a spinning wheel, falling through space, the crash and then the stillness broken only by the drumbeat of Lory’s fist pounding on the metal fuselage, trying to fight his way through the trees, clawing back the palms … the swinging hotelroom key that Cash McCall was dangling in front of his eyes … three million …
“Watch it, fellow!”
Someone was holding his arm … not Cash McCall … a face that he knew but couldn’t place … more faces …
“You’re all right, Grant,” one of the blurred voices said. “All you need is a little fresh air.”
The shimmering fog broke and he was back in the lobby of the Moon Beach Club again, reassuringly surrounded by friends. He was the hub of their whiskey-scented breathing and, without conscious decision, he accepted the suggestion that it offered. Slurring an unintelligible mumble as a feigning of drunkenness, he broke away and stumbled toward the elevator.
As he stepped into the cab he heard someone behind him say, “For crissake, and he’s one of those bluenoses that’s always bitching about too many guys getting plastered.”
Then there was laughter reverberating in the closed cage of the elevator … they were laughing at him … they knew … they all knew … Harv Bannon had told them. Cash McCall had made a fool of him … and everyone knew it.
5
Maude Kennard threw up the lower sash to its full height and stood breathing in the cold air in great purposeful gulps. It had been a mistake to take those sleeping tablets. They always did this to her … stuffing her brain with fuzzy wool that made it hard to think. And now she had to think. Angrily, she tried to repeat to herself the exact words that she had spoken to that man Austen over the telephone, but she was defeated by the trick of memory that had made him sound exactly like the father of that girl in Chicago. That time it had worked … she had gotten even with Wilfred for everything, just by what she said to that little bitch’s father … but then she had been wide-awake, knowing what she was doing. She could still remember exactly what she had said … every word, after all of these years … but now she couldn’t remember what she had said ten minutes ago.
The cold came through her nightgown and she stood close-legged, the hunch of her shoulders pressing her arms against the heart that seemed to be pounding in her tightly squeezed breasts.
Deliberately, every move consciously made, she retreated the four steps that brought her back to the bed, reached out with her right hand, picked up the pillbox from the bedside table. Three longer steps retraced the path to the window. Without hesitation, she hurled the open box, and a moment later heard the faint hail-like spatter on the conc
rete floor of the areaway.
Eleven
1
Will Atherson accepted the necessity of frequent directors’ meetings in much the same reluctant but submissive spirit with which he bore the burden of all the other changes that had been imposed upon the banking profession during the years since he had assumed the presidency of the Freeholders Bank & Trust Company. It was not entirely a matter of all the ham-stringing governmental regulations. Bad as they were, and as much as they had done to dull a banker’s life, they were less responsible than this current notion that an individual man was no longer capable of clear thinking, sound judgment, or independent action. Nowadays you had to go through the motions of having everything done by the board—or if not the board, then by some committee. They called it group thinking. The ridiculous part of it was that the only way group thinking ever worked was to have the right man to do the group’s thinking.
Nevertheless, as he left the directors’ room and walked toward his office, Will Atherson felt an intangible satisfaction in having the board of directors approve the sale of the Andscott stock in the Scott trust, and the loan to Cash McCall that was financing its purchase. The board’s action had been nothing but a rubber-stamp gesture, of course, yet there had been a rather pleasant concurrence of opinion, and everyone had been quite complimentary about how well he had done in finding a customer for a block of stock that a half dozen brokers had been trying to sell for the last year. Even old man Peregrine had slapped him on the back and pumped his hand. The only question that had arisen had been on Brown’s point that the stock wasn’t really worth as much as Cash McCall had paid for it, thereby reducing the equity over the amount of the loan. But what could be done about it? Since the bank had set the selling price, it was impossible to argue that the stock wasn’t worth what Cash McCall had paid.
Only one thing that had happened at the directors’ meeting had been in any way surprising, and that had been nothing more than Brown’s gossipy observation, when Cash McCall’s name had first come up, that he had seen him come out of Hotel Ivanhoe late yesterday afternoon and drive off with what Brown had described as a “very cute little number.”
That would have been Lory Austen, of course—and the assurance that Will Atherson had found in the tractability of the board was augmented now by the memory of what Helen had told him about Cash and Lory. As always, Helen’s reporting of romantic possibilities was subject to discounting, yet the fact could not be denied that the girl had been in Cash’s apartment. He had seen her there himself, her presence as surprising as the poise with which she had carried it off.
He recalled now an incident of that night, some years ago, when they had given a party for Lory. He had remarked to Helen, after they had gone up to their room, that in spite of Lory’s introverted shyness she was the sort of girl who might respond in a quite extraordinary manner if the right man ever came along. Helen, of course, had made one of her bedroom jokes out of it—her accusation of a suppressed desire had really been rather amusing—but, actually, he had meant exactly what he had said. And it was nice to know that he had been right. He had always wondered, too, why Cash had never married. Now it did look as if it were at least a possibility. Normality was comforting.
Helen had asked him last night whether there was any connection between Cash’s feeling for Lory and his purchase of her father’s company. At the time, he had brushed the question aside but he recalled it now, resurrecting the possibly linked memory that, on the day he had called Cash to tell him that Suffolk Moulding was for sale, Cash had said that he had already heard about it from another source. Had that been Lory? But, even if it was true, what did it mean? Nothing—except as a possible explanation of Cash having paid more than the company was worth by at least two hundred thousand dollars.
Incongruously, his mind interjected the thought that two hundred thousand dollars was exactly the amount that Lory had been given for her share of the stock—and that reminded him, by simple association, that he had forgotten to ask Brown whether Lory’s check had been received for deposit this morning and, if so, whether Austen had given instructions as to its investment.
His concern over whether Brown was following through, weak to begin with, died as he saw that Everett Pierce was waiting outside his office. That, too, brought an unanswered question to mind—whether or not he had acted wisely yesterday when he had suggested that Pierce be a little stronger in his handling of Maude Kennard.
Theoretically, his position was unquestionably sound—the General Manager of the Hotel Ivanhoe could not brook the insubordination of his assistant—yet, as was so often the case, the theory of business management seemed poorly fitted to the personalities involved. It was definitely questionable whether or not Everett Pierce had the strength of character to make Maude Kennard knuckle under, a question almost answered by the look of groveling apology that he saw now in Pierce’s face.
“Come in, Everett,” Atherson said sympathetically, anticipating that Pierce was about to admit his defeat. Reaching for his pipe, the banker gained the moment of time that he needed to orient his thinking, wishing as he had often wished before that he had taken any one of the dozens of chances that there had been to sell the Hotel Ivanhoe. Suddenly, in an instant of time that might have been measured by the flash of flame that leaped to the end of the match he scratched, Will Atherson made his decision. He would sell the hotel … the Luxor chain wanted it and he’d let them have it!
“You told me, sir, that if there was anything I wanted to talk over with you—” Pierce began tentatively.
“Yes, of course, Everett,” Atherson said, conscious of the suddenly acquired feeling of profound relief that his decision had produced … Cash McCall was right! The thing to do with a business was to sell it, not operate it. And Grant Austen had been sound, too … you just couldn’t get the right people any more. That was always the trouble … people … no matter what business you were in, sooner or later it always turned into the people business. He had enough of that here in the bank … and, anyway, he could probably make more net money by selling the Ivanhoe to the Luxor chain and cashing in his profit as a capital gain than he could by continuing to operate the hotel for the rest of his life.
“There may not be any point in my telling you this—” Pierce began again, waiting until he had the banker’s full attention.
“Go ahead, Everett,” Atherson said apologetically. “What’s happened?”
“Maybe I’d better start at the beginning,” Everett Pierce said indecisively, stopping. “But I wonder if you’d mind telling me—you know, yesterday after you talked to me?”
Atherson tamped and relit his pipe. “Yes?”
“What you told me about Mr. McCall not owning the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell her that?”
“Mrs. Kennard? No. Why?”
Pierce stared back at him, his face gray and drained. “I just don’t know how to explain it then.”
“Explain what?” Atherson asked, finding it necessary to force the effort of inquiry, his mind wandering off to the letter from the Luxor Hotels Corporation that he had absent-mindedly shuffled out of his correspondence folder.
“This morning when Andrew brought my breakfast—that was a little before nine—he said that Max wanted to see me right away. Well, I just didn’t know what to do. You see, Mrs. Kennard has always handled the kitchen end of things—and Max is a rather difficult person—but still I thought I’d better go down to see him.” Pierce hesitated, swallowing. “Max was all ready to quit.”
Atherson registered the demanded look of surprise. “Why?”
“Because of Mrs. Kennard. She’d been down there last night giving all sorts of orders—telling Max that he mustn’t ever talk to Mr. McCall again. You see, Max had made up some special dish for a luncheon that Mr. McCall had up in his suite yesterday noon. He’d left the kitchen for a few minutes to go up and—well, on the whole I do agree, naturally, that Max shouldn’t be out of
the kitchen when we’re serving in the Fontainebleau Room, but still—”
“What about Max?” Will Atherson asked, hoping to compress Pierce’s recital of what, now that he had decided to sell the Ivanhoe, was of very little interest.
“It wasn’t only Max,” Pierce went on. “It was everyone else, all around the hotel. Andrew wasn’t to serve Mr. McCall any more—Frank wasn’t to run any more errands for him—Mrs. Schilling wasn’t to give his suite any special attention.”
Will Atherson’s pipe came out of his mouth, his interest suddenly sharpened. Cash McCall knew that he owned the hotel and this was no time to offend him, just when he had given the bank such a fine piece of business. Alerted now, his mind went to work setting fact against fact. Pierce had told him yesterday that Mrs. Kennard thought Cash McCall owned the hotel. That had undoubtedly led her to go overboard on special service to McCall. Now, somehow, she had discovered that he wasn’t the owner and was apparently knocking him down again to the status of an ordinary guest.
“I honestly don’t know what to make of it,” Pierce went on, his face contorted as if he were being tortured into saying something against his will. “It’s almost as if she were trying to drive him out of the hotel.”
The banker took a speculative puff at his pipe, now more concerned by Everett Pierce’s peculiar behavior than by the unacceptable possibility that as profit-conscious a person as Maude Kennard would knowlingly drive away gilt-edged business.
“But maybe I’d better tell you what happened after that,” Pierce added.
“Yes, do.”
“Well, I didn’t say much to Max—just got him quieted down enough so that he wouldn’t walk out until I could have another talk with him. Then I went up to my office. I thought I’d get Mrs. Kennard’s side of the story but I waited and waited and she didn’t show up until about ten o’clock. The minute I started talking to her—I just don’t know how to explain it, sir, she just seemed to go crazy. She went running off down to the lobby and I saw her heading for the kitchen. I got up to try to stop her—reason with her, you know?—and I was standing there in front of her office when her telephone started to ring. Well, it rang a couple of times so I answered it. It was a man named Austen.”
Cash McCall Page 49