“No question about that.”
“I’m not worrying too much about this next year or two. It’s a gold-rush business—and if you pan your way up the military creek, you can’t miss pay-dirt. But sooner or later that’s going to play out. When it does, finding gold will depend on how well research and development is managed.”
“That’s true of a lot of companies—in other fields, too,” Gil said, attention alerted. Was Cash thinking of Andscott as a company that he might hold and continue to operate? That must be true … he wouldn’t be talking about long-range plans if he weren’t.
“But particularly of an outfit like Andscott that has to live on technical development,” Cash had gone on. “Andscott doesn’t belong in consumer products or mass merchandising.”
“The television fiasco proves that,” Gil agreed hurriedly, racing his mind to catch up. “There’s no question but that an Andscott-type company makes or breaks on its research and development job.”
“And there’s as much chance to break as make,” Cash said with pointed force. “Right now, research is the shining star that a lot of company managements are following. Unless I’m wrong, plenty of them are being dazzled by the bright light and are going to wander right off to the auction block. Research is fashionable now—it’s the thing to do—build a big beautiful laboratory and fill it up with Ph.D.s. Theoretically, it has to pay off. In a lot of cases it hasn’t—and there’ll be more where it doesn’t. I can buy a dozen companies right now that have poured too much down the research rathole.”
“I can believe that.”
“The trouble usually isn’t in the lab, it’s up on top. As I see it, that’s the most common weakness in general management today. You can walk into company after company—surely you’ve seen it yourself?—and find good financial management, good production management, good sales management—everything under tight control until you hit research. Then it’s a wing and a prayer.”
“Managing research is a tough problem,” Gil acknowledged. “You’re dealing with creative people—individualists—men who are often more career-minded than they are company-minded. It’s particularly difficult these days—so many jobs open for research and development men—they know they can walk out any time and land on their feet. It’s hard to develop company loyalty with a situation like that.”
“But isn’t there an answer somewhere?” Cash pressed.
“There might be,” Gil said uncertainly. “Several years ago we made some personnel attitude studies at Corporation Associates—four different clients, all with big research laboratories or engineering development departments. Without exception, that’s where we found the worst general morale and the lowest percentage of men who were putting the company’s interests ahead of their own.”
“Isn’t that another way of saying that the company wasn’t giving them what they wanted out of life?” Cash asked. “Different men want different things.”
“I know that,” Gil conceded, vividly recalling that Winston Conway had used almost that same phrase in his attempt to explain Cash McCall.
“Look, Gil, wouldn’t it be possible to take a whole new approach to the management of research? We agree that it’s the heart of a business—at least in a company of the Andscott type—and we also agree that it’s usually the weakest spot in the company, morale-wise. Can’t that problem be licked? Weren’t you edging toward a solution a minute ago when you said that these men are individualists—that they have to have different kinds of incentives? Haven’t we gone too far in our standardized personnel programs—handing every man the same package, assuming that because we put the same salary rating on a Class F2 research chemist and a Class F2 district sales supervisor they’re both going to be satisfied? Salary isn’t the only thing that counts.”
“Strange you should bring that up,” Gil said, his mind aroused by a reminiscent tremor. “This study I mentioned—well, I made a talk on it three or four years ago at a management conference. What you just said isn’t too far from what I was trying to say.”
“Not so strange,” Cash said with a tongue-in-cheek smile. “I read that talk.”
“You did?” Gil asked, surprised, then feeling himself forced to add, “It fell flatter than a cold pancake. The whole conference was devoted to job analysis and the necessity for the uniform treatment of all employees—and there I was saying that maybe the whole approach was wrong.”
“It didn’t fall flat with me,” Cash said emphatically. “And that’s what I’d like to have you do, Gil—go into Andscott as vice-president in charge of research and development. Find out whether your ideas will work. If they aren’t the answer, then find out what the answer is.”
“But I—” Gil stammered. “Well, I don’t know whether I have the qualifications—the scientific or technical background—”
“That’s all to the good,” Cash snapped back. “That’s been the trouble up to now—treating it as if it were a scientific and technical problem. It isn’t. It’s a management problem—a human problem. Don’t you see the possibilities, Gil? If we can find the answer at Andscott, we can make it work in a dozen other companies.”
“Sure, but—well, maybe it would be better if I didn’t go barging in right away as vice-president in charge—I mean, better for the company.”
Cash shot him a quick glance, an oddly quizzical smile that ended in his saying, “You are a company man, aren’t you, Gil?”
“Well, I’d have to be on a job like that,” he said blankly, not exactly certain what Cash meant.
“You’re right, of course,” Cash conceded, pulling out his wallet as the cab slowed to a stop in front of the Hotel Ivanhoe’s entrance. “We’ll talk it over with John Allenby.”
Relieved, Gil followed him into the hotel, his mind spinning with the revolving door, fanning the excitement that had been sparked by the prospect that had so suddenly opened out ahead of him. As had happened so many times before, Cash had resolved everything with a snap of his fingers. Ten minutes ago, the future had been a hazy blur. Now it was crystal clear, charted and mapped, and no man could ask for a more intriguing challenge. The only strange thing was that Cash had seen that speech. How had he happened to …?
A man had jumped up from a seat in the lobby and was hurrying toward them. Expecting to meet John Allenby, Gil was startled by the man’s familiar appearance, then suddenly realized that this wasn’t Allenby but one of the young law clerks he had met last night at Jamison, Conway & Slythe.
“Mr. McCall, I’m Dick Gorham from Mr. Conway’s office. He’s had me camping here on the off chance that I might catch you coming in. It’s extremely important that you see him right away, sir—extremely important!”
“What’s it about?” Cash asked calmly, no hint of the trepidation that Gil felt within himself.
“I don’t know, sir,” Gorham said. “Except that it’s on the Andscott situation.”
Cash turned to Gil. “What do you suppose has happened?”
“I—well, I haven’t the slightest idea,” Gil stammered. “When I left this morning—”
“We’d better find out.” Cash looked at his watch. “Allenby may not have left his office yet. I’ll call and hold him off until we see what’s up.”
10
“Miss Fitch, haven’t you reached Mr. Austen yet?” Clay Torrant demanded.
“No sir, but he’s expected. I talked to Mrs. Austen this last time and she said that she’d have him call just as soon as he got in.”
“Don’t count on that—keep calling,” he ordered, stumping back into his office.
11
A pall of funereal silence hung over Winston Conway’s office as Gil Clark followed Cash McCall into the room. Will Atherson and Harrison Glenn rose in silent greeting, finally speaking but in voices as muffled as if the table around which they had been sitting were a coffin.
This was the first time Gil Clark had seen Harrison Glenn since he had left Corporation Associates and he made a point of selecting
the chair beside him. He knew the giant man too well to expect any casual pleasantries, but the stone mask of Glenn’s face seemed even more chilled than usual. Will Atherson, who sat at Gil’s left, gave his presence only the barest recognition. His acquaintance with the banker was too limited to permit judgment by contrast but, even so, Atherson seemed far from his normal self, a serious lack of composure betrayed by the little stabbing glances with which he followed Cash McCall as he circled the table and took a seat beside Conway. Even the lawyer, to whom perfect poise was a professional mannerism, was clearly ill at ease.
Winston Conway had come out to meet them in the reception lobby and walking back, he and Cash had held a whispered conference. Following a pace behind, Gil had heard nothing that had been said, but Cash’s seemingly offhand acceptance of what he was being told had encouraged Gil to believe that whatever had happened was not as serious as this group around the table thought it to be. That hope was sustained now by the smile on Cash’s face as he looked around the table.
“Will someone please tell me what this is all about?” Cash asked, the question undirected.
Conway accepted the spokesman’s role. “As I tried to explain outside, it seems that Grant Austen is contemplating legal action—based on the belief that he’s been the victim of a fraudulent conspiracy.”
Gil recoiled to the shock of the revelation but Cash was still smiling, lighting a cigarette now. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been the subject of wild rumors.”
“I’m afraid this is more than that,” Conway said seriously.
“But you haven’t talked to Austen himself, have you?” Cash asked.
“No, not since—”
“I have talked to him,” Cash said. “And as late as yesterday forenoon. I’d hardly call him a dissatisfied man—quite the contrary.” He tossed the dead match to the pewter ash tray. “By the way, he was extremely complimentary about the help you’d given him, Mr. Conway.”
Inexplicably, the lawyer blinked as if he had been struck a blow, but his recovery was almost instantaneous. “You say you saw him yesterday?”
“I flew them down to Moon Beach. He’s there at a convention.”
Conway shook his head. “Not now. He’s here in Philadelphia—apparently retaining a lawyer to handle his case. It’s quite possible, as you say, that he was perfectly satisfied yesterday—I had that impression, too, the last time I saw him—but that was before Mrs. Kennard got on the job.”
Conway’s eyes had gone to Atherson and Gil followed them, seeing the banker nervously brushing a spill of pipe ash from his right trouser leg.
“Mrs. Kennard?” Cash asked. “The woman at the Ivanhoe?”
“I can’t believe it either,” Atherson said nervously, his manner that of a man forced to the confession of a personal sin. “I can’t imagine what in the world would lead her to do a thing like this. But, I’m afraid it’s true.”
“What?” Cash asked.
Atherson took a deep breath. “The chef overheard her talking to Austen on the telephone this morning—telling him this horrible tale—how we’d all conspired against him and cheated him out of a million dollars.”
“A million dollars?” Cash puzzled.
Conway explained, “There’ve been a few sales of Andscott stock at around ten. She must have noticed that. Three hundred thousand shares at ten is three million dollars. That’s a million more than you paid for Suffolk Moulding.”
The smile had completely faded from Cash McCall’s face. “But how did she know about the three hundred thousand shares—or, for that matter, how much I’d paid for Suffolk?”
The lawyer studied his face. “We don’t know. We thought you might.”
“I don’t.”
Conway seemed oddly embarrassed. “There’s been no occasion when you discussed your affairs with her?”
“Look, Mr. Conway—” Cash began, then suddenly looked around the group. “If any of you are suspecting that there’s been any personal relationship between Mrs. Kennard and me—disabuse your minds of that right now. There hasn’t been.”
Winston Conway’s discomfiture was evident. “Oh, I had nothing like that in mind—although it did seem a possible explanation of why she’d turn against you so viciously.”
“I scarcely know the woman,” Cash said coolly. “I see her around the hotel, of course, but I’ve rarely talked to her—nothing beyond passing the time of day.”
“That makes it all the more mysterious,” Conway sighed.
“It might help if I knew what she did tell Austen.”
“Well, substantially this—that all of us are in what she called the McCall gang—that we’d conspired to trick him into selling his company for a lot less than it was worth—knowing all the time, of course, that Andscott Instrument was ready to buy it at a high price.”
Cash squinted. “Where did you get all this?”
“Everett Pierce,” Atherson supplied. “Max told him and Everett came to me.” He smiled weakly. “You’ve Max to thank for getting the story to us. If he hadn’t felt so friendly to you, he’d never have told Pierce.”
“I can vouch for that,” Conway added. “I talked to him, too—trying to get some additional detail—wouldn’t open his mouth until I’d proved I was your attorney.”
Cash nodded absent-mindedly. “But where in the devil did Mrs. Kennard get her information? That’s as hard to understand as why she’d go out of her way to knife me.”
Conway hesitated and then asked, “Is there any possibility that she might have been eavesdropping that night you talked to General Danvers?”
“Yes, I suppose she might have been,” Cash said after a speculative pause. “I do recall that she was in the apartment that day I made the deal with Austen—doing me the special favor of personally arranging a dinner party I was having.”
“It’s incredible,” Atherson whispered to himself. “Incredible!”
“But surely Austen isn’t taking what she told him seriously?” Cash began, but then broke off to answer his own question. “But I suppose he must be or he wouldn’t be in town talking to a lawyer. You’re sure of that?”
“Definitely,” Conway said. “We traced him to Torrant’s office. He was there for over an hour.”
“Torrant?”
“Judge Torrant—Clay B. Torrant.”
“Some shyster?”
“No, I’d not say that,” Conway said. “The Torrants are one of our old legal families. His father was on the Common Pleas bench. So was his grandfather, I believe.”
“But what reputable lawyer would even entertain the idea of taking a case like this?” Cash demanded. “A man sells his company—gets his asking price—then decides after the deal is closed that he didn’t ask enough. What ground for complaint could he possibly have?”
“Perhaps none,” Conway said slowly. “But the fact that he got his asking price doesn’t rule out the possibility of a conspiracy charge.”
“Conspiracy? But that’s ridiculous. What conspiracy?”
“Ridiculous, yes,” Conway conceded. “We know there was no conspiracy—all of us know it—but when you take some of the things that have happened—”
“For example?” Cash curtly demanded.
The lawyer hesitated. “Well, the fact that Mr. Atherson advised Austen not to consider selling to Andscott.”
Cash’s head snapped around to face Atherson.
The banker’s quick reaction was tensely defensive. “I’ve been thinking about that and we’re absolutely in the clear. Yes, it’s true that Austen did bring up the question of selling to Andscott—but I very definitely asked him whether he would consider taking Andscott stock for his company and he positively said he would not. He told me that he was interested only in a cash deal. I knew, of course, that Andscott wouldn’t give him cash—couldn’t—”
Conway interrupted, “You say you knew that, Mr. Atherson? How did you know it?”
“Simply by looking at the Andscott statement,” Atherson
retorted sharply. “Any fool could see it!”
“The kind of fools we might find sitting in a jury box?” Conway asked. “Could you prove—beyond the shadow of a doubt—that it would have been impossible for Andscott to have paid cash?”
Atherson swallowed. “I don’t suppose you can swear that anything is impossible—but I’d talked to General Danvers on several occasions and I knew they were very short of cash—”
“So you’d talked to Danvers?” Conway caught him up. “Then you had some inside information, did you? You knew, no doubt, that Andscott was ready and willing to pass out three hundred thousand shares of stock for Suffolk Moulding?”
“You know very well I didn’t,” Atherson retorted.
Conway pounded on. “You say that Austen wasn’t interested in stock. But might he have been interested if you had not concealed the fact that he would get as much as three hundred thousand shares?”
“Damn it, Conway, what are you trying—?”
Cash raised his hand as a peacemaking gesture in what was rapidly developing into an angry situation, but Winston Conway jumped in to clear the air with a fulsome apology. “Forgive me, Mr. Atherson. I was only trying to make the point of how easily an innocent act can be misconstrued as evidence of guilt. Let’s face the facts—doesn’t it appear that you might have been a party to Mr. McCall’s nefarious scheme to get control of Andscott—and particularly when what you told Austen might be linked to the fact that you later sold Mr. McCall a large block of Andscott stock from a trust fund you controlled?”
Atherson grudgingly admitted, “Yes, I suppose you could give it that interpretation.”
“But wait a minute,” Cash broke in. “My buying that block of stock at least proves that Andscott common isn’t worth ten dollars a share.” He looked at Atherson. “As you know, I paid you eight dollars a share—and I’m sure you thought you’d made a very good deal in getting rid of it at that price.”
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