Sincerely, Willis Wayde

by John P. Marquand

  “Yes,” he said, “I guess so.”

  “Well,” she said, “it’s been awfully nice seeing you, and thanks for the tea. I really ought to be going now.”

  “But you haven’t told me where you live,” Willis said. “Can’t I come up and call on you sometime?”

  “Oh, I live in an apartment with another girl,” she said. “You don’t want to see me again, do you?”

  “Yes,” he said, “seriously, I want to,” and he got out his notebook and pencil, and she gave him her address and telephone number. “But I am going to buy an automobile today, even if it’s a Ford.”

  “Then I’ll go with you,” she said. “I’d like to see what it’s like to buy one.”

  Willis’s five years in New York with Beakney-Graham and Company had molded him into the man he became. He had risen by gradual steps from an ordinary employee in the office to a first-rate junior executive, and he had started from the bottom in the worst years of the depression. It was confusing to him that Sylvia Hodges should have disturbed his assurance that afternoon.

  There was always a reaction to everything, and reaction swept over him when he went to his apartment on West Tenth Street in order to bathe and change before meeting those clients at the Waldorf. Willis lived at that time on the third floor of one of those old brick dwellings that he liked to call “mansions” which still existed on Tenth Street. His room might have been the owner’s bedroom before the house was remodeled into apartments. Its proportions reminded him occasionally of the Harcourt house, and the Harcourt house was always the standard of his tastes. This must have been in his mind when he had shopped around for secondhand furniture and rugs, at a time when it was still possible to pick up Victorian chairs and tables at a reasonable price. His studio couch and typewriter were all that gave his room a modern touch. His clothes were in a black walnut wardrobe which he had purchased for fifteen dollars. The rugs, though worn, were good Persian carpets. He had bought a mirror and two steel engravings for the wall, and a Morris chair and a General Grant desk and a revolving bookcase. If acquaintances from the office asked why he didn’t buy some new stuff now that he could afford it, Willis always answered that he liked it as it was. He always felt at home whenever he reached his apartment, but its quiet was like a rebuke on that May evening.

  He felt foolish and uncertain of himself, once he was inside the room and the door was closed. He had bought a runabout and he had written his personal check for it in the showroom and had agreed to take delivery late Monday afternoon. He did not mind the expense as much as not knowing exactly why he had made the purchase, but he did know that he would never have taken such a sudden step if he had not met Sylvia Hodges. He had done it on account of her, but now that she was gone the episode was like a daydream.

  At the same time a trace of his elation still was in him. Without his being in love with Sylvia Hodges, for a while their minds and desires had blended together, and they had defied together things that held them. They had both wanted the power of money, and they had felt its power. It had expressed itself in the glittering showroom with its friendly salesmen and in the red paint and leather of the car. They had also shared an identical sense of guilt. He remembered she had told him in a frightened whisper that he really ought not to do it.

  “It’s just as though I had done it myself,” she said. “I never thought you’d be so crazy,” but she was really saying he was not crazy, that she admired him for the act and that she understood his motives.

  When he selected a new tie and looked at himself in the mirror, his features and his light hair were the same as they had been that morning. It might be just as well not to see Sylvia Hodges again. She was plain and awkward and yet she would have looked well in that green dress.

  When his telephone rang, Willis was so deep in his imagination that the sound made him start guiltily.

  “Hello, Willis,” a girl’s voice said.

  “Oh,” he answered, “hello, darling.”

  It was Lydia Hembird calling, who had an apartment in the Village in order to get away from her parents’ home in Montclair, New Jersey, and who was studying at the Art Students League.

  “Darling,” Lydia said, “have you got a girl up there looking at etchings, or have you got a cold or something?”

  “Oh, no,” Willis said. “Why?”

  “I’ll bet someone is there,” Lydia said. “Your voice sounds so devious. I’ll bet you’ve got someone in bed with you this minute.”

  “Oh, no,” Willis said, “not this minute, darling.”

  “You’re too cute to be trusted around the corner,” Lydia said. “Willis, how about coming to dinner, and then, the way it was the other Saturday? You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

  “Of course I haven’t, darling,” Willis said.

  He had to leave to keep his appointment at the Waldorf, but at the same time he had an alluring mental picture of Lydia.

  “Look, Lydia,” he said, “you don’t know how much I wish I could, but I’ve got to go right out. Business entertainment. It’s a crowd from Cleveland and I’ve got to see Red, Hot and Blue again.”

  “You poor darling,” Lydia said. “You promised you were going to call me up this afternoon, you know.”

  He had completely forgotten that he was going to call up Lydia. Nothing ever seemed to end with Lydia.

  “I know it, darling,” he said, “but I’ve been tied up with these people all afternoon.”

  “Oh, Willis,” she said, “you know you could have taken a minute off to call me. It’s awfully thoughtless of you when I’ve been waiting around for hours.”

  Of course he should have called her and of course he should have remembered.

  “I never dreamed you’d be waiting around all this time just to hear from me,” he said.

  “But I told you I was going to,” she told him. “Haven’t you had me on your mind at all? You said you were always thinking about me. You told me so the other night.”

  “Of course I’ve been thinking about you, darling,” Willis said, “but there are lots of other things.”

  He found himself pacing nervously back and forth before his writing desk, but he was tied by the cord of the telephone, which also tied him to Lydia Hembird.

  “What sort of other things?” she asked.

  “Business,” he said, “and it looks as though I’ve got to go out to Cleveland next week.”

  “I’ll bet it wasn’t all business this afternoon,” she said. “I’ll bet you were out with some other girl.”

  “Lydia,” he told her, “I’ve really got to be going now. I’m sorry I was thoughtless, Lydia.”

  “Then if you can’t come over tonight,” she said, “come over for breakfast in the morning.”

  He was still tied there by the telephone cord to Lydia.

  “I wish I could,” he said, “but I have to take those people out to Darien in the morning.”

  He waited for her to answer, but there was nothing but unbelieving silence. It was a relief at last to be able to feel honestly indignant.

  “If you don’t believe me,” he said, “get up tomorrow morning and stand by the Park Avenue entrance of the Waldorf. I’m going out to Darien with Mr. Hawley from Cleveland.”

  “Darling,” Lydia said, “you can come around on Sunday night, can’t you?”

  “Why, yes, I’d love to, Lydia,” he said, “and good-by until then, darling, and I’ll tell you a secret, but I didn’t mean to tell you until Sunday night.”

  He could not understand what made him say those last placating words, except it was unkind to leave her with the feeling that he was not enthusiastic. “I’ve bought a Ford runabout with red leather upholstery. I bought it this afternoon.”

  “Oh, darling,” she said, “was that why you didn’t call me?”

  “Yes,” he said, “of course it was.”

  “Darling,” she said, “I can’t wait. I’m awfully sorry I was mean to you.”

  Willis had a feeling o
f temporary relief when he hung up the telephone, and it was a greater relief to think about Sylvia Hodges. She was different, he was thinking, from any girl he had ever known, shy and aloof and proud, and even her plainness was appealing. Sylvia Hodges would never seduce him in an off moment. Sylvia would never bother him on the telephone.

  It was also a relief to meet Mr. Nat Hawley in his suite at the Waldorf, because there Willis was dealing with a familiar personality. Industrial executives, Willis was beginning to learn, were different from Mr. Henry Harcourt, who was an older model, but they were all pounded and battered and then smoothed on a sort of universal production line.

  Mr. Hawley’s suite was in disorder. There was an array of bottles on the table, and ice and soda and an untouched plate of sandwiches and even two individual bottles of milk. The contents of a briefcase were scattered over another table, and coats were draped over the backs of chairs. Mr. Hawley was pacing back and forth in his shirt sleeves, holding a highball glass. Pete Judkins, second vice president of Hawley Pneumatic Tool, was pouring himself a drink, and Art Rose, assistant sales manager, in his undershirt, with his face covered with shaving cream, stood in a bedroom doorway.

  “Damn it,” Mr. Hawley was saying, “after you’ve made a sale take your hat and get the hell out. You can tell all the boys that from me personally, Art.”

  When he saw Willis, Mr. Hawley gave a loud, happy cry. He was a heavy-jowled man with black eyebrows, and he clasped Willis by the hand and at the same time held him by the elbow.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t our host for the evening,” he said. “We’ve just been sort of washing up and having a little skitch and soda before we get on the road. Help yourself to skitch, unless you want some bourbon.”

  “Thanks, I could certainly do with a touch, Mr. Hawley,” Willis answered heartily. It was always best to pretend that you liked liquor, and yet he knew that Mr. Hawley’s hard brown eyes were watching how he handled it.

  “You call me Chief,” Mr. Hawley said. “You’re working for Pneumatic Tool tonight, isn’t he, boys?”

  “He sure is, Chief,” Pete Judkins said.

  “Okay, Chief,” Willis said. “Hello, Pete. Hello, Art.”

  He had not forgotten that they had reached a first-name basis at the University Club. It paid never to forget.

  “You go wash your face, Artie,” Mr. Hawley said. “We’ve got to get on the road and see Red, Hot and Blue. What’s the plot of it? Am I right in believing that a girl sits on a waffle iron?”

  “That’s right, a waffle iron,” Willis said. “There are really some good bits in the show.”

  “That’s a pretty hot one, a waffle iron,” Mr. Hawley said.

  “It was a pretty hot iron for her too,” Willis answered.

  “Oh, boy,” Mr. Hawley said, “did you get that one, Pete? I’ve got to remember that one at the Orono Club.” He cleared his throat. “That’s in Cleveland. I get in twice a week to grab a bite of lunch at the Orono.”

  “How about another short snort, Chief?” Pete Judkins asked.

  Mr. Hawley frowned and handed the second vice president his glass. “Just a light one, Pete. Say, Willis, do you know what I always tell my boys?”

  Willis laughed. You always had to get into the spirit of the moment.

  “I’d really like to know, Chief,” he said.

  “Come here, Pete,” Mr. Hawley said. “Willis, you take a good look at Pete.”

  Willis laughed again and took a good look at Mr. Judkins.

  “I’ll tell you something about Pete confidentially,” Mr. Hawley said, and he lowered his voice elaborately. “Pete’s all right except when it comes to women. I practically wet-nursed you, didn’t I, Pete, and look where you are today.”

  “Still with the old chain gang, Chief,” Mr. Judkins said, and he smiled to indicate it was all good clean fun.

  “You know,” Mr. Hawley said, “I’ve got the finest, most loyal crowd around me that there is in any God-damn organization in this whole beautiful country. My boys make me proud, and seriously, just a little humble too. We’re all for one and one for all in Pneumatic Tool, and—well, here’s what I tell the boys. Work hard and play hard.”

  It was amazing how clearly Willis could remember the scene. He already knew that you should never underestimate anyone like Mr. Hawley. If he sounded fatuous and silly, it was well to remember that he wasn’t. None of them were. They were all lions in the cage.

  “Personally,” Mr. Hawley said, “I believe in having a lot of fun.”

  “Say, Chief,” Mr. Judkins said, “don’t you think we ought to be going?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Hawley said, “but let me make my point.”

  Mr. Rose had returned from the bathroom, and they all waited for Mr. Hawley to make his point, and this was somewhat difficult, because Mr. Hawley appeared to have forgotten just what point he was making.

  “Personally,” Mr. Hawley said, “I used to be quite a playboy, but I have to watch the skitches now.”

  Everyone laughed sympathetically, and Mr. Hawley cleared his throat.

  “The greatest playboy I ever knew in business,” he said, “happens to have one of the finest organizational minds I know, and he is a very dear close personal friend of mine. I don’t know how he still keeps it up at his age. His name is Percy L. Nagel, and P.L. is a sweetheart.”

  There was a moment’s respectful silence. The name came out of the past, but Willis was always good at names.

  “Is that Mr. Nagel of Simcoe Rubber Hose and Belting?” Willis asked.

  “It certainly is,” Mr. Hawley said. “Were you ever acquainted with P. L. Nagel?”

  It all went to prove that it paid to remember names and faces.

  “I only just met him,” Willis said. “It was when I was working in a small plant in Massachusetts—the Harcourt Mill. Mr. Nagel wanted to buy the mill.”

  “Son,” Mr. Hawley said, “you can shake hands with me again. Any friend of P.L.’s is always a friend of mine.”

  “I just happened to meet him,” Willis said. “There isn’t any reason why he should remember me.”

  “Don’t you fool yourself, son,” Mr. Hawley said. “P.L. remembers like an elephant and he’s a very dear friend of mine.”

  “Say, Chief,” Mr. Judkins began.

  Mr. Hawley waved his hand.

  “Don’t crowd me, boys,” he said. “Let me make my point. I believe in fun, but life isn’t all fun either. There are finer things in life.”

  Mr. Hawley looked around him sharply, but everyone was listening.

  “Life isn’t all play,” he said, “and it isn’t all work. A well-rounded man makes all sorts of contacts. I like queer people. I like preachers except on Sunday.”

  Everyone laughed heartily, but Mr. Hawley raised his hand. “Just a minute, fellows,” he said. “Just a minute—let me make my point. I suppose you think I’m a silly old crock, don’t you?”

  Everyone laughed gaily.

  “Now, for instance,” Mr. Hawley said, “about three years ago we were selling some drills to Rothstein Mining and Development. You remember sitting around the table with those people, don’t you, Pete?”

  “Yes, Chief, I certainly do,” Mr. Judkins said.

  “It was a real experience,” Mr. Hawley said. “Everything’s a real experience, even down to the socialist sons of bitches in Washington.”

  Everyone laughed, but Mr. Hawley raised his hand.

  “There were all sorts of experts around that table—mining engineers and geologists and things like that—among whom was a college professor.”

  Mr. Hawley cleared his throat again. “I don’t recall why the Rothstein people had retained that professor, but he was a real contact. He knew about fishes and red sandstone, and he wrote a book which he presented me with, personally inscribed. His name was Hodges. He’s a professor of geology from Harvard University.”

  “Chief,” Mr. Judkins said, “we really ought to be going.”

  “All right,
Pete,” Mr. Hawley said, “but let me make my point. My point is that my acquaintance with this Professor Hodges was a real experience. Get my coat, will you, Rosey?”

  It was strange how the name had come up out of nowhere. For a moment Willis was undecided whether or not to say anything, but finally he spoke.

  “The fishes were called ganoids, weren’t they?”

  “Say,” Mr. Hawley asked him, “how the hell did you know that?”

  “Why, I happened to know Professor Hodges myself in Cambridge quite a while ago,” Willis answered. It was strange to think that Professor Hodges could be useful to him in a business way.

  “Say,” Mr. Hawley said, “I forgot you were a Harvard man.” He looked at Willis suspiciously, and Willis felt out of the group for a moment.

  “Not really a Harvard man,” he said quickly, “only Harvard Business School,” and the tension around him relaxed.

  “Say,” Mr. Hawley said, “when did you see the old prof last?”

  “Oh, not for quite a while,” Willis answered, and he still spoke easily, “but I happened to have tea with his daughter just this afternoon at the Plaza.”

  “Well, son,” Mr. Hawley said, “that’s a fascinating coincidence. Those contacts never do anyone a bit of harm. That’s exactly the point I’ve been trying to make. Now what was that one about the girl sitting on the waffle iron?”

  For a moment Willis could not imagine how he could go through a whole evening with Mr. Hawley and his two employees. He was sure that he was a better man than Mr. Hawley ever had been in his best days. He hoped that he would never be as boring after two drinks as Mr. Nat Hawley. There were, as Mr. Hawley had said, finer things in life, and Willis had a sudden sharp desire for them, and this may have been why his mind went back to Sylvia Hodges.

  When they were on the street waiting for the doorman to call a taxi, Mr. Judkins squeezed his arm affectionately.

  “The chief is in quite a mood tonight,” Mr. Judkins said. “You made a real hit with the chief upstairs.”

  “Thanks,” Willis said. “That makes me very happy.”

  It made him happy, but not in the way that he implied. It was dangerous to underestimate anyone, but Willis believed that he could handle anyone like Mr. Hawley. All at once he knew as sure as fate that he could strike Mr. Beakney for a raise to ten thousand dollars a year—and get it—because those unpalatable minutes in that hotel suite had made him harder and shrewder. As a matter of fact he asked Mr. Beakney for exactly that increase in salary on Monday afternoon, after the contract with Hawley Pneumatic Tool was signed.