Sincerely, Willis Wayde

by John P. Marquand

  “Sylvia will love to hear that, P.L.,” Willis said, “because frankly she feels just that way about you.”

  “And look at those kids,” P.L. said. “Sylvia’s looks and your brains, boy—not that Sylvia isn’t a pretty brainy gal herself. It does make me wish they were all running around using my pool and facilities at Lake Forest. What is it the poet said—about the phrase ‘it might have been’ being the saddest in the world? Willis, you don’t know it but you’re a lucky damn horse thief.”

  “Yes, P.L.,” Willis said, “I guess I am pretty lucky.”

  “And that’s a nice shot of your home, too,” P.L. said. “But, say, come across clean now. Isn’t it a little cramped now that the kids are growing up?”

  “Well, now you mention it,” Willis said, “I do wish we had another ell or something.”

  Willis could not avoid a feeling of suspense, knowing there was something behind every one of old P.L.’s verbal maneuvers, but at the same time it was a pleasure to watch P.L. at work. P.L. was looking in a surprised way at his empty old-fashioned tumbler.

  “Hell,” he said, “my tongue’s hanging out. Say, rush me over some more bourbon, and what about you, son? You’ve been nursing that drink ever since I’ve come in here. You act as though you’re suspicious.”

  “Why, I was just thinking we might be going down to Green Gauge or somewhere, P.L.,” Willis said, “and I was merely saving a little space.”

  “Well, you just start in filling it, son,” P.L. said, “because I like it here. I like to hear that God-damn bird outside. Take a real shot of bourbon, son, and here’s to our not being too smart with each other. Get me?”

  “Why, no, P.L.,” Willis said. “I don’t exactly get you at the moment.”

  P.L. took out a handkerchief and patted the bald spot on his head.

  “Well, I rather think,” he said, and shook his finger slowly at Willis—“I rather think before we’re through here you’ll get my meaning, eventually, and now let’s you and me stop horsing around.”

  Willis had to laugh, although it was a time when he should watch himself.

  “Why, P.L.,” he said, “I didn’t know we had been.”

  “Now stop,” P.L. said. “You know damned well you and I have both been horsing. Finish that drink and take another and sit down.”

  “If we’re stopping horsing,” Willis answered, “and if you have something you want to tell me, maybe I’d better not have another drink until I get the news.”

  Willis laughed as he said it. Even though he felt annoyed at P.L.’s tactics with the bourbon, Willis was relieved that the horsing around was over. The whole texture of P.L.’s expression changed. He was like an actor off-stage in his dressing room at the end of a performance.

  “Son,” P.L. said, “when you get to be my age, maybe you’ll find yourself dreaming dreams like I do. Right now I would like for you to dream back with me to the time when you and I first met. At that period I was suffering from a head cold, and my sinuses haven’t improved any since. I made, you may recall—in fact I know you do—an offer to Mr. Henry Harcourt of five million dollars for that mill of his. I was not interested in the physical plant, since I am a believer in concentration, and Simcoe is situated in the Middle West. I wanted the Klaus patents and other parts of the Harcourt process, and Mr. Henry Harcourt knew it. Well, he turned me down for sentimental reasons, which surprised me, because I know, and you know too, that nothing runs long on sentiment—businesswise.”

  P. L. Nagel seemed to be in no hurry, and Willis began to wish that he would make his point. It was growing increasingly difficult to stop himself from leaping ahead to conclusions.

  “I hope you’re dreaming right along with me,” P. L. Nagel said. “When old H.H. turned down that offer, I wasn’t worried any. Time solves most things, and I could foresee what would happen under Bryson Harcourt’s management. It was my idea they’d be glad to sell me that property, and they would have—if it hadn’t been for you, son. You’re the nigger in the woodpile—you fooled me.”

  Willis could not help but feel flattered, not so much by what P.L. said as by his utter seriousness.

  “Oh, now, P.L.,” he said, “you know I couldn’t fool you.”

  Willis watched P.L. carefully, but P.L.’s features did not relax.

  “Maybe you wouldn’t have fooled me,” P.L. said, “if I had got my facts straight. I didn’t know at the time you had some of the best organizing ability I’ve ever met—and guts.”

  It was dangerous to be moved by flattery, but no one familiar with P. L. Nagel could have helped feeling a secret sort of pleasure.

  “Oh, come now, P.L.,” Willis said. “Seriously, I’m not as good as that.”

  “I wouldn’t be sitting here if I didn’t know you were, son,” P.L. said, “but just you let me make my point. When you combined Harcourt with Rahway I thought it would be a bust. I didn’t envisage how the Planeroid and the Klaus patents were going to fit. I never thought you’d be giving Simcoe competition and that you and I would be talking serious business.”

  P.L. paused again and Willis waited for him to go on until he saw that P.L. was also waiting. It was one of those tense moments that demanded care.

  “Are we really talking serious business, P.L.?” Willis asked.

  “You’re damned well right we are,” P.L. said, “and to prove it I’d like you to kindly get up and turn the night latch on the door.”

  Willis was glad of the opportunity to move across the room and the click of the latch made a satisfactory decisive sound.

  “All right, P.L.,” he said, “go ahead and tell me what you want.”

  Willis was in the better position, of course. One always was when someone else wanted something. He walked across the room and stood in front of P.L. waiting, and he hardly needed to tell himself to be relaxed.

  “Sit down,” P.L. said. “It hurts my neck looking up at you. All right, I want you in the first place, son, to come in as first vice president and in three years to be president of Simcoe. That’s one thing I want and I’m not kidding.”

  Willis crossed his right knee carefully over his left. It was important to show no surprise or excitement, and this was very difficult because he had never given any serious thought to being president of one of the biggest belting and industrial-rubber concerns in the country.

  “Of course I’m very flattered, P.L.,” he said. “But obviously this is something that requires a lot of considering and I should have to familiarize myself with the whole Simcoe picture.”

  P. L. Nagel waved his hand carelessly.

  “Of course it needs thought,” he said. “With this God-damn punitive income tax there’s no use saying much about salary, but I’m confident we can do something interesting with stock. I don’t want to name a figure now but I want to leave one thought. You’re about as far as you can get where you are, son. On the other hand, the sky will be the limit at Simcoe.”

  Willis smiled courteously. There was no use in giving any indication of anything until there was a definite offer.

  “That’s right, P.L.,” he said, “I’m about as far as I can go in the Associates, I suppose, but I’m happy where I am and I know my way around.”

  Willis’s words fell into a void of silence.

  “You won’t be happy there eventually,” P.L. said. “Anyway, I want you to be running Simcoe in my place. I want the very best, and that means you, son, and that isn’t all I want.”

  Apparently P.L. wanted to be asked what else he wanted, but Willis’s instinct told him it was a time to wait, and it was amusing to outwait someone like P.L.

  “I also want Harcourt Associates,” P.L. said. “I regret it’s going to cost more than five million. The figure I’m thinking of is in the neighborhood of twenty-five, and now that you know what I want I wish you would sweeten up my glass.”

  Willis took the old-fashioned glass from P. L. Nagel. It was not a time to be superficial and he spoke very gravely.

  �
�Frankly,” he said, “I need a minute to catch my breath, P.L.”

  Willis had received several offers to leave Harcourt Associates, and the Nagel offer, though more flattering, could be considered as another of the lot, but the idea of the sale of Harcourt Associates was new. He balanced it quickly as he poured the bourbon into P.L.’s glass, and that vague offer of twenty-five million was skillful. It had been dangled out like bait, obviously after P.L. had made a careful study of the Associates, and was conceivably not a top offer. Willis saw that the picture had the unsavory implications of a package deal; but he also knew that he was facing a moment in his life that was fraught with possibilities that might never come again.

  “Well, P.L.,” he said, “I’m somewhat curious as to why you want to absorb Harcourt Associates, but then I suppose it’s more your business than it’s mine.”

  While P.L. took a sip of his bourbon, Willis tried to recollect how many drinks P.L. had taken, but the number made no difference in P.L.’s mental processes or control.

  “I think you know the answer, son,” he said. “I like your conveyor belting, and there are certain parts of your process that I would like to combine with Simcoe. It’s a high price but part of it would be an exchange in stock.” P.L. paused and looked thoughtfully at Willis. “I think, son, if this went through you could buy Rolls-Royces instead of Cadillacs.”

  Willis cleared his throat.

  “I suppose,” he said, “you wouldn’t keep using the Harcourt Mill or Rahway.”

  He could see already that this was the most disturbing problem in the picture and the one which he least wanted to face, and he was relieved that P. L. Nagel did not wish to face it either.

  “We would have to make some experiments regarding integration,” P.L. said, “but this seems a small detail.”

  “I’m not sure whether it is or not,” Willis answered. “Very frankly the prospect of closing the Harcourt Mill disturbs me. You remember, don’t you, what Mr. Harcourt said about the family feeling for the mill?”

  “I’d like it,” P.L. said, and his voice had an imperious sound, “if we laid aside this angle for the moment. If you want my guess a lot of the Harcourt family would like to take that offer. Why don’t you face it? With those two little factories of yours, one in New Jersey and one in Massachusetts, you’re swimming against the tide. I’m throwing you a life raft, son, because I want you up at Simcoe and I want those processes.”

  Willis glanced at his wrist watch. It was almost seven, and the discussion could not continue much longer, and that glance at his watch at least showed that he was not too impressed by the conversation to forget the time.

  “Well, I must admit that this is all most interesting,” he said, “but there’s one thing about your general approach that leaves a rather bad taste in my mouth. I may as well be frank, P.L.”

  “Why, yes,” P.L. said gently, “what is it, son?”

  Willis stood up and squared his shoulders. He deliberately took a few moments to set his thoughts in order. It did no harm to keep P.L. waiting. When he did speak he was carried away by his sentiments, and each of his words gave strength to the others.

  “P.L.,” he said, “I believe that sincerity and integrity are the cornerstones of any relationship. I am sure you will understand that in my position as the head of my company I am not a free agent because I am the servant of my stockholders. I can recommend but in the end I must follow their wishes. Also I must add that I believe in loyalty, P.L., and my loyalty to the Harcourt family ranks as high as what I owe my own, especially with Mr. Bryson Harcourt incapacitated. I have to think of these things very carefully, P.L. I want to do what’s best for everyone, and what is best for myself comes last.”

  Willis stopped. He was moved by what he had said. He had clarified his own thoughts.

  “That’s fine, son,” P. L. Nagel said. “I like the way you put it. We both of us are servants to our stockholders, and I counted on you being loyal.”

  Willis paused for a moment before he answered. It was growing late but the mockingbird was still singing.

  “I merely wanted to make this clear, P.L.,” he said, “because there was one part of your offer to me personally which I do not like. I refer to my future in the Simcoe Company. I hate to say a hard word but I’m afraid I must, P.L. That offer sounds to me somewhat like a bribe, an inducement to facilitate the sale of my company and perhaps to forget certain loyalties and obligations. I’m not saying you meant this, P.L., but it’s the way it sounded. I want you to know in a very friendly way that you can’t bribe me in that manner.”

  Willis looked at P.L. steadily, and P.L. set down his glass. For a moment their glances met, but Willis did not allow his to waver for an instant, because it was a time for absolute sincerity.

  “Why, son,” P.L. said, and his voice was surprised and sad, “I guess I’m getting to be mighty clumsy. I like straight shooting as much as you do. I never intended any ulterior motive in that personal offer to you—none whatsoever. I want you as president of Simcoe because you’re the best man your age in belting and because I love you—yes, I love you—for the honest things you’ve said and for the very lovely and fine way you’ve presented them.” P. L. Nagel pushed himself up from his chair. “And now if I may use your toilet, son, I think we had better prepare to go down to the banquet, and suppose we meet in my room at ten o’clock tomorrow morning and go on with this little talk. And now let’s shake hands, and no hard feelings, because I really love you, son.”

  As Willis often said later, the admiration he felt for P. L. Nagel was always pretty close to hero worship. When they shook hands, everything in their relationship reached a new high and all sorts of doubts were gone from Willis’s mind. Although nothing was settled at all, a good deal appeared to have been, and Willis was at peace with himself.

  It was strange to think that an hour before he had not imagined he would be in the position he now occupied. When he walked down the broad staircase of the Carolina beside P. L. Nagel into the wave of voices that rose from the Production Liners filing into the banquet room, Willis could almost believe that he was already an integral part of Simcoe Rubber Hose and Belting. Nothing at all was settled, but he was already wondering how much he ought to tell Sylvia and how Sylvia might react to moving to Lake Forest. It was ridiculous to let his imagination run away with him, because the whole thing might evaporate into thin air, but Willis was already thinking of what he should say to Mrs. Bryson Harcourt and to Bess and Bill in order to put the situation into an agreeable light.

  The halls of the Carolina Hotel were ringing already with the song which P. L. Nagel, good old P.L., had rendered already in the suite upstairs:

  Nothing could be finer

  For an old Production Liner

  Than the Hotel Carolina

  In the morning.

  Aspirin and coffee

  Coming in the door

  And you only have to holler

  To get some more,

  If you’re an old Production Liner

  In the Hotel Carolina

  In the morning.

  There was one thing of which Willis was positive. If these things came to pass—and every moment he felt more and more sure that they would—he would do everything to keep the Harcourt Mill in operation, out of loyalty to old memories. He could see its buildings in his memory, ugly individually but combined into a fine progression. He thought of Mr. Henry Harcourt’s office and its hard chairs and its portraits and the coal fireplace. Willis had come close to forgetting what a warm spot he had in his heart for the Harcourt Mill. He certainly would do everything he could—within reason—to keep it in operation.

  XXVI

  Willis was not a believer in elation, because elation was an emotional state which clouded judgment. He was not elated when he returned home to Orange after the Production Liners Convocation. There had been time to sort facts and to file them in back of his mind so that he could face the immediate problems which he naturally found wa
iting for him after a few days’ absence from the New York office. In fact he went through the whole business day exactly as though there were no prospects of a merger between Harcourt Associates and Simcoe Rubber Hose and Belting. Still, in back of his thoughts, resting like a handsome balance in the bank, lay the final impressions of his conversations with P. L. Nagel. They had passed out of the zone of agreement in principle to tentative agreements on certain basic facts. It was rewarding to remember that they both had seen the central core of every problem almost simultaneously, but then as P. L. Nagel had said, minds in the high brackets were generally congenial.

  If Willis was not elated when he returned to Orange, he could hardly blame himself for having a feeling of well-being and of achievement. After all, like everyone else who had to start with nothing—and this was a proper way, the American way, for anyone to start—Willis had been striving for security. No matter how well things had gone in the last few years, there was always the besetting worry as to what might happen if death or accident should suddenly remove him. Could anyone else taking over Harcourt Associates keep up the level of earnings? Willis could see a gloomy picture of decline, of dividends falling off and of Sylvia and the children suffering the pinch. Everything was different now that an offer had been made for Harcourt Associates in tangible figures. Once the deal was consummated there would be no need to worry. If he wished to sell his common stock once it was converted into Simcoe, he would be rich enough to retire, not that he had the slightest wish to do so.

  Without being elated or dazzled he had to admit that these prospects made him happy. The best of it was that they were fruits of his own labor. No matter what credit he might give to the fine team at Harcourt, it was due to his leadership that Harcourt was where it was. The haste and rush of years were not wasted and he was about to reap a just reward. He could not blame himself for being very happy when he got out of the taxicab at Waydeholm.

  Al and Paul were playing catch out on the lawn. It seemed to Willis that they had grown even during his short absence from home. They were very handsome boys. They had their mother’s features but their yellow hair reminded Willis of his own when he was their age. Besides being handsome, they were real sturdy boys and they looked as though they were going to make good athletes. They dropped their mitts and ran to meet him, and a lump rose in Willis’s throat. After all, he had not let them down.