The hotel did well in the first part of the year. Abel considered he was set fair to achieve his profit forecast of over $25,000 for 1929 and he kept Davis Leroy informed of progress.
But when the crash came in October the hotel was half-empty. Abel placed a call through to Davis Leroy on Black Tuesday. The usually genial Texan sounded depressed and preoccupied and would not be drawn into making decisions about the laying off of hotel staff, which Abel now considered urgent.
“Stick with it, Abel,” he said. “I’ll come up next week and we’ll sort it out together—or we’ll try to.”
Abel did not like the ring of the last phrase.
“What’s the problem, Davis? Is it anything I can help with?”
“Not for the time being.”
Abel remained puzzled. “Why don’t you just give me the authority to get on with it and I can brief you when you come up next week?”
“It’s not quite as easy as that, Abel. I didn’t want to discuss my problems on the phone, but the bank is giving me a little trouble over my losses in the stock market and they’re threatening to make me sell the hotels if I can’t raise enough money to cover my debts.”
Abel went cold.
“Nothing for you to worry about, my boy,” continued Davis unconvincingly. “I will fill you in on the details when I come to Chicago next week. I’m sure I can fix up something by then.”
Abel heard the phone click; his whole body was now sweating. His first reaction was to wonder how he could assist Davis. He put a call through to Curtis Fenton and pried out of him the name of the banker who controlled the Richmond Group, feeling if he could see him it might make things easier for his friend.
Abel called Davis several times during the next few days to tell him that the situation was going from bad to worse and that decisions must be made, but the older man sounded more and more preoccupied and was still unwilling to make any firm decisions. When matters started getting out of control, Abel made a decision. He asked his secretary to get the banker who controlled the Richmond Group on the phone.
“Whom are you calling, Mr. Rosnovski?” asked a primsounding lady.
Abel looked down at the name on the piece of paper in front of him and said it firmly.
“I’ll put you through.”
“Good morning,” said an authoritative voice. “May I help you?”
“I hope so. My name is Abel Rosnovski,” Abel began nervously. “I am the manager of the Richmond Chicago and wanted to make an appointment to see you and discuss the future of the Richmond Group.”
“I have no authority to deal with anyone except Mr. Davis’ Leroy,” said the clipped accent.
“But I own twenty-five percent of the Richmond Group,” said Abel.
“Then no doubt someone will explain to you that until you own fifty-one percent you are in no position to deal with the bank unless you have the authority of Mr. Davis Leroy.”
“But he’s a close personal friend——”
“I am sure that is the case, Mr. Rosnovski.”
“ … and I’m trying to help.”
“Has Mr. Leroy given you the authority to represent him?”
“No, but——”
“Then I am sorry. It would be most unprofessional of me to continue this conversation.”
“You couldn’t be less helpful, could you?” asked Abel, immediately regretting his words.
“That is no doubt how you see it, Mr. Rosnovski. Good day, sir.”
Oh, to hell with you, thought Abel, slamming down the phone, worried that he might have done more harm than good. What should he do next?
He didn’t have long to find out.
The next evening Abel spotted Melanie in the restaurant, not displaying her usual well-groomed confidence but looking tired and anxious, and he nearly asked her if everything was all right but decided against approaching her. He left the dining room to go to his office and found Davis Leroy standing alone in the front hall. He had on the checked jacket he had been wearing the first day he talked to Abel at the Plaza.
“Is Melanie in the dining room?”
“Yes, she is,” said Abel. “I didn’t know you were coming into town today, Davis. I’ll get the Presidential Suite ready for you immediately.”
“Only for one night, Abel, and I’d like to see you in private later.”
“Certainly.”
Abel didn’t like the sound of “in private.” Had Melanie been complaining to her father? Was that why he had not found it possible to get a decision out of Davis during the last few days?
Davis Leroy hurried past him into the dining room while Abel went over to the reception desk to check on whether the suite on floor seventeen was available. Half the rooms in the hotel were unoccupied and it came as no surprise that the Presidential Suite was free. Abel booked his employer in and then waited by the reception desk for over an hour. He saw Melanie leave, her face blotched, as if she had been crying. Her father followed her from the dining room a few minutes later.
“Get yourself a bottle of bourbon, Abel—don’t tell me we don’t have one—and then join me in my suite.”
Abel picked up two bottles of bourbon from his safe and joined Leroy in the suite on the seventeenth floor, still wondering if Melanie had said anything to her father.
“Open the bottle and pour yourself a very large one, Abel,” Davis Leroy instructed.
Once again Abel felt the fear of the unknown. The palms of his hands began to sweat. Surely he was not going to be fired for wanting to marry the boss’s daughter? He and Leroy had been friends for over a year now, close friends. He did not have to wait long to find out what the unknown was.
“Finish your bourbon.”
Abel poured the drink down in one gulp and Davis Leroy swallowed his.
“Abel, I’m wiped out.” Leroy paused and poured them both another drink. “So is half of America, come to think of it.”
Abel did not speak, partly because he could not think of what to say. They sat staring at each other for several minutes; then, after another glass of bourbon, Abel managed, “But you still own eleven hotels.”
“Used to own,” said Davis Leroy. “Have to put it in the past tense now, Abel. I no longer own any of them; the bank took possession of them last Thursday.”
“But they belong to you—they have been in your family for two generations,” said Abel.
“They were. They aren’t any longer. Now they belong to a bank. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t know the whole truth, Abel; the same thing’s happening to almost everyone in America right now, big or small. About ten years ago I borrowed two million dollars using the hotels as collateral, and invested the money right across the board in stocks and bonds, fairly conservatively and in well established companies. I built the capital up to nearly five million, which was one of the reasons the hotel losses never bothered me too much—they were always tax deductible against the profit I was making in the market. Today I couldn’t give those shares away. We may as well use them as toilet paper in the eleven hotels. For the last three weeks I’ve been selling as fast as I can, but there are no buyers left. The bank foreclosed on my loan last Thursday.” Abel couldn’t help remembering that it was Thursday when he spoke to the banker. “Most people who are affected by the crash have only pieces of paper to cover their loans, but in my case the bank who backed me has the deeds on the eleven hotels as security against their original loan. So when the bottom dropped out, they immediately took possession of them. The bastards have let me know that they intend to sell the group as quickly as possible.”
“That’s madness. They’ll get nothing for them right now, and if they supported us through this period, together we could show them a good return on their investment.”
“I know you could, Abel, but they have my past record to throw back in my face. I went up to their main office to suggest just that. I explained about you and told them I would put all my time into the group if they would give us their backing, but the
y weren’t interested. They fobbed me off with some smooth young puppy who had all the textbook answers about cash flows, no capital base and credit restrictions. By God, if I ever get back, I’ll screw him personally and then his bank. Right now, the best thing we can do is get ourselves uproariously drunk, because I am finished, penniless, bankrupt.”
“Then so am I,” said Abel quietly.
“No, you have a great future ahead of you, son. Anyone who takes over this group couldn’t make a move without you.”
“You forget that I own twenty-five percent of the group.”
Davis Leroy stared at him. It was obvious that that fact had slipped his mind.
“Oh my God, Abel! I hope you didn’t put all your money into me.” His voice was becoming thick.
“Every last cent,” said Abel. “But I don’t regret it, Davis. Better to lose with a wise man than win with a fool.” He poured himself another bourbon.
The tears were standing in the corners of Davis Leroy’s eyes. “You know, Abel, you’re the best friend a man could ask for. You knock this hotel into shape, you invest your own money, I make you penniless and you don’t even complain. And then for good measure my daughter refuses to marry you.”
“You didn’t mind my asking her?” said Abel, less incredulous than he would have been without the bourbon.
“Silly little bitch doesn’t know a good thing when she sees one. She wants to marry some horse-breeding gentleman from the South with three Confederate generals in his family tree, or if she does marry a northerner, his great grandfather has to have come over on the Mayflower. If everyone who claims they had a relative on that boat were ever on board together, the whole damn thing would have sunk a thousand times before it reached America. Too bad I don’t have another daughter for you, Abel. No one has served me more loyally than you have. I sure would have been proud to have you as a member of the family. You and I would have made a great team, but I still reckon you can beat them all by yourself. You’re young—you still have everything ahead of you.”
At twenty-three Abel suddenly felt very old.
“Thank you for your confidence, Davis,” he said, “and who gives a damn for the stock market anyway? You know, you’re the best friend I ever had.” The drink was beginning to talk.
Abel poured himself yet another bourbon and threw it down. Between them they had finished both bottles by early morning. When Davis fell asleep in his chair, Abel managed to stagger down to the tenth floor, undress and collapse onto his own bed. He was awakened from a heavy sleep by a loud banging on the door. His head was going round and round, but the banging went on and on, louder and louder. Somehow he managed to get himself off the bed and grope his way to the door. It was a bellboy.
“Come quickly, Mr. Abel, come quickly,” the boy said as he ran down the hall.
Abel threw on a dressing gown and slippers and staggered down the corridor to join the bellboy, who was holding back the elevator door for him.
“Quickly, Mr. Abel,” the boy repeated.
“What’s the hurry?” demanded Abel, his head still going around as the elevator moved slowly down. Then he recalled the evening’s talk. Maybe the bank had come to take possession.
“Someone has jumped out the window.”
Abel sobered up immediately. “A guest?”
“Yes, I think so,” said the bellboy, “but I’m not sure.”
The elevator came to a stop at the ground floor. Abel thrust back the iron gates and ran out into the street. The police were already there. He wouldn’t have recognized the body if it had not been for the checked jacket. A policeman was taking down details. A man in plainclothes came over to Abel.
“You the manager?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Do you have any idea who this man might be?”
“Yes,” said Abel, slurring the word. “His name is Davis Leroy.”
“Do you know where he’s from or how we can contact his next of kin?”
Abel averted his eyes away from the broken body and answered automatically.
“He’s from Dallas and a Miss Melanie Leroy, his daughter, is his next of kin. She’s a student living out on the Chicago University campus.”
“Right. We’ll get someone right over to her.”
“No, don’t do that. I’ll go and see her myself,” said Abel.
“Thank you. It’s always better if they don’t hear the news from a stranger.”
“What a terrible, unnecessary thing,” said Abel, his eyes drawn back to the body of his friend.
“It’s the seventh in Chicago today,” said the officer flatly as he closed his little black notebook. “We’ll be needing to check his room later. Don’t rent it again until we give you an all clear.”
“Whatever you say, officer.”
The policeman strolled over toward the ambulance.
Abel watched the stretcher-bearers remove Davis Leroy’s body from the sidewalk. He felt cold, sank to his knees and was violently sick in the gutter. Once again he had lost his closest friend. Perhaps if I had drunk less and thought more, I might have saved him. He picked himself up and returned to his room, took a long, cold shower and somehow managed to get himself dressed. He ordered some black coffee and then, reluctantly, went up to the Presidential Suite and unlocked the door. Other than a couple of empty bourbon bottles, there seemed to be no sign of the drama that had been enacted there a few minutes earlier. Then he saw the letters on the side table by a bed, which had not been slept in. The first was addressed to Melanie, the second to a lawyer in Dallas and the third to Abel. He tore his open but could barely read Davis Leroy’s last words.
Dear Abel,
I’m taking the only way out after the bank’s decision. There is nothing left for me to live for as I am far too old to start over. I want you to know I believe you’re the one person who might make something good come out of this terrible mess.
I have made a new will in which I have left you the other 75 percent of the stock in the Richmond Group. I realize the stock is useless, but it will secure your position as the legal owner of the group. As you had the guts to buy 25 percent with your own money, you deserve the right to see if you can make some deal with the bank. I’ve left everything else I own, including the house, to Melanie. Please be the one who tells her. Don’t let it be the police. I would have been proud to have you as a son-in-law, partner.
Your friend,
Davis
Abel read the letter again and again and then folded it neatly and placed it in his wallet.
He went over to the university campus later that morning and broke the news as gently as he could to Melanie. He sat nervously on the couch, unsure what he could add to the bland statement of death. She took it surprisingly well, almost as if she had known what was going to happen, although she was obviously moved. No tears in front of Abel—perhaps later when he wasn’t there. He felt sorry for her for the first time in his life.
Abel returned to the hotel, decided not to have any lunch and asked a waiter to bring him a glass of tomato juice while he went over his mail. There was a letter from Curtis Fenton at the Continental Trust. It was obviously going to be a day for letters. Fenton had received the advice that a Boston bank called Kane and Cabot had taken over the financial responsibility of the Richmond Group. For the time being, business was to continue as usual, until meetings had been arranged with Mr. Davis Leroy to discuss the disposal of all the hotels in the Group. Abel sat staring at the words, and after a second glass of tomato juice, he drafted a letter to the chairman of Kane and Cabot, a Mr. Alan Lloyd. He received a reply some five days later asking Abel to attend a meeting in Boston on January 4 to discuss the liquidation of the group with the director in charge of bankruptcies. The interval would give the bank enough time to sort out the implications of Mr. Leroy’s sudden and tragic death.
Sudden and tragic death? “And who caused that death?” said Abel aloud in a fury, remembering Davis Leroy’s own words: “They fobbed me off with s
ome smooth young puppy … . By God, if I ever get back, I’ll screw him personally and then his bank.”
“Don’t worry, Davis, I’ll do the job for you,” Abel said out loud.
Abel ran the Richmond Continental during the last weeks of that year with rigid control of his staff and prices and just managed to keep his head above water. He couldn’t help wondering what was happening to the other ten hotels in the group, but he didn’t have the time to find out and it was not his responsibility anyway.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
On January 4, 1930, Abel Rosnovski arrived in Boston. He took a taxi from the station to Kane and Cabot and was a few minutes early. He sat in the reception room, which was larger and more ornate than any bedroom in the Chicago Richmond. He started reading The Wall Street Journal. Nineteen thirty was going to be a better year, the paper was trying to assure him. He doubted it. A prim middle-aged woman entered the room.
“Mr. Kane will see you now, Mr. Rosnovski.”
Abel rose and followed her down a long corridor into a small oak-paneled room with a large leather-topped desk, behind which sat a tall, good-looking man who must, Abel thought, have been about the same age as himself. His eyes were as blue as Abel’s. There was a picture on the wall behind him of an older man, whom the young man behind the desk greatly resembled. I’ll bet that’s Dad, Abel thought bitterly. You can be sure he’ll survive the collapse; banks always seem to win both ways.
“My name is William Kane,” said the young man, rising and extending his hand. “Please have a seat, Mr. Rosnovski.”
“Thank you,” said Abel.
William stared at the little man in his ill-fitting suit but also noted the determined eyes. “Perhaps you will allow me to apprise you of the latest situation as I see it,” continued the blue-eyed banker.
“Of course.”
“Mr. Leroy’s tragic and premature death …” William began, hating the pomposity of his words.
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