Lady of Fortune

by Graham Masterton

  Effie opened and closed her mouth, completely lost for anything to say. She could see by Caldwell’s intent expression that he was telling her the truth. My God, she thought, he really loves me. He really does. He almost got the edge on me, just by being frank and unpretentious. For a moment, she lost her nerve about everything she had planned to do; and she felt giddy with anxiety.

  She said, half jokily, half desperately. ‘It isn’t really a good idea, is it?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘A bank president being romantically involved with a bank chairman?’

  Caldwell gave her a small smile. ‘I didn’t actually think about it that way.’

  ‘Well, you have to. It’s quite impossible.’

  Caldwell laid his hand on her wrist. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘forget that I ever mentioned it. I’m sorry. It’s just that you’re so pretty to look at; as well as being so different and so confident. Yet I feel you’re kind of vulnerable, too. You don’t mind my saying that, do you? I feel that you’re looking for something in your life which you haven’t yet discovered. I just thought – big-headedly, I guess – that whatever it is you’re looking for could be me.’

  Effie suddenly found herself very close to tears. She didn’t know why. She felt happy rather than sad, and yet her throat was so tight with emotion that she couldn’t speak. She leaned forward, and Caldwell leaned forward too; they hovered for just one instant, and then they kissed. As they did so, a flashbulb popped loudly, and Effie found herself blinking with shock.

  ‘Thanks, Miss Watson,’ said the photographer from the Daily News. ‘That should look great on page three.’

  Caldwell jumped to his feet, knocking back his barstool. ‘You punk’ he shouted. ‘If you print that picture I’ll personally track you down and beat your brains out! Gerardo! get this creep out of here!’

  Gerardo shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Brooks, it’s difficult. Gentlemen of the Press, you know? Throwing them out of here is bad for business.’

  ‘In that case, scratch the table. Miss Watson and I are leaving.’

  ‘But Mr Brooks, please –’

  ‘Will you kindly get the lady’s coat?’ Caldwell demanded. ‘Neither of us came in here to be set up as unpaid models for the yellow press.’

  Effie said, ‘Caldwell –’

  ‘I want the lady’s coat!’ Caldwell shouted.

  ‘Caldwell,’ said Effie, taking his arm. ‘Caldwell, come on now, calm down. When you’re as famous as I am, you expect this kind of thing. The newspapers are interested in us. Let’s just say that it’s good for business.’

  ‘He took that damn picture without even asking!’

  ‘Caldwell, calm down. I know he did. But leave it alone. You’re in banking now. No matter how much people provoke us, we’re always supposed to be stable and even-tempered. Would you invest your money in a bank whose chairman kept screaming and shouting and making scenes in restaurants?’

  Caldwell clenched his fists and closed his eyes and took a deep, even breath. At last he said, ‘Okay, I’m with you. I’m okay now.’ He opened his eyes again and said to the photographer, ‘Listen, I’m sorry. I just flew off the handle.’

  ‘I’m sorry too, buddy,’ replied the photographer laconically, jotting down a caption in his notebook.

  Sherry Devino from the World Telegram came up to them in a shocking-pink dress with a diamond boutonnière, all bubbly blonde curls and wide Gloria Swanson eyes. ‘Miss Watson? Is there any truth in the story that you and Mr Brooks here are secret lovers?’

  Effie shook her head. ‘We’re just good bankers.’

  ‘Is it true that you go every week to George Sabatini’s grave and lay a wreath?’

  ‘I have a wreath sent to Mr Sabatini’s grave by florists. I don’t go in person.’

  ‘What does Mr Brooks think about your affair with one of New York’s most notorious gangsters?’

  ‘You’d better ask Mr Brooks.’

  ‘Does it bother you, Mr Brooks?’ asked Sherry Devino.

  Caldwell looked across at Effie; and for a moment she saw something in his expression that wasn’t quite doubt, or uncertainty; but could almost have been that slightly fixed stare that a high-diver has when he approaches the split-second of dropping from the topmost diving-board. Then he reached over with his hand, and held her arm, and said to Sherry Devino, ‘Miss Watson’s past life is entirely her own business. I’m handling her investment affairs for her, not her love affairs.’

  ‘You always kiss your investment clients?’

  ‘Sometimes, when we pull off a particularly happy deal. The last client I kissed was Baxter Patrick, of the New York Meat-Packing Company.’

  Everybody laughed. The Duke of Windsor, who had looked up to see what all the commotion was about, gave Effie a little three-fingered wave. The orchestra slid smoochily into The Cooch. ‘Come on, Caldwell,’ said Effie, ‘let’s sit down and eat.’

  Over fragrant dishes of casseroled pheasant, with chilled Bollinger champagne, Caldwell said, ‘Those stories of you and George Sabatini certainly used to surprise me.’

  Effie looked up. ‘Why? He may have been a gangster, but he was also a gentleman. He was friendly, and witty, and he would have done anything for me.’

  ‘You’re making me jealous,’ said Caldwell. ‘Can you believe that I’m jealous?’

  ‘Don’t be. George is dead and you’re still alive.’

  Caldwell ate in silence for a while, and then he said, ‘Did you really love him? Despite what he was?’

  ‘I suppose, in a way, I loved him because of what he was. He knew how dangerous his business was. He was always at risk; and yet he was always affectionate and cheerful.’ She paused. ‘I pray he didn’t suffer when they killed him.’

  Caldwell asked the waiter for another bottle of champagne. He started to eat again, but then he laid down his knife and fork, and said, ‘Is that why you can’t love me? Because I don’t do anything that puts me into mortal danger? Is that what you love in a man? Physical bravery? A cool nerve under fire? I heard about the Count von Ahlbeck, during the war. I don’t know how much of what I heard was true. Does a man have to die to prove that he loves you, and to win your love in return?’

  Effie flushed. Very softly, she said, ‘No.’

  ‘But it does appeal to you?’

  Effie stared at him. ‘Courage? Yes, I suppose it does.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Caldwell, ‘I think I’ll have to say that your offer of the chairmanship of the Commerce Bank has been gratefully considered, but rejected.’

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ said Effie.

  ‘You don’t understand me? I’m easy to understand. I’m not up to your heroic criteria, that’s all. There’s nothing more complicated to it than that. I am not the kind of man who likes to lay his life on the line for anything, least of all for money. Effie – I’m a plain, middle-of-the-road kind of a man. I’ve very talented at what I do. But I’m not a soldier or a gangster or even a weekend airplane pilot. The most dangerous thing I ever do is drive my car at eighty miles an hour. I just don’t know what you expect of me. And even if I did know, I doubt if I’d be able to live up to it. I’m sorry.’

  Effie lowered her eyes for a moment or two. Then she lifted them again and without looking at Caldwell, beckoned to the maitre-d’. The maitre-d’ saw her signal, and nodded.

  The orchestra stopped right in the middle of Swaying Down South, and struck up with California, Here I Come. From the far corner of the restaurant, a small cortège of waiters appeared, bearing between them a huge three-tiered silver and white cake, lavishly decorated with flowers and piped icing, and topped by more than a hundred lighted candles. They made their way around the tables until they were standing beside Effie and Caldwell; and then they laid the cake down right in front of Caldwell’s place, and applauded. Gerardo cried, ‘Three cheers! Hip-hip-hurra!’ and although hardly anybody in the Colony knew what the celebration was all about, they stood up and applauded.

/>   Caldwell, his face illuminated by the candles, stared at Effie and then at Gerardo, and then down at the cake. Beautifully written across its top tier, in green fondant script, was the message, ‘Congratulations to the Chairman of the Commerce Bank of California, from His Admiring President.’

  Out of her purse, Effie brought a slim black jeweller’s case, laid it next to the cake, and opened it. Inside, gliterring with twenty diamonds, was a Baume & Mercier wristwatch. The card tucked behind the strap said, ‘For Caldwell, with Pride and Love, Effie’.

  There were tears sparkling in Caldwell’s eyes. He had to press his hand over his mouth to keep back his feelings.

  Effie said, ‘I can love you, Caldwell, and I do. Did you really think that you could be as caring and as affectionate to me as you have been, without my noticing it and appreciating it?’

  Caldwell hesitated for a moment, and then reached across and picked up the watch. ‘It’s very nice,’ he said, huskily. Then he looked up at Effie, and said, ‘You’ve done it again, haven’t you? Kept one step ahead of me. You even fell in love with me first.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Chairman,’ said Effie. ‘I think I probably did.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  He was waiting for her unexpectedly, on Saturday afternoon, when she returned from a downtown shopping expedition with her friend Tiffany Mears, the wildly red-headed daughter of Herbert Mears, of Mears Steel. She had bought herself a whole new range of French pastel-coloured silk nightdresses, rose-pinks and coffee-beiges and eau-de-Nils, as well as a new collection of Venetian sherry-glasses, which would be delivered later. She was laughing as she came up the steps from the street at something Tiffany had said about Winthrop Aldrich, old John D. Rockefeller’s son-in-law.

  Kitty opened the door for her, wearing her full maid’s uniform, with cap and apron and long grey skirt. She said, ‘You’ve got a visitor, Miss Effie.’

  Effie frowned, and then glanced back towards the curb. She saw now that a long black Rolls-Royce was waiting there, a few doors down, with a closed landau hood and black-smoked windows. Effie guessed who it was at once: guessed who it must be, and she said flatly to Tiffany, ‘Tiffany, darling, would you think me terribly rude if I cancelled our tea … just for this afternoon?’

  Tiffany stared at the Rolls-Royce, and then back at Effie. ‘Is it a man?’ she asked, melodramatically. ‘In that case, I’ll make myself instantly scarce!’

  ‘Tiffany, it’s nothing personal. It’s just that I have to do this alone.’

  ‘I’m not offended, believe me,’ said Tiffany, waving her long-fingered hands around, in their long white gloves. But then she looked at Effie more seriously, and said, ‘You’re all right, aren’t you? You’re not upset about anything?’

  Effie held her wrist. ‘I’m fine. I’m very well. Perhaps I can call you later.’

  Tiffany threw back her head. ‘Later,’ she announced, in the deep voice of a contralto opera singer, ‘I hope to be lost in the arms of my lover, Herbert A. Schumacher, Junior!’

  Effie smiled, but couldn’t keep her smile for very long. She knew who was waiting for her inside. She gave Tiffany a small, abstracted wave, and then followed Kitty into the house. Kitty took her coat in silence, and hung it up in the hall closet. ‘Maybe you’d like some tea, Miss Effie,’ she suggested.

  ‘I think a bottle of champagne would go down better,’ said Effie.

  ‘You’re sure? A bottle of champagne?’

  ‘The Krug. In the Buccelatti tankards.’

  ‘Two, Miss Effie?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. Then she peeled off her gloves, handed them to Kitty, and walked with stiff movements into the living-room.

  Unlike Dougal, Robert had scarcely changed. He was only three years away from sixty now, and his short-cropped hair was completely grey, like the fur of iron-fillings clinging to a magnet. But his cheeks were as smooth as ever; his eyes as bright and colourless; his double-chins as firm and glossy and pink as ever. His black banker’s suit was voluminous, but superbly tailored. He smelled of wealth, and Floris Special No. 127 cologne, the very same fragrance that Henry Baeklander had worn, all those years ago in London, almost as if he had deliberately set out to provoke her, and throw her off-balance.

  ‘Hullo, Effie,’ he said, spreading his arms wide.

  With quick and graceful footsteps, almost as if they were rehearsed, she skirted his intended embrace, and stalked towards the window. He kept his arms up for a moment or two, and then dropped them down at his sides.

  ‘You’re early,’ she said. Her movements were as agitated as a ballet-dancer’s. ‘We didn’t expect you until the beginning of next month.’

  ‘I finished what I was doing in Edinburgh, and decided to take the soonest ship I could. As it turned out, it was the Île de France. Perhaps I should have waited until August. The Germans are going to launch the Europa then; followed by the Bremen. Real giants of ships, 50,000 tons, like two new planets. Watson’s helped to finance them.’

  ‘You’re still helping the Germans, even now?’

  ‘It’s wise to help the Germans, my dearie. They’re a clever race of people; not too different from the British, when everything’s said and done. And when they’ve managed to overcome the problem of all these war reparations, and sorted out their heavy industry – well, you mark my words, Effie, they’ll be back on top.’

  ‘Raring for revenge?’

  ‘Raring for nothing else except what’s rightfully theirs.’

  Effie was silent for a long time. Robert looked at her once or twice, and then shrugged, and sat down. The prickly top of his head was all that was reflected in the gilded mirror over the fireplace, like a dark sun rising over a reversed world, or a mine floating in the ocean, rolling and turning, waiting for a passenger-liner crowded with women and children. Effie, at last, said, ‘I’m not pleased to see you. I hope you realise that.’

  ‘The displeasure is mutual, believe me. But we’re brother and sister, aren’t we? Close kin. How could I come to New York and not drop in to say hullo to my sister Effie.’

  ‘I’ve ordered some champagne.’

  ‘Well, that’s excellent. You wouldn’t have a cold beef sandwich would you, to go with it?’

  ‘I’ll inquire,’ said Effie, starchily.

  ‘With pickle, if it’s not too much trouble.’

  Kitty came in with a silver engraved tray, on which there was an open bottle of Krug champagne, and two silver tankards with carved ivory cockatoos for handles, with rubies in their eyes. She set it down on the table besides Effie, but Effie said, ‘Mr Robert will pour, thank you, Kitty. And Kitty? Would you cut Mr Robert a sandwich with that beef we had left over from the Douglass dinner.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Kitty.

  Robert poured them each a tankard of champagne, and then stood with his back to the pink marble fireplace, one hand tucked under the tails of his black swallow coat, the other holding his tankard in an odd two-fingered grip. ‘You’ve done well for yourself,’ he said. ‘But I hear you’re selling up, and moving to California.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Robert made a face. ‘I gather it’s pretty wild out there, in California. Not at all the sort of thing we’re used to in Troon.’

  ‘You’re living in Troon now?’

  ‘I have a house there.’

  ‘How’s Marion keeping?’

  ‘Well enough, apart from a tendency to asthma. But, well enough.’

  There was another long silence, and then Effie said, ‘Have you been to mother’s graveside?’

  Robert said, ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘What did you lay on it? A wreath? Flowers? A message? I hope you signed the message from both of us.’

  Robert said, ‘I laid on it exactly what mother always wanted.’ He paused, knowing that he had caught Effie’s complete attention. He smiled, fatly. ‘Money,’ he said. ‘Shredded-up notes from the Bank of Scotland, like a blue snowstorm. You should have seen the cemetery-keeper’s face. H
e even got down on his hands and knees and tried to piece some of the notes back together again. There were ten thousand of them: all of mother’s investment in Easton McKirk.’

  ‘You’re lying to me,’ said Effie, staring at Robert with a feeling in her stomach that was half amusement and half outright horror. ‘Come on, you’re wracking me.’

  ‘You think so?’ asked Robert, drinking champagne.

  Effie took a quick breath. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think I care. If you tore up ten thousand pounds then it was a very foolish way of showing your feelings. Not to mention disrespectful to the mother who bore you.’

  Robert laughed. ‘You haven’t changed, have you, Effie? By God, you haven’t changed. Pious to the last breath. Rich, canny, and moral.’

  ‘That was your mother’s grave you were talking about. The grave to which she might not have gone so early if it hadn’t have been for you.’

  ‘Don’t you misjudge me, Effie,’ warned Robert. ‘If it hadn’t been for me, she might very well have gone to the women’s gaol, or the madhouse, and died there. And remember something else: she might well have been my mother, but she choked my father to death. Graves have been dishonoured with far less cause than that.’

  Effie said, in a flat voice, ‘I once promised that I would dishonour yours.’

  ‘Did you now? Yes, I remember you did! But you won’t have the opportunity; because I shall undoubtedly outlive you.’

  With considerable self-discipline, Effie managed to sit down, on the small French brocade sofa by the bookcase. She tossed her head a little to flick back her hair. She felt like storming out of the room and slamming the door. She felt like screeching at Robert that he should get out of her house. But she knew from experience that to lose her temper with Robert would be to give away any possible advantage that she might have over him. Robert played on weakness: he invariably started a business negotiation by shocking and irritating the people he was dealing with. After that, in his own words, they were ‘rabbits on the run’.

  Today, Effie had the twin advantages that she knew America and American banking far more intimately than Robert, and that all of her friends were here. It was an advantage she would have to use quickly and judiciously.