Contrary Pleasure

by John D. MacDonald

  Griffin slid the mirrored door open, backed against the zippered curtain, and slid the bed up so that it banged and latched itself into the wall. He moved with a deliberate precision that gave him a look of slowness, yet he accomplished all routine tasks with an astonishing quickness because there was no waste, no blundering, no pauses.

  Trains and the roomettes on trains pleased him. It was stainless, functional design. The train rode on straight rails. You knew where the rails went. Air travel did not please him. There was a formlessness about it. In the air you were given no privacy, no steel place in which to work. At forty Griffin could have been a youthful fifty, or a tired thirty. He was of middle height, and weighed within five pounds of what he had weighed at twenty. His hair was very black, and though it was a heavy growth that gave his forehead a narrow look, there was a lusterlessness about it that made it seem wiglike, unreal. His skin was very white, with a look of transparency. His eyes were a pale gray-blue, meaningless as marbles. There was a look of Irish about him, a suggestion of the black Irish in the jut of blue-shadowed chin. And a look of remoteness and dedication. There was something priestlike about him. Only the most unimaginative were ever at ease with him. He seemed always to be watching and condemning. He wore dark clothing, subdued neckties. He should have been invisible in any crowd, and yet he never was. He was always noticed. And many people speculated about him. And they were nearly always wrong.

  After he had shaved and dressed and closed his suitcase and unzipped the green curtain, the train was ten minutes out of Stockton. He sat with his briefcase on his lap, opened it, and took out a Manila folder. He looked at the balance sheet of the Stockton Knitting Company. SK stock was not listed. It was not offered for sale. With Delevan ownership of the stock, the firm was under no obligation to make their financial affairs a matter of public record. Griffin had gone to considerable effort to construct this balance sheet, and the accompanying profit and loss statement. He knew they were inaccurate. And he knew the inaccuracies were most probably minor.

  When he felt the train begin to slow down, he closed the briefcase. The conductor hurried down the aisle announcing the stop at Stockton. Thomas Marin Griffin put on his hat and waited a few minutes, then walked down the car after the porter had taken his suitcase forward. He stepped down onto the morning platform, tipped the porter, picked up his suitcase, and walked through the big gloomy bad-smelling station, past the golden oak of the scarred benches, the grubby marble. The hotel where he had stayed before, the Brigadier, was just three blocks from the station. He walked swiftly, carrying the heavy suitcase with ease. His reservation was in order. There was a bulky Manila envelope from the office. He sent the bellhop up to the room with suitcase and hat. He took his briefcase into the dining room, opened the envelope after ordering his breakfast. Miss Vidranian had arranged things the way he liked them. Letters and memorandums in increasing order of importance, so that the top letter was almost, but not quite, within the range of Miss Vidranian’s authority to have handled herself. He went quickly through the stack. He set some aside for dictation. On others he wrote marginal comments to guide Miss Vidranian in answering them herself. His pen had a very fine nib, and he used jet-black ink. His writing was small, angular, precise, unanimated—and very fast. The last item in the group was the unopened envelope containing the confidential information he had requested from Credit Search on the Delevan family. He was glad it had arrived. He decided he would read that in his room.

  When he had returned to the room, he unpacked quickly, placing the small dictation machine on the desk. He did his long distance telephoning first, then, adjusting the small flexible belt in the machine, he dictated answers to three of the letters Miss Vidranian had sent and dictated memos on two of the three phone calls. She had enclosed a Manila envelope addressed to his office. Before he sealed the two flexible belts, the memos, and the correspondence in the envelope, he placed a call to his own office.

  “Good morning, Mr. Griffin.”

  “Good morning, Miss Vidranian. I’ll mail the correspondence back to you this morning. I just finished handling it. Anything special this morning?” His voice was soft, polite.

  “A Mr. Henry Parks phoned from Washington. Mr. Tomlinson has approved the container project. Dr. Garsh is anxious to see you again. There’s nothing else of any importance.”

  “If Parks phones again, turn him over to Gary. Wire the Acme people about Tomlinson’s approval. And phone Dr. Garsh and tell him I’ll phone him when I get back to town. Have you got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, and sounded a bit upset that he should have asked. Of course she got it. And in addition to her notes she would have a tape of the phone call in case there was any question in her mind.

  “Good-bye,” he said, and hung up before there was time to hear her response. He sealed the envelope and placed it beside his hat.

  Then he opened the Credit Search envelope. He had requested a detailed report. Intensive coverage. For such reports—and they were expensive—Credit Search supplemented the information on file and brought it up to date by either sending their own people or employing local agencies for an on-the-spot survey. Following the theory that a person’s credit is influenced by many other factors, their investigations were often quite personal. And Credit Search had had three months to do a thorough job.

  Griffin scanned the report and then read it more slowly. When he folded it back into the envelope marked for his personal attention, he had inadvertently committed large portions of it to memory. The report contained many factors which could be considered favorable to his plans.

  He phoned the Stockton Knitting Company. He asked for Mr. Benjamin Delevan. A young-voiced girl requested his name. In a few moments Mr. Benjamin Delevan was on the line.

  “Mr. Thomas Griffin? Is that the Griffin of Thomas Marin Griffin Associates?”

  “Yes it is, Mr. Delevan. My office was suppose to have arranged for an appointment with you today. I find there has been a slip-up. I wonder if you could fit me in. I know it’s an imposition.”

  “Just a moment, please.”

  Griffin held the phone with monumental patience. Delevan came back on. “Would quarter of eleven this morning be convenient for you, Mr. Griffith? Good. I’ll be expecting you then.”

  Later, on the taxi ride out to the Stockton mill, Griffin remembered the revealing change in the tone of Benjamin Delevan’s voice. It was something that happened more frequently these days. It is pleasing, yet handicapping, to be well on your way to becoming a legend in your own time. He remembered a lunch in New York, a dark upstairs place, expensive, with the very best of food and service, and the heavy half-drunk voice from the neighboring table.

  “That Griffin son of a bitch. That sly bastard. Never know what he’s up to. Know what, though? Whatever he does, it comes out like Fort Knox. That Associates outfit of his is turning into a holding company, that’s what it’s doing. You read that thing they had on him in Newsweek? What the hell was it they called him? The doctor for sick corporations. Okay, so he does help, but the bill is too high for my taste. He does business for a stock-purchase concession. Offer him cash sometime and I bet he’d laugh in your face. I happen to know for a definite fact, see, that that stone-faced character has cut himself a piece of some of the fastest-growing outfits in the country, and furthermore …”

  The man with Griffin had been painfully embarrassed. But Griffin was sorry the noisy man had lowered his voice. There could have been useful information. It was too bad people thought of him that way. It made them difficult to deal with. Suspicious of his motives.

  Griffin had tried the corporate world from the other side of the desk. And at twenty-seven had become an executive vice-president of a Michigan corporation that manufactured fork-lift trucks and special conveyor equipment. And had been bored. And had known that it was the wrong way to climb—if you wanted both money and power. This was better.

  When he walked into Delevan’s office, he sensed the war
iness. The girl who had let him in closed the office door behind him. Benjamin Delevan came around his desk, shook hands. There was wariness there and, confirmed by his investigations, considerable shrewdness.

  “This is a pleasure, Mr. Griffin. I’ve heard a great deal about your work. Sit down, please.”

  Griffin sat down and put his briefcase beside his chair. He said, “This is my third visit to Stockton this year.”

  “I’m disappointed that you didn’t stop in before. Or at least let me know you were in town. I could have gotten you a temporary card at the club and—–”

  “I’m not much of a one for clubs, Mr. Delevan. I’m comfortable at the Brigadier.”

  “Well-run, that hotel. Old-fashioned, but they do things right.”

  “That’s my impression too.”

  “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Griffin?”

  Griffin inwardly admired the way Delevan handled himself. No questions about the other trips. “There may be, Mr. Delevan. I have a client-firm. Varnen Textiles. They’ve gotten themselves into a spot of trouble. They are prepared to accept my recommendations as to the way to get out of trouble. I’ll have to tell you the situation. I’d like it to be confidential.”

  “It will be, of course.”

  “They built the new Tennessee plant four years ago. Woolens on a large scale. Bad timing. You know the picture in woolens, of course. Short runs. The plant isn’t suited for that sort of thing. They want to make a switch to a synthetic. They’ve made a licensing deal. If their production people try to feed synthetics in with the woolens, it is going to make the expense of operation too high. New equipment will be needed. It would imperil the woolen production. They don’t want to do that because they need the income from woolens.” He saw the sudden awareness in Delevan’s eyes, quickly hidden. So he said, “Do you have any guesses now?”

  “Do you want us to contract to plug gaps in their line?”

  “I’m afraid Varnen wouldn’t play on that basis. They have to control the manufacture of their own lines. When I took them on as a client-firm they had the idea of building another plant, smaller, more flexible, for the shrinking woolen line. In Tennessee. I investigated it and ruled that out.”

  “Would you mind telling me why?”

  “Expensive. A lengthy operation.”

  Delevan leaned back. His face was still. “You recommended they buy a mill in the North.”

  “I recommended that they retain me and let me and my people look into the possibility of buying a mill in the North. Someplace where there would be a trained labor pool, an existing plant, a flexibility of operation, a backlog of existing business. You have those things right here. Plus some desirable brand names, old names in the field. I am not a salesman, Mr. Delevan. I have told you your own advantages first. There is another side to the coin. This mill is not big enough. You have quite an obsolescence problem. You have been modernizing slowly but too slowly. A recession of any duration would give you serious problems. You deal in high-style items, with the appropriate percentage of net for such risk, but you have been consistently outguessing the market. Your speculations in inventory have been, unfortunately, necessary. And fortunately successful. I do not think the mill could pass a rigid safety inspection at the moment. It is too much of a one-man operation. Too much depends on your judgment. I admire your shrewdness, Mr. Delevan. You have done remarkably well with an operation which ignored normal maintenance and modernization for far too many years. Those are the handicaps.”

  “You don’t make us sound very desirable, Mr. Griffin.”

  “There are other factors. The place would have to be enlarged. The room for expansion is there. And I have been assured by your Chamber of Commerce that they are eager for expanded business in town. So eager that they will cooperate with the county and city governments and get a good break for Varnen on property taxes. I was in Washington a few weeks ago. They are aware of the difficulties in the textile industry. Construction costs can be written off very quickly. Varnen would start shifting woolen production up here as soon as feasible. Existing equipment would be moved into the addition to this mill from the Tennessee mill.”

  There was silence in the office for a short time. Delevan smiled a bit wearily and said, “This company is family owned. You have no idea of our financial situation at the moment. I fail to see how you can do all this … conjecturing without knowing at least our net worth here.”

  Griffin opened his briefcase. He took out the folder containing the financial reports. “This information was gathered from various sources. Some of it may be way out of line, Mr. Delevan. You might glance at it and see how far off we are.”

  Benjamin Delevan studied the reports. He ran a pencil down the columns of figures. He smiled a little bitterly as he handed it back. “You people are damn thorough.”

  “We have to be.”

  “I suppose you have an offer all ready, too?”

  “Just a general offer. Varnen has already obtained permission from the SEC for a new stock issue. I won’t go into all the details of the split on common stock outstanding. It would come out this way: thirty thousand shares of Varnen Textiles for the thirty thousand shares of Stockton Knitting. It is estimated that market value would stabilize about twenty dollars a share. So it would be a share-for-share trade. As your stock is not listed, it is worth precisely what you can get for it. A share-for-share trade, in that case, would obviate a personal tax problem. Over the past ten years Varnen has paid an average of six point two percent on common stock. It is a healthy operation, Mr. Delevan.”

  “Even with this trouble they seem to be in?”

  “By becoming a client-firm they took a long step toward getting out of trouble. This plan I have suggested to you is only one of the plans I have in mind. It wouldn’t be wise to have only one alternative.”

  “What would be my status?”

  “You would be given a one-year contract with a bonus provision as production manager of the Stockton lines.”

  “And after that?”

  “Varnen has their own executive-training program. They would want you only during the changeover. I checked the recorded copy of your father’s will. You have ten thousand shares. And the three children of your father’s second marriage have the balance split equally among them. I should think you would all be … reasonably comfortable. And you would avoid the risk of a liquidation of this operation at a sacrifice.”

  “How about the other employees here, Mr. Griffin?”

  “Varnen would keep the labor force and add to it, and retrain the lower-level supervisory personnel. All the rest would come from Varnen, or be hired locally and trained in Varnen methods.”

  Delevan shook a cigarette out of the package on his desk, offered one to Griffin, who shook his head. Delevan leaned back in his chair and lighted his cigarette. “Assume that I would go along with it. That’s no indication that the rest of the family would.”

  Griffin, for the first time, was disappointed in the man. “Come now, Mr. Delevan. It’s quite apparent that you get their approval on anything you recommend.”

  “Would the Varnen stock be voting stock?”

  Respect returned quickly. “No, it would not. But the dividend picture would be identical with the voting stock.”

  “It isn’t something that can be decided here and now, Mr. Griffin.”

  Griffin latched his briefcase. “I realize that. But there is a need here for more than the usual speed in making a decision. The Varnen situation deteriorates from week to week in the Tennessee plant. Today is Thursday. I will have to know by next Wednesday.”

  “What if we should agree, and then Varnen turns down your recommendation, Mr. Griffin?”

  For the first time Griffin smiled. It was a suggestion of a smile and it faded immediately. “That’s a very remote possibility.”

  “And if we make a counteroffer?”

  “I learned long ago, Mr. Delevan, that I am inadequate in a bargaining situation. It is
a form of gambling. I do not gamble. In situations like this I am impartial. I make the best possible offer for both parties concerned. You can employ some disinterested party and have an audit of the situation made, if you so desire. But I am afraid that would take too long.”

  Delevan’s sudden grin looked oddly boyish. “This beats me. Things like this are supposed to happen with about nineteen people around a table and a bunch of corporation lawyers telling everybody what to say. It isn’t supposed to be like this. One man and one briefcase.”

  Griffin stood up, unsmiling. “The conference method is a grossly overrated method of doing business, Mr. Delevan. Final authority usually rests with one person. You have that authority. So do I, in this matter. I prefer to work alone. Some people consider that a weakness of mine, an inability to delegate authority and responsibility. But it suits me. I’ll leave my card with your secretary. It has my office phone number on it. I will be in town until nine o’clock tomorrow morning. You can reach me at the Brigadier if you have questions you didn’t think of this morning. Please phone my office when you reach a decision. They always know where to reach me.”

  Delevan stood up. “Could we have lunch together?”

  “Thank you, no. But I would like your permission to walk through the mill.”

  “Sure. I can have one of the—–”

  “No thank you. I can find my way around. I’ve studied a floor plan.”

  Delevan stared at him. “If you don’t mind my asking, just where in the hell did you get a floor plan?”

  “You had one drawn up for the Loomarite people as a basis for their making an estimate two years ago.”

  “What gives them the right to turn it over to you? I’m not annoyed. I’m just curious.”