Balance Wheel

by Taylor Caldwell

  “Go on. You have your day, now,” said Charles. “Say it. Fred’s here. Let him know, too.”

  But Jochen laughed a little, in an ugly way. “Oh, no, not with him here. I don’t want any witnesses. I just want you to hear it, all by yourself, Charlie.” He bent over the desk, and again pounded it slowly and meatily. “Just you, Charlie.”

  Charles was silent. He sat in his chair, stolid and unmoving.

  Then Friederich stood up, with dignity. “I’ll go, Karl,” he said. “If you wish me to. But under no circumstances must you let—let this man—intimidate you.” He added this, pleadingly, and with pity.

  Charles turned to him. “It’s all right, Fred. He can’t intimidate me. And he has a right to say something to me in private, if he wants to, and if you don’t mind.”

  Jochen was chuckling. “No, I won’t be able to intimidate you, Charlie,” he said, jeeringly. “Not at all.”

  Friederich did not even glance at him as he walked out of the room and closed the door behind him. The two brothers watched him go. Jochen sat down. He was all sudden elation.

  “Well?” said Charles.

  Jochen reached in his pocket for his cigar case. He took out a cigar. He lit it, leisurely, puffed at it, regarded the volume of smoke critically. “Very nice of you,” he said in a conversational tone, “to mention my being my father’s son, too. I’m wondering if it’s ever occurred to you that perhaps I’ve remembered you were, also, and that’s what’s kept my mouth shut.”

  “About what?” asked Charles.

  Jochen grinned at him. “I’ve really been very kind to you, Charlie. Have you ever thought of that? But after all, I didn’t want the family name smeared. I’ve got three girls. And I’ve always had a soft spot for Jimmy, too. I didn’t want the kids hurt by my exposing you, and having you hanged. As a murderer.”

  The sun mounted the opposite wall. It struck on the white face of the big wooden clock. The position of the hands indicated fifteen minutes after eleven. It was all these things that Charles saw, in his mundane office, which vibrated continuously with the rumbling of the shops. Something had been said, something incredible, something not to be believed. Words had been spoken that had no meaning for him, like words in a preposterous language, conveying nothing but bafflement and incomprehension. He regarded Jochen with bewilderment.

  “What?” he said, in a stupid tone. He was so dazed, partly from the sedative, partly from his disbelief, that he felt no emotion at all.

  “You heard me,” answered Jochen, with nonchalance. Now his little brown eyes glinted with cunning amusement. “And you’ve thought about it a lot, I know. I’ve seen you getting more and more haggard every day, wondering if I had remembered, wondering if I had attached any importance to what happened the night Willie was—killed. And then, when I didn’t say anything, you thought you were safe. Well, Charlie, you weren’t. You aren’t. That’s what I want you to keep in mind. Move against me, and I move against you.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” said Charles, wonderingly, and still with no emotion except bewilderment. “Would you mind telling me what you’re talking about, for God’s sake? Have you gone Socialist, or something, and taken up Fred’s old rage.

  jargon, about ‘murderers’?”

  “Come, come, Charlie,” answered Jochen, in tolerant indulgence. “Don’t try your tricks on me. I know them all.” He pointed at Charles with his cigar. “Let me refresh your memory, though you know it doesn’t need refreshing.

  “Let’s begin with Willie, and his, shall we say—perturbation—about your little indiscretions with a certain lady—” He stopped, for Charles had half risen from his chair and his whole face had turned a dark crimson.

  “So,” said Charles. Involuntarily, his hand reached out and lifted his heavy glass paper-weight. He felt it in his fingers; he looked down at it, and when he realized what his impulse had been he was horrified. He put the paper-weight on his papers again, but stood up. “I do not intend to discuss with you any of your lies, which you know are lies, and which had a purpose known to both of us.” He stood there, shaken. “None of your lies,” he repeated. “None of your filth here. Get out, Joe. Get out, before I start remembering what you made Willie suffer for months. I tell you, Joe, you’ve made a dangerous man out of me. Get out!”

  But Jochen, though his grin had disappeared, and though he was no longer nonchalant, did not move.

  “All right,” he said, as if conceding the point. “We won’t discuss the lady. I have the highest respect for her, myself. Whatever you had in mind about her, I’m sure she didn’t agree with you. I told Willie that, so help me God. Isabel’s heard me say it to Willie a dozen times. I have other witnesses. It’s only you, and what you did to Willie, yourself.”

  Charles sat down. He held the edge of his desk in his hands, and his knuckles whitened. “Go on,” he said. “I’m listening.” There was something he should hear, he knew. When he had heard it he would call in two men, half a dozen men, and have Joe thrown bodily out of this building. He had only to wait a few minutes longer, and then he could act. Only a little more self-control, and it would be over.

  Jochen was not deceived that he had intimidated Charles. He saw those blank dull eyes, that set and heavy mouth, and the deep flush that did not disappear. Here was a man who could kill. Jochen was a big man, but he pushed back his chair a few inches, and held all his muscles tight. He had seen Charles seize the paper-weight, and knew it had been Charles’ first intention to smash it full in his face. Something had restrained Charles. It might not restrain him again. Jochen hesitated. Only the complete knowledge of his own desperate condition, his own conviction that Charles meant to throw him out of this company—his own company!—kept Jochen in his chair.

  Jochen spoke rapidly, in the high-pitched voice of fear and rage.

  “I’ll make it brief. That Sunday, when Willie died: he’d been at our house, and we’d had a talk. It was his determination, then, to help me get rid of you. I know it was; it was what you deserved. But I won’t go into all that. Willie was convinced of your intentions about his wife.” He paused. Charles only said: “Go on. I’m listening. But to save you time, I know all about it.”

  Jochen made himself raise a quizzical eyebrow. “Is that so? Well, it simplifies things then, but it also makes them more difficult for you. We arrived at Willie’s house, and there was your car. How did you know he was home? Simple. Phyllis called you. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” said Charles.

  “When we came into the house, Willie asked me to wait, and Phyllis went upstairs, alone. Then he asked you to go upstairs to the gallery with him. Right?”

  “Right,” said Charles.

  “Now,” Jochen went on, “I’m not going to pretend that I know what was said between you and Willie, alone up there in the gallery. But I can imagine what it was. Phyllis suddenly appeared on the stairs, after a long while, ahead of you both. You came down, hurrying. Willie came just behind you, or, beside you, hurrying, too. I saw his face. If ever a man was close to murder, it was Willie. And you looked close to it, too. I can just imagine what you two said to each other up there!”

  “Can you?” asked Charles. “But, go on.”

  “I’ll do that! Then Willie caught up with you, on the stairs. You saw him. You reached out, when you saw him, and pushed him. He knew what you were about to do, a split second before you did it. He yelled: ‘Don’t!’ But you did, Charlie, you did. You threw him down the stairs. And killed him. I saw you do it.”

  There was a sudden silence in the office. Charles did not break it. Jochen waited, but Charles did not speak.

  “So, you have it,” said Jochen, almost desperately. “I saw the whole thing. I’ve kept quiet, for the sake of all of us, you, me, our families, the company. I never intended to mention it to you. Never, so help me God. I never intend to speak of it to anyone, and again, so help me God! Unless you go on with what you said you are going to do. Then, I’ll have to speak.”


  Charles thought: Phyllis! He felt no apprehension for himself. He knew his law too well. His word against Jochen’s. It wouldn’t matter, in the long run, even though nothing would ever come to court. He would never be indicted; he would never be accused. But there was Phyllis. Charles did not deceive himself that Jochen would not openly denounce him. In his desperation, he would do this, even though he must know that nothing would come of it in the way of harm to him, Charles. It would be Phyllis who would suffer, always and only Phyllis.

  The lies had reached too deeply into the fabric of Andersburg. Phyllis’ name would be used freely, in the papers, in any preliminary hearing during which Charles would be exonerated. Jochen would use it.

  They understood each other as they looked at each other. Jochen stood up. He knew that Charles was paralyzed, that he had grasped everything.

  “To use your own expression, Charles: ‘So.’ And so, Charlie, it’ll be you who’ll be getting out of the company, not I. I’m giving you two months, Charlie. I wouldn’t have done this if you hadn’t pushed me. But it’s you or me, Charlie; there’s no compromise, now. Both of us can’t be in this company, together. I’ll buy you out, Charlie.”

  He waited. Charles sat very still, bunched together in his chair.

  “A fair price,” said Jochen. “But not too fair.” Then he stood up, looked at Charles again, and walked rapidly out of the room.

  Charles sat alone for a long time. The flush remained on his forehead and about his eyes. He began to tap the edge of his desk. Finally, he reached for his telephone and called Oliver Prescott.

  A few minutes later he took his stiff straw hat and went out of the office. He found Friederich in his own room. He closed the door and leaned against it, willing himself to breathe normally.

  “Yes?” cried Friederich, eagerly. “You’ve done it? You’ve told him to get out?”

  “Yes,” said Charles. “But there’re some preliminaries. Fred, if Joe tries to speak to you, to lie to you, don’t listen to him. You see, I have to leave the office for a couple of hours. When I come back, I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  CHAPTER XLV

  Oliver Prescott looked only once at Charles’ face, and then said: “Don’t say anything, Charlie. Just sit down a minute. I have to see old Scott about something. Oh, and in the meantime, how about some brandy?” He opened his desk drawer and brought out an old bottle and a brandy glass. Charles protested feebly, but Oliver poured the brandy with the air of a pleased connoisseur, held up the liquid to the bright sun, and nodded. “Here you are, Charlie. The best. We keep only the best for our best customers.”

  Charles took the brandy, and Oliver left the room. He was gone for at least five minutes. Charles sipped the brandy, though he was nauseated. In a moment or two the warmth of the liquor began to melt the stiff ice which seemed to have congealed in his stomach. He glanced absently about the big and impressive old room, which he had always liked. It was one of a series of rooms, old-fashioned, dignified, and breathing the ponderousness of law in the nineteenth century. Panelled wood, fireplace, shrouded windows, gas brackets on the walls now holding electric bulbs. This large suite of legal offices had once been called Scott, Meredith, Owens and Prescott. But only old Scott remained of the first three, with Oliver as his partner, an immensely rich ancient with the noblest reputation for immense integrity and aristocracy. Oliver occupied the office once used by Mr. Meredith. Mr. Scott, now in his eighties, acted as judge and counselor to Oliver in especially difficult cases. But he never appeared in court, leaving that to Oliver, who, armed with the old man’s wisdom and advice, rarely lost a case.

  Oliver came back, serious but smiling, accompanied by Mr. Scott. Charles stood up, holding his empty brandy glass. “How are you, dear Charles?” asked Mr. Scott, affectionately, holding out his little sinewy hand. He was a very small man, quiet and powerful yet frail, with the face of an old eagle. His wardrobe never changed; he wore a dark gray suit, a black silk tie with a black pearl stick-pin, and brilliantly polished boots with gaiters. His clothing might be anachronistic but his mind was as urbane and wise as it had ever been.

  “I thought,” said Oliver, “that as the matter you want to talk about, Charlie, sounded very grave, Mr. Scott ought to hear it, too.”

  “I didn’t say,” began Charles tactlessly. But Oliver was busily seating his distinguished old partner. Then Oliver refilled Charles’ glass, after pouring one for Mr. Scott. He then poured a third glass for himself, and sat down.

  “Ah,” said Mr. Scott, smiling behind his glasses at Charles. “This is what I like. Gentlemen discussing important things in an atmosphere of ease—like gentlemen. None of this modern, hectic rush, in which significant details are overlooked only to be found again, unexpectedly and embarrassingly, in court. Even law has become superficial and tawdry in this age.”

  Charles’s first annoyance at the presence of the old man immediately vanished. He had the middle-class man’s aversion to having more than one witness to a terrible confidence, the middle-class man’s caution at extending knowledge to too many. Now he realized how subtle Oliver was, and how valuable Mr. Scott’s advice might be in this situation.

  He began to talk, slowly and awkwardly at first, then more quickly. Mr. Scott watched him. When Charles showed evidence of excitement, or his voice shook, Mr. Scott would lift a calm hand, and say: “Please repeat that more slowly, Charles. Remember, my hearing isn’t what it was. Besides, there was a little something there—” Charles would then repeat, more slowly and concisely, and the excitement that threatened to make him ill would retreat.

  Both the young and the old man listened gravely, and without comment to Charles’ story. In that unhurried atmosphere, carefully muffled from the noises of the street outside, or any sound of typewriters or opening and closing of doors, Charles began to relax. And as he did so, the sick terror and rage subsided in him. Mr. Scott sat very upright in his chair, his hands on the arms, his glasses twinkling in the subdued sunlight, his head cocked.

  Finally, Charles had done. He had seen no expression of indignation or incredulity or doubt or censure on Mr. Scott’s face. Nothing could have been calmer or more detached. It might have been a dull and routine story of some legal technicality which Charles had been expounding, for all the impression it had made upon Mr. Scott. He sat in silent thought, and Charles and Oliver waited. The old man tapped the arm of his chair.

  “Well,” he said, after long reflection. He then took out his watch. “Dear me, past luncheon time. Charles, will you join Oliver and me in my little dining-room here? Just a very light repast, brought in from the Imperial Hotel.”

  Charles tried to feel anxiety and fear again, but the act of telling his story had relieved him. Mr. Scott rose, and the two younger men rose with him. I won’t be able to eat a thing, thought Charles, until this is settled. But he ate a very good lunch, indeed, while Mr. Scott told some humorous stories of old and famous cases which he had handled in his earlier days. It was not for some time that Charles began to realize that the point of all these sharp and pungent anecdotes was that justice was invariably the victor, in the end.

  It was half-past three before they returned to Oliver’s office. But another ceremony had to take place. Mr. Scott’s cigar had to be lighted, and Charles’, while Oliver smoked a cigarette. It was cool there, for all the heat outside.

  “Now,” said Mr. Scott. “To return to your case, Charles.” He coughed delicately. “If I were a modern lawyer, for instance, all brash sensationalism and melodrama, I’d stage a very theatrical trick. Mr. Jochen is very sly. He apparently is not anxious to have any witnesses to his accusations, for fear of prosecution for blackmail. He has been shrewd. Blackmail is a very serious crime in Pennsylvania, Charles. A very serious crime, with severe penalties. So, if I were a young and eager sprout of a modern lawyer, I’d advise you to call Mr. Jochen to another consultation, and have witnesses lurking behind every curtain, and notes taken, and then a grand finale of counter thr
eats. All in the wonderful stage tradition, with a last brazen trumpet of triumph over the enemy.” He coughed again, and shook his head. He looked at his cigar. “But, of course, there might be a witness, unknown to you and Mr. Jochen.”

  “There wasn’t,” said Charles.

  Mr. Scott shook his head.

  “One of the very first things a lawyer learns is that witnesses have a strange way of leaping up all over the place, when wanted, or not wanted,” said Mr. Scott. “Murder in the dark, after midnight, in a forest. No one about, no footstep—everyone asleep. Then the case comes to court, and lo and behold! there are half a dozen witnesses. Apparently the distant community all had insomnia that particular night, and heard strange sounds, saw a figure flitting under the stars, heard a cry. Et cetera. Very disconcerting—or helpful, depending whether or not you are defending or prosecuting.” He looked kindly at Charles. “Your chief clerk, Mr. Parker?”

  “No,” said Charles. “Parker never eavesdrops. Besides, he was in the shops. None of the other clerks, either. They are far down the hall, and have been trained to go about their business.”

  Mr. Scott watched the smoke curling up from his cigar, and Oliver was alerted. “I’ve been hearing a lot about your brother, Mr. Fred, Charles. Great improvement, very. Becoming pillar of the community; associated with Quakers, who all have our deepest respect. Wonderful, dignified people, whose word is never doubted. Rumor that Mr. Fred is to marry Miss Hadden. Have heard many approving comments about him, Charles.”

  “Fred didn’t hear a word,” said Charles, flatly. “He is the soul of honor. It would never occur to him to eavesdrop, never. No matter how much it concerned him. And I’ve also never known him to tell a lie. Not even when a lie would have saved him a thrashing, when he was a kid. He’s absolutely incapable of it.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Scott. “Everyone knows that. That is why he would make a valuable witness, if he had overheard anything. You may not remember, but I imagine neither your brother nor you spoke in very hushed voices. And Mr. Fred’s office is not too far away from your own, I gather. It is just possible that he did overhear something which might be of importance.”