by Emma Lathen
Nat Schuyler’s innocent blue eyes widened. Vin McCullough sputtered into his drink.
“Now, hold it . . .”
“Just a minute, Vin.” Schuyler raised a monitory hand. “I suppose that was a logical question. To reassure you, Charlie, let me say that Ambrose was eighty-two and died of a heart condition that had been troubling him for fifteen years. He was treated by his own doctor on the occasion of his final attack, as well as three previous ones.”
“That seems to settle that,” admitted Trinkam unrepentantly.
“I should hope so. And now, I really do mean to celebrate the start of my war with Abercrombie. Why don’t you all have dinner with me?”
There was a hasty review of plans for the evening. Thatcher immediately accepted. He would not dream of leaving Nat Schuyler while he was in so informative a mood. Charlie Trinkam decided to call up someone and cancel an engagement. Vin McCullough, who would have been a Banquo’s ghost anyway, decided that, after one more drink, he would have to be getting home.
“Promised to help my wife,” he explained. “We’re moving back into the city, now that the youngest has gotten married.”
“That’s the trouble with all this moving,” said Schuyler after McCullough had left to catch his train. “Makes people edgy. I can’t understand why people sell their houses when the children go, anyway. We never did that sort of thing,” he said, looking back over half a century with some difficulty. “But you can take it from me, that’s why he’s so impatient about our arrangements with Ed Parry. Really, he has enough to do at the office without dealing with real estate agents and getting rid of furniture. He couldn’t have picked a worse time.”
This transparent attempt to conceal the very real difficulties that Schuyler’s plans were making for McCullough left both Thatcher and Trinkam unimpressed. Charlie spoke for both of them:
“If he thinks there’s been a lot of trouble already, he’s in for a shock. He hasn’t seen anything yet.”
Schuyler, clearly thriving on a day that had consisted of police inquiries about the murder of one of his partners, the arrival of a potential partner fresh from another attack, an exchange of broadsides with Owen Abercrombie, and an extended session with an outraged Governor of the New York Stock Exchange.
Chapter 6
Who Follows in His Train?
WEDNESDAY, which in retrospect John Putnam Thatcher was to date as the beginning of The Troubles, provided convincing demonstration of John Maynard Keynes’s celebrated dictum about the power of ideas. It was unfortunate, in the light of subsequent events, that so many of these ideas were wrong.
After twenty-four hours, the New York City press put two and two together, produced four, and promptly exploded.
“WALL STREET RACISTS ON KILLING SPREE,” screamed one headline.
“POISON AND BULLETS TO KEEP BIZ WHITE,” said another.
“WAVE OF TERROR ON THE STREET.”
“It’s disgraceful, absolutely disgraceful,” muttered Everett Gabler. So indignant was he that he had purchased the tabloids, which under normal circumstances he would not dream of touching, and was now flourishing them at Thatcher.
“Surely there must be some recourse against this grossly irresponsible journalism! Listen to this! ‘Wall Street Racists . . .’—why, it’s libelous!”
A little too colorful, I admit,” said Thatcher, examining one of the journals. It had managed to invest the murder of Arthur Foote and the attempt on Edward Parry with sexual overtones. Well, they had a specialty and they stuck to it.
“You have to expect the tabloids . . .”
Hah! Gabler crowed, thrusting an organ of unimpeachable conservatism at his chief. “And what about this!”
“BROKERAGE EXECUTIVE MURDERED,” the headline said chastely.
Even the subheadline was restrained:
“Attempt on Black Candidate for Partnership”.
The article, unfortunately, did not omit the facts.
Wall Street rumors about proposals that a Black acquire a seat on the New York Stock Exchange were apparently confirmed in violence Monday with the murder of Arthur Foote, 47, a partner in the brokerage firm of Schuyler & Schuyler. Police are withholding comment on the case, but informed sources report that an autopsy revealed that the victim succumbed to nicotine poison, probably administered during a reception held by his firm for Edward Parry. Mr. Parry, 42, is a Black.
Although neither Mr. Parry nor the officers of Schuyler & Schuyler were available for comment, it is understood that the firm was expected to admit Mr. Parry to partnership, and support his bid for a seat on the New York Stock Exchange.
Officials of the New York Stock Exchange were not available for comment. The collapse of Mr. Foote disrupted the reception, attended by many financial luminaries. Barely 24 hours later, it was learned that an attempt had been made on Mr. Parry’s life, as he was leaving his home in suburban Katonah. (cont. on p. 24)
Thatcher looked up. “I don’t know what else you can expect,” he remarked. “After all, Foote was murdered, it appears. And somebody did take a potshot at Parry.”
“Turn to page twenty-four,” Gabler directed him sternly.
It was true. Page 24 and page 25, for that matter, was excessive. In addition to the continuation of the front-page story, whose sedate tone was perhaps attributable to the fact that its author was one of the paper’s stable of financial writers, there were: a brief biography of Edward Parry (with photograph); a feature article on the Board of Governors of the New York Stock Exchange; for no apparent reason, a description of the Harlem office of Clovis Greene Bear Spencer & Clark, including an interview with Andrew F. Trimmer, Office Manager.
“‘I have no comment,’ said Mr. Trimmer. Mr. Trimmer is a Black man.”
There was a summary of Black employment in the financial district, an excerpt from the Civil Rights Bill, and a glossary of technical terms such as: “Seat: Membership in the New York Stock Exchange. Only Members can buy or sell securities on the Floor. Floor: The Floor of the . . .”
Unkindest cut of all, there was a list of firms “rumored” to have dispatched representatives to the ill-fated reception.
“‘Rumored,’” said Gabler indignantly. “I tell you it’s disgraceful. Well, I suppose I’d better get back to that Rail Summary. I don’t know what Ben thinks he’s doing out there in Chicago, but I’ll write it up for you. I did want to bring all this to your attention.”
Thank you,” said Thatcher courteously, letting his eye roam over the biography which substantiated Walter Bowman’s informal information:
. . . Mr. Parry interrupted his undergraduate career at Yale College to enlist in the Army in 1942. He was on active duty in the European Theater of Operations where he rose to the rank of major . . . awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for valor during the Battle of Anzio . . . later attached to the staff . . . Fifth Army . . . crossing of the Rhine . . . wounded . . . medical discharge. After graduating summa from Yale, where he rowed in the varsity crew of 1946, Mr. Parry attended Oxford University on a Rhodes Scholarship and achieved first class honors in politics, philosophy, and economics. Mr. Parry returned to the United States after two years with the London Economist. In 1955 he joined his father and brothers in business in Atlanta. Mr. Parry is married to the former Gloria Cole of Philadelphia and has two children, a son Robert and a daughter Louise.
“Yes,” continued Thatcher, “it’s all very unfortunate.” But Gabler was not settling for anything so tepid.
“Unfortunate!” He brooded darkly for a moment. “I tell you it’s inflammatory.”
He disappeared before Thatcher could inquire who was going to be inflamed. He was soon to be enlightened.
Miss Corsa arrived within five minutes, technically on time, but far off her own track record. Before she had doffed her raincoat, she too presented Thatcher with an exceptionally large bundle of newspapers.
“Mr. Thatcher, have you . . . ?”
“Yes, I have seen them,” he
replied gently. Then, because he was only human, he added: “A little later than usual today, eh, Miss Corsa?”
“My mother didn’t want me to come to work,” she replied, withdrawing.
For a moment, Thatcher considered this non sequitur. Miss Corsa’s large family rarely figured in her conversation. Presumably, then, her comment had been in the nature of an explanation.
“Why,” he asked, going to the door to find her composedly settled at her desk, “why didn’t your mother want you to come to work?”
Surprised, she looked up. “Why, because of all this trouble. That’s why I’m late. I missed my transfer.” She turned to the file, in effect dismissing him. If John Putnam Thatcher had time to waste, Rose Theresa Corsa did not.
He retreated into his own office.
“Inflammatory,” Everett Gabler had said. “Trouble,” echoed a Mrs. Corsa, somewhere in Queens.
“Hmm,” said John Putnam Thatcher.
He was not wrong. Mrs. Corsa and Everett Gabler were but straws in a mighty wind. At one minute after nine, his telephone rang.
“Have you seen ...?”
“Yes,” said Thatcher.
What unfortunate chance had willed that Bradford Withers should choose today, of all days, for prompt arrival at his desk, and for one of his rare perusals of the morning papers?
Thatcher feared deeply that he and the staff were in for one of Withers’ captain-on-the-bridge days.
“Damn the Americas Cup,” he said to himself.
“Don’t like the way the clouds are gathering,” said Withers. “Do you think we should send our people home early today?”
“Good God, Brad!” Thatcher exclaimed.
“These things,” Withers said simply, “can turn ugly. We have to think of the women and children!”
With commendable self-control, Thatcher did not reply directly. Instead he pleaded an urgent meeting.
But no sooner was the phone down, than Miss Corsa buzzed again.
Mrs. Carlson,” she announced.
His daughter sounded breathless. “Daddy, are you all right? Why don’t you come out and stay ...?”
“Laura, what on earth are you talking about?” her fond parent demanded.
“The race riots, of course. Everybody’s talking about them. I’m worried sick. . . .”
In this context, “everybody” referred to the Connecticut community where Laura, her doctor husband, and her three—no, four children—resided.
“As I recall,” Thatcher observed mildly, “your immediate circle consists almost exclusively of small children and their attendants.”
Like her mother, before her, Laura could utilize the pause to communicate impatience. Then she said, “Margo Hillyer called—her husband’s at Clovis Greene, you know —and she said . . .”
In the subsequent three minutes, John Thatcher did not form a high opinion of Mrs. Hillyer. Mr. Hillyer, he was fair-mindedly inclined to dismiss because the evidence was so circumstantial. After hearing Laura out, assuring her that he was in no immediate danger, he rang off, prepared to settle down to a memorandum from the Research Department touting Slotkin Corp., an exceedingly dubious operation that purported to see fortunes to be made in secondary oil recovery despite their almost endearing lack of capital.
He had just penciled a question about Slotkin’s suspicious ingenuity in the matter of depreciation allowances when the telephone again interrupted him. This time it was Tom Robichaux.
“If you’ve called to ask me if I’ve seen the papers,” Thatcher began.
“The papers?” Robichaux asked vaguely. “Why should I . . . oh, you mean the excitement about Parry. It will all blow over. Always does.”
But, since Thatcher had introduced the topic, Robichaux cast about for something to add. “Ran into Glover this morning. He tells me that Owen Abercrombie has gone crazy.”
“How could he tell?” asked Thatcher with genuine interest.
“Says he’s talking about a Wall Street Defense Council,” said Robichaux. “With rifles. You remember they had to take his uncle Basil off the Floor in a straitjacket, in ’29?”
“I didn’t,” said Thatcher, considerably entertained.
“Bad blood,” Robichaux said. “Francis says that this whole thing is a tempest in a teapot. No reason to anticipate violence.”
Normally, Robichaux conveyed his partner’s more elevated pronouncements uncritically. But today, perhaps still smarting from having been dragooned into the mourning party, he added a comment of his own.
“Just between you and me, John, I don’t think that’s the line to take after one murder and one near-miss. But that’s Francis’ business.”
His erratic interest in the subject exhausted, Robichaux reverted to his reason for calling. He had, it developed, a really interesting situation to describe to Thatcher. If he was free for lunch one day this week . . . ?
“What about today?” Thatcher replied.
“Today?” Robichaux was taken aback, as well he might be, since Thatcher normally resisted such bait. “Well, let’s see . . . yes, fine, fine. At the Club?”
Only by lunching with Tom Robichaux, Thatcher was convinced, did he have any chance to escape a luncheon conversation centering on Wall Street’s emerging racial problems.
Instead he was subjected first to a disquisition on Bravura Chemicals: “Synthetic citric acid, John. Don’t ask me why, but it’s big.” Then to one on the current Mrs. Robichaux: “Celestine is sailing someplace with that Greek. Don’t really like it, but there you are!” This was a small price to pay, he reflected two hours later. It turned out, in fact, to be too small.
“Have you seen the statement the Board just issued?”
Lee Clark, had just paused by their table. At least he did not ask if they had read the morning papers.
“No,” said Thatcher, while Robichaux leaned back, looking unutterably bored.
“A masterpiece,” said Clark with a sour smile. “Be sure to read it.” He stepped closer to let two men move past.
“I think you’re wrong,” one of them said angrily. “We could be another Bedford-Stuyvesant. I say that Nat should be . . .”
“Now hold it, Fred,” his companion interjected.
As they passed beyond earshot, Lee Clark prepared to follow.
“I can tell you what I think should be done with Nat Schuyler,” he said in an undertone as they watched him disappear into the lounge.
“Letting things get him down,” Robichaux commented without approval. He was a firm believer in never letting anything get him down. “Always a mistake to take your troubles to lunch. Now, about Bravura, John.”
“I’m inclined to think that Bravura may be one of your troubles, Tom.”
They were still disputing the point when they strolled into the lounge ten minutes later. It was unusually crowded. Instead of lunching, then hurrying on about business, Wall Street was sticking together today.
“Have you heard . . . ?”
“Did you see . . . ?”
“You heard about Owen . . . ?”
Somebody, seeking electronic solace, idly switched on the corner television set. Moodily, he stood watching the news. Suddenly, to nobody in particular, he said, “Look at this!”
Like so many Boy Scouts, they crowded around.
“Terrible reception,” said Robichaux.
“Sshh!”
The reception, though terrible, was adequate to reveal a hysterical-looking youth draped in earphones and microphones, interrogating a portly, conservatively attired Black.
“. . . Richard Simpson, the well-known novelist.”
Mr. Simpson lowered his eyelids briefly.
“And what is the purpose of cash, Mr. Simpson?”
“Cash, cash? Is this one of those quiz programs my wife is always watching?” asked somebody near Thatcher.
“Sshh!”
Mr. Simpson, noted for his simpleminded and successful novels about an expatriate in Paris and his beautiful relationship
with a sylphlike busboy, had the resonant voice of an actor, and a firm grasp on the microphone thrust before him.
“The Colored Association of Share Holders,” he said, enunciating distinctly.
“Oh my God!”
It was a cry from somebody’s heart.
“. . . or CASH,” Simpson continued, “has been formed today to investigate and combat the gross inequities confronting the Black man in Wall Street.”
From around John Thatcher arose a group keening.
“Tell me, Mr. Simpson, how does CASH propose to buck Wall Street?” the young man asked throbbingly.
“Who is that damned fool?” Fenster O’Dowd asked the world. “I’ve a good mind to call Bill and tell him . . .”
“Sshh!”
“. . . using whatever means,” Mr. Simpson declaimed. He paused, noted that the hysterical young man was framing another question, and pushed on. “The evidence that the New York Stock Exchange intends to remain lily white has been a shock to thousands upon thousands of patriotic American stockholders who happen to be colored.”
Whatever his reception in the saloons on Third Avenue, Richard Simpson could not have asked for a more attentive audience than that standing with Thatcher and Robichaux.
“What are you going to do?” the reporter asked.
Mr. Simpson gave him a look suggesting that he shared Fenster O’Dowd’s opinion, and said: “We have not yet determined what methods are appropriate to counter the racist forces that are denying Edward Parry a seat on the New York Stock Exchange, solely and exclusively because of his color. We do not have our complete strategy mapped out in the face of the kind of anti-Black forces that were responsible for the death of Arthur Foote, one of the great white men who was a consistent friend to the Black stockholder. . . .”
He bowed his head. His rich voice was so moving that Thatcher distinctly heard someone murmur brokenly, “Poor old Art!”
“But,” Simpson continued martially, “I can promise you that America’s Black stockholders will present a dramatic and moving protest. Including, among our other weapons” —he broke off, staring piercingly into the camera—“including a March on Wall Street!”
