Cash McCall

by Cameron Hawley

  In careful preparation, he lighted his pipe, tamped the bowl, then relighted it. His voice picked up the same slow tempo. “What’s happened, Everett?”

  Pierce stared at him, silent.

  “Might as well get it off your chest,” Atherson said, assuring himself by a glance to his right that there was no light in Maude Kennard’s office.

  Suddenly, startlingly, Everett Pierce blurted out, “The least you could have done would have been to tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” Atherson asked, startled by Pierce’s tonal implication of resentment against him. In the long years, there had been nothing like this.

  The hotel manager swallowed twice before he managed to say, “That he owns the hotel.”

  “What? That who owns the hotel?”

  Pierce gulped as if short of breath. “Cash McCall.”

  “Where did you get that idea?”

  “Well, I—I know it, that’s all!”

  Will Atherson puffed his way through a long pause. “No, Everett, you don’t know that. You can’t know something that isn’t true.”

  “It—it isn’t?”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  Everett Pierce’s involuntary glance toward the glass partition had already answered Atherson’s question, but there was a point in getting Pierce’s open acknowledgment. “Who told you that Cash McCall owned this hotel—Mrs. Kennard?”

  The hotel manager nodded, clearly relieved that he had been excused from the necessity of tattle-taling.

  “There’s been no change in the ownership of this hotel,” Will Atherson said slowly. “But I wonder if this shouldn’t be a warning to you.”

  “Yes, it—well, it is,” Pierce said, evidencing embarrassment.

  “I’ve sensed lately that you’ve been having a little difficulty with Mrs. Kennard.”

  The color was returning to the hotel manager’s lips. “You don’t know half of it, sir, not half of it. She’s getting away with murder. She thinks she can do anything she wants to around here.”

  Atherson rubbed the bowl of his pipe. “You’re still the manager of the hotel, aren’t you?”

  Pierce looked at him uncertainly, “Yes—if you say so.”

  “We probably should have talked about this before,” Atherson said. “Perhaps it’s time to start asserting yourself, Everett. If you once let her get the upper hand, it’s my guess that you’ll have some real trouble.”

  Everett Pierce stiffened his back against the chair. “All I need is to know that you’re back of me.”

  “I’m back of you—but watch your step, Everett. She’s a valuable asset to the hotel.”

  “I know,” Pierce said as if confronted with an embarrassing mystery. “People like her.”

  “Yes, she’s very clever,” Atherson said, standing. “Sorry, Everett, but I have to run. If there are any problems, come over and talk to me.”

  “I’ll try not to bother you any more than I have to,” Pierce said, attempting a resolute manner. “It would be easier if she weren’t a woman. I’m not at my best, trying to handle a woman.”

  “You’re not unique in that,” Will Atherson answered with a smile that barely survived his passage through the door.

  He stopped at the mezzanine rail, looking down on the lobby, watching for Cash McCall’s appearance, his mind occupied with the question of whether it might have been a wiser course to have told Everett the whole truth. After all these years, was there any point in continuing to hide his identity behind the bank’s supposed trusteeship for an anonymous client?

  As was true of so many things that affected his life, Will Atherson’s ownership of the Hotel Ivanhoe stemmed from the depression—and, co-incidentally, from the creeping senility that had adversely affected his father’s judgment in those last years of his life. The loan to the old Ivanhoe Hotel Company had been made on George Atherson’s own responsibility, without the specific authorization of the board. Legally, he had every right to do what he had done—and it would have been unprecedented for the board to have voted down his recommendation—but after the loan had turned sour, Will Atherson had not been able to escape the conviction that his father had been motivated more by sentimental attachment to one of his old cronies than by sound business judgment. George Atherson had died that spring but his son felt that his inheritance inescapably included moral responsibility for his father’s acts. That was why he had taken over the loan himself, fully reimbursing the bank. It had made a severe inroad on his personal fortune but, despite the protests of the board and the bank’s legal advisers that it was by no means necessary, he could satisfy his own moral code in no other way. Everyone concerned had been sworn to secrecy because of the danger of someone misconstruing what he had done as evidence of something questionable having taken place in the management of the Freeholders Bank & Trust Company—and that, of course, would have defeated his whole purpose.

  Within weeks after Will Atherson had taken over the loan, the Ivanhoe Hotel Company had come face to face with bankruptcy and, in order to salvage what he could, he had been forced to step in and assume control. Again thinking of the reputation of the bank, he had not revealed his personal ownership. Ostensibly, Freeholders began managing the property as a trustee, and that was the way he had left it all through the years.

  He should, he knew, have gotten rid of the hotel a long time ago, but he had hung on and on, first because of the faintly glimmering hope that he might somehow manage to get his money back, then because he became intrigued with the possibilities of proving—for his own satisfaction if nothing else—that if heredity had not destined him for banking he would have been equally successful in general business management. The trouble now was that he had been too successful. The Hotel Ivanhoe was worth at least five times what he had invested in it and, if he were to sell it, it might possibly be construed that he had taken advantage of the bank by picking up the Ivanhoe at a bargain price. Ethics were, as he had often said, one of the most troublesome aspects of banking—and now, seeing Cash McCall come in through the revolving door, he resurrected another well-worn thought, the wish that he had the advantage of Cash McCall’s freedom of action.

  He started down the staircase to the lobby, waving to attract McCall’s attention, wondering what he had on his mind. From what Cash had said over the telephone, there seemed to be a hope that he was finally ready to tell him what was going on … and it was about time! There was no point to all the secrecy with which McCall insisted on cloaking his deals … no point at all! In fact it was rather ridiculous.

  17

  In her darkened office, Maude Kennard sat with the knuckled back of her hand pressed against her open mouth, fighting the screaming sob that nausea was forcing up into her throat. This was Wilfred and Chicago all over again … that little bitch up in his room … laying her was bad enough but this was worse … lying … lying and lying and lying! He didn’t own the Ivanhoe … he never had owned the Ivanhoe … one lie after another … lies, lies, lies!

  18

  When Cash had called Lory and asked her to try to catch Will Atherson in the lobby, he had told her that the banker was meeting his wife there and suggested inviting Mrs. Atherson up to the suite for tea as a way of filling in the time while he would be talking to Mr. Atherson. Lory had grasped eagerly at the chance, partially because she had always liked Mrs. Atherson and was grateful to her for her kindnesses during the years at Prather, but even more because doing something at Cash’s request gave her the opportunity for helpful participation in his life. She did not stop to think, until she saw the startled expression on Helen Atherson’s face, that she was exposing herself to possible censure. Too late, she uncovered the fear that Mrs. Atherson might not approve of her being in Cash’s apartment, trepidation heightened by the memory of the strict chaperonage that had been enforced at the two weekend houseparties at the Athersons’ during her last year at Prather. Her perturbation was not enough to incite any qualms of conscience, but it did arouse a
n uneasiness that persisted until Helen Atherson stood in the middle of Cash’s living room and said, “My dear, I can’t imagine how you can possibly be so calm about it.”

  Lory had just called Room Service, ordering tea as Cash had suggested, and for a moment she thought that Mrs. Atherson was complimenting her on managing to make her voice sound as if ordering tea at the Hotel Ivanhoe was something she had done every day of her life.

  But then Helen Atherson asked, “How long have you known him, Lory?” her tone making it plain enough that she was not only approving but vicariously sharing her excitement.

  “Oh, I met him a long time ago,” Lory heard herself say, pleased by the poise she had suddenly acquired. “It was right after that wonderful party you gave for me. I went to Maine for the summer and—”

  “But of course, my dear. How stupid I’ve been. I knew you’d met Cash there—Will told me—but I never imagined that you two had—oh, how perfectly wonderful!” Her eyes were eagerly surveying the room, darting about as if confronted with a complex of wonders all so tempting that a choice was impossible. “And the most wonderful thing about it is that it’s so absolutely right.”

  Lory was again confused as to the subject of Mrs. Atherson’s allusion, imagining it to be the apartment, caught unaware when she added, “You’re so exactly the kind of girl that I’ve always imagined him falling in love with.”

  “Oh, but he isn’t!” The illusion of poise had completely vanished. “I mean—well, I don’t—”

  Helen Atherson’s smile was confidently derisive. “Tell me what you will, my dear, but don’t try to tell me that you’re not in love with him. It shows too plainly for that, much too plainly.”

  Lory felt herself weakening before the tempting opportunity to talk, reassured by the warmth and solidity of character that she had found in Helen Atherson since the moment of their first meeting.

  But there was a countervailing embarrassment that rose when Mrs. Atherson said, “Surely you weren’t imagining that it was a secret? It’s about as much a secret, my dear, as that sun up there in the sky.” She reached out, her fingertips touching Lory’s cheek as if the length of her arm was the precisely right spacing for a perfect inspection. “Haven’t you looked in the mirror lately—all that stardust sparkling in your eyes? But no, of course you haven’t. You’ve only been looking at him—worrying, I suppose, whether or not he loves you!”

  That wasn’t true … she hadn’t really worried at all. Or was it? Had she? Was this another of those mysterious things that went on unobserved in the secret recesses of her mind, the genesis of the little fears that sprang up now and then from nowhere? She yielded to the reassurance of Helen Atherson’s knowing smile and nodded, not at anything in particular, more than anything else at the memory of what Barbara Hough had said about Mrs. Atherson after one of those weekend parties—that she was the kind of woman who should have been the mother of twelve children, all girls.

  “That’s one of the strangest things about falling in love,” Helen Atherson went on. “The people that it happens to are usually the last to know about it. I’ll never forget when Mother informed me one night that I was in love with Will. It was as plain to her as if I’d just broken out with measles. But I simply couldn’t believe it. There I was, all fat and dumpy with a most horrible pimple on my chin—and he was rich, an Atherson, and such a wonderful, wonderful person! It seemed so incredible that it couldn’t possibly mean anything—even if it were true. But that very next week he took me over to Starwood to get some dahlias to use at the horse show dance—I was the girl they always put on a working committee because I never had a date—and afterwards Mother invited Will to stop in for tea. He hadn’t said a word to me, not a word, but somehow Mother saw the same kind of measles on his face that she had seen on mine. After Will was gone, she said that June weddings were nice but that there really wasn’t any point in waiting around if a man wanted to get married sooner.”

  “And were you?” Lory laughed.

  “April.”

  “Your mother must have been a very discerning person.”

  “At least a very wise person. I still don’t know whether Will and I were in love then or not—but Mother convinced me that we were, and that’s what gave me enough courage to believe that it was possible. That’s about all it took. Goodness knows, I wanted him—and Will had been looking around long enough so that he knew he wasn’t ever going to find the perfect wife.”

  “But I think he did.”

  “Thank you, my dear, you’re very sweet. But entirely too flattering. Starwood could hardly have acquired a more poorly prepared mistress. I shall never forget that first formal dinner party. I’d been raised in a meat-and-potatoes kind of a life and Will had ordered diamondback terrapin—one of the Atherson traditions, you see. I knew, of course, that it was a stewy sort of soup, but when a whole crate of the most horrible looking turtles turned up in the kitchen—you’ve no idea what a panic I was in.”

  “You couldn’t have been as frightened as I was at lunch,” Lory said in confidential confession. “I’d never heard of jambon something or other—or prosciutto, or whatever it was.”

  “For which you can thank your lucky stars,” Helen Atherson said with a confident toss of her head. “There’s nothing that pleases a man as much as a chance to be outrageously superior—very male, you know—and all a wife has to do, really, is keep them that way. Husbands are so much more fun, my dear, when they’re nice and male, superior and very independent. All a man really wants out of a wife is someone to help convince him that he needs neither help nor convincing.”

  “You make it sound a little confusing,” Lory said, not knowing whether or not to smile.

  She was glad she hadn’t when she saw Helen Atherson’s suddenly serious expression. “It is confusing. And all the more so in these topsy-turvy times—so many new standards, so many pressures. I remember back in the depression days—”

  There was a knock at the door and Lory’s heart fell, thinking that it must be Cash, returning too soon. But it was only Andrew with the tea service, responding to her greeting with the whispered explanation that, fortunately, her call had come just before he had gone off duty. He brought in a huge tray, nervously assembling china and a beautiful brass teakettle under which he lighted a spirit lamp, then opening a cloisonné caddy to indicate that the tea had not yet been brewed.

  “How nice,” Helen Atherson exclaimed. “Usually these days you’re served one of those horrid tea bags, slopping about in a cup like a rag in a wash basin.”

  “It was the chef’s orders, madame,” Andrew explained.

  “Do give him my thanks. I’m Mrs. Atherson.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Atherson, and thank you,” Andrew said, withdrawing, leaving Lory with the task of brewing tea.

  “Here, let me do that,” Helen Atherson said, taking over. “Young girls in love are not to be trusted with boiling water.”

  Lory attempted a laughing protest but let it drop, less anxious to maintain the pretense of poise than to prompt Helen Atherson into picking up the broken thread of conversation. “You were going to tell me about the depression.”

  “It wasn’t important,” Helen Atherson said, spooning tea from the caddy. “I’m afraid I’ve acquired, along with my gray hair, an unfortunate tendency to gabble—plus, so Will says, a bad habit of meddling in love affairs. I’m sure you need no advice from me.”

  “Oh, but I do. I know so little.”

  “You’ve gotten this far on your own,” Helen Atherson said with a significant glance around the apartment. “And with a man like Cash McCall I’d say that was a very considerable accomplishment. I’ve always thought him about as fascinating a male as I’ve ever known.”

  “Then you’ve—I mean, have you known him a long time?”

  “Oh, ever since—well, ten years or more.”

  “Has he lived here a long time—in Philadelphia, I mean?”

  Helen Atherson looked up, sympathetically horror-stric
ken. “Don’t you know anything at all about him?”

  Swallowing, Lory admitted, “There are so many other things to—and it’s so difficult to get him to talk about himself.”

  A wisp of steam rose from the teakettle and Helen Atherson lifted it. “Hardly a typical male characteristic. But then he’s hardly a typical male, is he? For which you can be very grateful. We’re producing such a dull crop these days. Or perhaps it’s only because I’m getting old. No, it can’t be entirely that. I’ve still enough of those little hormones, or whatever they are, to appreciate Cash McCall.”

  “I really know so little about him,” Lory said, feeling the shamelessness of the admission yet desperately anxious to learn what Helen Atherson had, a moment before, seemed willing to tell her.

  The older woman continued filling the teapot. “I’ve not forgotten your question, Lory. I’ve been considering how much I could tell you, realizing how little I really do know about him. We’ve had him at Starwood a few times, of course, but what I actually know is only what I’ve been able to worm out of Will. But I did know his grandfather.”

  “I didn’t know he even had one,” Lory said, tricked by anxiety into sounding silly.

  Helen Atherson laughed. “What were you imagining, my dear—that he was something dropped from heaven? He’s not that unusual.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Of course you didn’t. I’m gabbling again. His grandfather was Andrew McCall. But I don’t suppose that name means a thing to you, does it? No, you’re much too young. He was old even when I was a girl, but still the most fascinating man. I suppose I got some of that feeling from Mother. She’d had a date with him once in her debutante year and Father, poor dear, never heard the last of it. The only times he ever had his innings were when word got around that Andy McCall had lost another fortune—which he did, of course, at regular intervals—but he’d always make another and then Mother would be in her glory again. Mr. McCall once owned an estate that was just down the Pike from us and every time he’d go by in his carriage—matched blacks with star blazes and he always drove himself—Mother would dash to the window. She always pretended, of course, that she did it to tease Father but I knew better. Oh, he was a handsome man, such a magnificent beard! I know, I know, you girls these days don’t think a beard’s romantic but that’s only because you were born too late.”