Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune

by Jeffrey Archer

  There was another message from Henry Osborne, still leaving no clue as to who he was. There was only one way to find out. Abel called Osborne, who turned out to be a claims inspector with the Great Western Casualty Insurance Company, with which the hotel had its policy. Abel made an appointment to see Osborne at noon. He then called William Kane in Boston and gave him a report on the hotels he had visited in the group.

  “And may I say again, Mr. Kane, that I could turn those hotels’ losses into profits if your bank would give me the time and the backing. What I did in Chicago I know I can do for the rest of the group.”

  “Possibly you could, Mr. Rosnovski, but I fear it will not be with Kane and Cabot’s money. May I remind you that you have only a few days left in which to find a backer. Good day, sir.”

  “Ivy League snob,” said Abel into the deaf telephone. “I’m not classy enough for your money, am I? Someday, you bastard …”

  The next item on Abel’s agenda was the insurance man. Henry Osborne turned out to be a tall, good-looking man with dark eyes and a mop of dark hair just turning gray. Abel found his easy manner congenial. Osborne had little to add to Lieutenant O’Malley’s story. The Great Western Casualty Insurance Company had no intention of paying any part of the claim while the police were pressing for a charge of arson against Desmond Pacey and until it was proved that Abel himself was in no way involved. Henry Osborne seemed to be very understanding about the whole problem.

  “Has the Richmond Group enough money to rebuild the hotel?” asked Osborne.

  “Not a red cent,” said Abel. “The rest of the group is mortgaged up to the hilt and the bank is pressing me to sell.”

  “Why you?” said Osborne.

  Abel explained how he had come to own the group’s shares without actually owning the hotels. Henry Osborne seemed somewhat surprised.

  “Surely the bank can see for themselves how well you ran this hotel? Every businessman in Chicago is aware that you were the first manager ever to make a profit for Davis Leroy. I realize the banks are going through hard times, but even they ought to know when to make an exception for their own good.”

  “Not this bank.”

  “Continental Trust?” said Osborne. “I’ve always found old Curtis Fenton a bit starchy but amenable enough.”

  “It’s not Continental. The hotels are owned by a Boston bank called Kane and Cabot.”

  Henry Osborne went white and sank back in his chair.

  “Are you all right?” asked Abel.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “You don’t by any chance know Kane and Cabot?”

  “Off the record?” said Henry Osborne.

  “Sure.”

  “Yes, my company had to deal with them once before in the past.” He seemed to be hesitating. “And we ended up having to take them to court.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t reveal the details. A messy business—let’s just say one of the directors was not totally honest and open with us.”

  “Which one?” asked Abel.

  “Which one did you have to deal with?” Osborne inquired.

  “A man named William Kane.”

  Osborne seemed to hesitate again. “Be careful,” he said. “He’s the world’s meanest son of a bitch. I can give you the lowdown on him if you want it, but that would be strictly between us.”

  “I certainly owe him no favors,” said Abel. “I may well be in touch with you, Mr. Osborne. I have a score to settle with young Mr. Kane for his treatment of Davis Leroy.”

  “Well, you can count on me to help in any way I can if William Kane is involved,” said Henry Osborne, rising from behind his desk, “but that must be strictly between us. And if the court shows that Desmond Pacey burned the Richmond and no one else was involved, the company will pay up the same day. Then perhaps we can do additional business with your other hotels.”

  “Perhaps,” said Abel.

  He walked back to the Stevens and decided to have lunch and find out for himself how well the main dining room was run. There was another message at the desk for him. A Mr. David Maxton wondered if Abel was free to join him for lunch at one.

  “David Maxton,” Abel said out loud, and the receptionist looked up. “Why do I know that name?” he asked the staring girl.

  “He owns this hotel, Mr. Rosnovski.”

  “Ah, yes. Please let Mr. Maxton know that I shall be delighted to have lunch with him.” Abel glanced at his watch. “And would you tell him that I may be a few minutes late?”

  “Certainly, sir,” said the girl.

  Abel went quickly up to his room and changed into a new white shirt while wondering what David Maxton could possibly want.

  The dining room was already packed when Abel arrived. The headwaiter showed him to a private table in an alcove where the owner of the Stevens was sitting alone. He rose to greet Abel.

  “Abel Rosnovski, sir.”

  “Yes, I know you,” said Maxton, “or, to be more accurate, I know you by reputation. Do sit down and let’s order lunch.”

  Abel was compelled to admire the Stevens. The food and the service were every bit as good as the Plaza. If he was to have the best hotel in Chicago, he knew it would have to be better than this one.

  The headwaiter reappeared with menus. Abel studied his carefully, politely declined a first course and selected the beef, the quickest way to tell if a restaurant is dealing with the right butcher. David Maxton did not look at his menu and simply ordered the salmon. The headwaiter hurried away.

  “You must be wondering why I invited you to join me for lunch, Mr. Rosnovski.”

  “I assumed,” said Abel, laughing, “you were going to ask me to take over the Stevens for you.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Rosnovski.”

  Abel was speechless. It was Maxton’s turn to laugh. Even the arrival of their waiter wheeling a trolly of the finest beef did not help. The carver waited. Maxton squeezed lemon over his salmon and continued.

  “My manager is due to retire in five months after twenty-two years of loyal service and the assistant manager is also due for retirement very soon afterwards, so I’m looking for a new broom.”

  “Place looks pretty clean to me,” said Abel.

  “I’m always willing to improve, Mr. Rosnovski. Never be satisfied with standing still,” said Maxton. “I’ve been watching your activities carefully. It wasn’t until you took the Richmond over that it could even be classified as a hotel. It was a huge flophouse before that. In another two or three years, you would have been a rival to the Stevens if some fool hadn’t burned the place down before you were given the chance.”

  “Potatoes, sir?”

  Abel looked up at a very attractive junior waitress. She smiled at him.

  “No, thank you,” he said to her. “Well, I’m very flattered, Mr. Maxton, both by your comments and the offer.”

  “I think you’d be happy here, Mr. Rosnovski. The Stevens is a well-run hotel and I would be willing to start you off at fifty dollars a week and two percent of the profits. You could start as soon as you like.”

  “I’ll need a few days to think over your generous offer, Mr. Maxton,” said Abel, “but I confess I am very tempted. Nevertheless, I still have a few problems left over from the Richmond.”

  “String beans, sir?” The same waitress, and the same smile.

  The face looked familiar. Abel felt sure he had seen her somewhere before. Perhaps she had once worked at the Richmond.

  “Yes, please.”

  He watched her walk away. There was something about her.

  “Why don’t you stay on at the hotel as my guest for a few days,” Maxton asked, “and see how we run the place? It may help you make your decision.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Maxton. After only one day as a guest here I knew how well the hotel is run. My problem is that I own the Richmond Group.”

  David Maxton’s face registered surprise. “I had no idea,” he said. “I assumed old Dav
is Leroy’s daughter would now be the owner.”

  “It’s a long story,” said Abel, and he explained to Maxton how he had come into the ownership of the group’s stock.

  “The problem is a simple one, Mr. Maxton. What I really want to do is find the two million dollars myself and build that group up into something worthwhile. Something that would even give you a good run for your money.”

  “I see,” said Maxton, looking quizzically at his empty plate. A waiter removed it.

  “Would you like some coffee?” The same waitress. The same familiar look. It was beginning to worry Abel.

  “And you say Curtis Fenton of Continental Trust is looking for a buyer on your behalf?”

  “Yes. He has been for nearly a month,” said Abel. “In fact, I’ll know later this afternoon if they’ve had any success, but I’m not optimistic.”

  “Well, that’s most interesting. I had no idea the Richmond Group was looking for a buyer. Will you please keep me informed either way?”

  “Certainly,” said Abel.

  “How much more time is the Boston bank giving you to find the two million?”

  “Only a few more days, so it won’t be long before I can let you know my decision.”

  “Thank you,” said Maxton. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rosnovski. I feel sure I’d enjoy working with you.” He shook Abel’s hand warmly.

  The waitress smiled at Abel again as he passed her on his way out of the dining room. When Abel reached the headwaiter, he stopped and asked what her name was.

  “I’m sorry, sir, we’re not allowed to give the names of any of our staff to our customers—it’s strictly against company policy. If you have a complaint, perhaps you’d be kind enough to make it to me, sir.”

  “No complaint,” said Abel. “On the contrary, an excellent lunch.”

  With a job offer under his belt, Abel felt more confident about facing Curtis Fenton. He was certain the banker would not have found a buyer, but nonetheless, he strolled over to the Continental Trust with a spring in his heels. He liked the idea of being the manager of the best hotel in Chicago. Perhaps he could make it the best hotel in America. As soon as he arrived at the bank, he was ushered directly into Curtis Fenton’s office. The tall, thin banker—did he wear the same suit every day or did he have three identical ones?—offered Abel a seat, a large smile appearing across his usually solemn face.

  “Mr. Rosnovski, how good to see you again. If you had come this morning, I would have had no news to give you, but only a few moments ago I received a call from an interested party.”

  Abel’s heart leaped with surprise and pleasure. He was silent for a few moments and then he said, “Can you tell me who it is?”

  “I’m afraid not. The party concerned has given me strict instructions that he must remain anonymous, as the transaction would be a private investment in some potential conflict with his own business.”

  “David Maxton,” Abel murmured. “God bless him.”

  Curtis Fenton did not respond and continued: “Well, as I said, Mr. Rosnovski, I’m not in a position——”

  “Quite, quite,” said Abel. “How long do you think it will be before you’re in a position to let me know the gentleman’s decision one way or the other?”

  “I can’t be sure at the moment, but I may have more news for you by Monday, so if you happen to be passing by——”

  “Happen to be passing by?” said Abel. “You’re discussing my whole life.”

  “Then perhaps we should make a firm appointment for Monday morning.”

  Abel hummed “Stardust” as he walked down Michigan Avenue on his way back to the Stevens. He took the elevator up to his room and called William Kane to ask for an extension until the following Monday, telling him he thought he might have found a buyer. Kane seemed reluctant but eventually agreed.

  “Bastard,” Abel repeated several times as he put the phone back on the hook. “Just give me a little time, Kane. You’ll live to regret killing Davis Leroy.”

  Abel sat on the end of his bed, his fingers tapping on the footboard, wondering how he could pass the time waiting for Monday. He wandered down into the hotel lobby. There she was again, the waitress who had served him at lunch, now on tea duty in the Tropical Garden. Abel’s curiosity got the better of him and he walked over and took a seat at the far side of the room. She came up.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” she said. “Would you like some tea?” The same familiar smile again.

  “We know each other, don’t we?” said Abel.

  “Yes, we do, Wladek.”

  Abel cringed at the sound of the name and reddened slightly, remembering how the short, fair hair had been long and smooth and the veiled eyes had been so inviting. “Zaphia, we came to America on the same ship—the Black Arrow. Of course, you went to Chicago. What are you doing here?”

  “I work here, as you can see. Would you like some tea, sir?” Her Polish accent warmed Abel.

  “Have dinner with me tonight,” he said.

  “I can’t, Wladek. We’re not allowed to go out with the customers. If we do, we automatically lose our jobs.”

  “I’m not a customer,” said Abel. “I’m an old friend.”

  “ … who was going to come and visit me in Chicago as soon as he had settled down,” said Zaphia. “And when he did come, he didn’t even remember I was here.”

  “I know, I know. Forgive me. Zaphia, have dinner with me tonight. Just this once,” said Abel.

  “Just this once,” she repeated.

  “Meet me at Brundage’s at seven o’clock. Would that suit you?”

  Zaphia flushed at the name. It was probably the most expensive restaurant in Chicago and she would have been nervous to be there as a waitress, let alone as a customer.

  “No, let’s go somewhere less grand, Wladek.”

  “Where?” said Abel.

  “Do you know The Sausage on the corner of Fortythird?”

  “No, I don’t,” he admitted, “but I’ll find it. Seven o’clock.”

  “Seven o’clock, Wladek. That will be lovely. By the way, do you want any tea?”

  “No, I think I’ll skip it,” said Abel.

  She smiled and walked away. He sat watching her serve tea for several minutes. She was much prettier than he had remembered. Perhaps killing time until Monday wasn’t going to be so difficult after all.

  The Sausage brought back all of Abel’s worst memories of his first days in America. He sipped a cold ginger beer while he waited for Zaphia and watched with professional disapproval as the waiters slapped the food around. He was unable to decide which was worse—the service or the food. Zaphia was nearly twenty minutes late by the time she appeared in the doorway, as smart as a bandbox in a crisp yellow dress that had probably been recently let down a few inches to conform with the latest fashion but still revealed how appealing her formerly slight body had filled out. Her gray eyes searched the tables for Wladek, and her pink cheeks reddened as she became conscious that the eyes of many were upon her.

  “Good evening, Wladek,” she said in Polish as she reached Abel’s side.

  Abel rose and offered her his chair, which was near an open fire. “I am so glad you could make it,” he said in English.

  She looked perplexed for a moment, then, in English, she said, “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t noticed. Would you like something to drink, Zaphia?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Neither of them spoke for a moment, and then they both tried to talk at once.

  “I’d forgotten how pretty … ,” said Abel.

  “How have you … ?” said Zaphia.

  She smiled shyly and Abel wanted to touch her. He remembered so well experiencing the same reaction the first time he had ever seen her, more than eight years before.

  “How’s George?” she asked.

  “I haven’t seen him for over two years,” replied Abel, suddenly feeling guilty. “I’ve been working in a hotel here in C
hicago, and then——”

  “I know,” said Zaphia. “Somebody burned it down.”

  “Why didn’t you ever come over and say hello?” asked Abel.

  “I didn’t think you’d remember, Wladek, and I was right.”

  “Then, how did you ever recognize me?” said Abel. “I’ve put on so much weight.”

  “Your silver band,” she said simply.

  Abel looked down at his wrist and laughed. “I have a lot to thank my band for and now I can add that it has brought us back together.”

  She avoided his eyes. “What are you doing now that you no longer have a hotel to run?”

  “I’m looking for a job,” said Abel, not wanting to intimidate her with the fact that he’d been offered the chance to manage the Stevens.

  “There’s a big job coming up at the Stevens. My boyfriend told me.”

  “Your boyfriend told you?” said Abel, repeating each painful word.

  “Yes,” she said. “The hotel will soon be looking for a new assistant manager. Why don’t you apply for the job? I’m sure you’d have a good chance of getting it, Wladek. I always knew you would be a success in America.”

  “I might well apply,” Abel said. “It was kind of you to think of me. Why doesn’t your boyfriend apply?”

  “Oh, no, he’s far too junior to be considered—he’s only a waiter in the dining room with me.”

  Suddenly Abel wanted to change places with him.

  “Shall we have dinner?” he said.

  “I’m not used to eating out,” Zaphia said. She gazed at the menu. Abel, suddenly aware she still couldn’t read English, ordered for them both.

  She ate with relish and was full of praise for the indifferent food. Abel found her uncritical enthusiasm a tonic after the bored sophistication of Melanie. They exchanged the history of their lives in America. Zaphia had started in domestic service and progressed to being a waitress at the Stevens, where she had now been for six years. Abel talked of many of his experiences until finally she glanced at his watch.