by Emma Lathen
“I’ll make up my mind when I’m good and ready,” said Martin sulkily from the corner of the couch where he had thrown himself. “What’s the rush? I don’t even know exactly how much Mother’s estate will come to, after taxes. I like to know where I stand,” he ended weakly.
Arthur looked at him curiously. It was obvious that Martin rarely suffered any doubts at all as to where he stood, and his elder cousin smelled a rat.
“Have you found an outside buyer for the preferred?” Arthur asked sharply.
“No,” growled Martin and then he grinned maliciously, “but that doesn’t mean that I’m not looking.”
Ken, in sudden comprehension, realized that this was a deliberate attempt to mislead. Of course, what had happened was very simple. Martin was getting calls from the banks on his convertible debentures and, if things didn’t improve, his entire inheritance might be swept away in the desperate attempt to remain solvent. But Martin had no intention of letting Arthur know about this and, it was extremely unlikely that Arthur, with his tidy standards and well defined lines of conduct, could conceive of such unparalleled irregularity and financial folly. The scope of Martin’s disaster rendered him immune to discovery—by Arthur, that is.
“Do as you like, by all means, but you owe it to Grace not to lead her on. She has more than enough to worry about at the moment without mythical offers from you. Her financial affairs are getting worse and worse. Rowland seems a complete loss from that point of view and has heavy expenses in addition—and now she has to worry about the police questioning her. For a woman of Grace’s sensitivity, it’s all very difficult. Although, Lord knows, she could be more reasonable about it,” he added testily.
“I’m sure Mrs. Walworth has no cause to be upset,” intervened Ken in a misguided attempt to speak soothingly on a neutral topic. “These police checks are merely routine and don’t indicate any real suspicion of murder.”
There was a sudden hoot of laughter from the sofa. “That’s not what’s worrying our Grace,” burbled Martin. “She’s as safe as houses. A neighbor came in and saw her at midnight—the perfect alibi.”
“But then, why—” stammered Ken.
“Martin, for Lord’s sake!” thundered Arthur furiously.
“She was dead drunk. Our little Grace hits the bottle on those long lonely nights in Washington,” sang out Martin happily. “Nothing public, you understand. Everything in the best of taste, complete privacy preserved, and only the family need know. Just a small blemish on the Schneiders’ Washington front.”
Ken was genuinely sickened, not so much at the disclosure as at Martin’s unholy glee in making it. It did, however, explain a good deal about Grace and seemed to be the only fact of any interest which he would have to report to Thatcher. It was therefore duly noted.
“The choice part is that Grace is so worried about the police finding out,” continued Martin on a slightly more sober note, “when, if I know my Washington, that neighbor has already spread the news to every house in Georgetown.”
“You’re disgusting, Martin. Can’t you find any better way to amuse yourself than gossiping about Grace?”
“She makes me sick. So damn superior with her patronizing offers to consider selling me her stock, these complaints about her dividends—who the hell does she think she is? Little Miss Perfection? She’s a fifty-year-old lush who spends too much.”
“You’re not so perfect yourself, Martin. One of the reasons Grace can’t live the way she used to is that we’ve had you making a mess of things. Before you sell out, you’d better think where you’ll find another firm that will pay you $30,000 a year to sit around planning the décor of your apartment and losing contracts.”
“Oh, it’s me that’s losing contracts, is it?”
Issue had clearly been joined, and there would be no more side excursions into the affairs of Hilda and Grace. Each man was furious and expressing it in his own way. Arthur signified his control by lowering his voice, a useless gesture in view of the fact that his articulation had quickened to the point of slurring one word into the next. Tiny white lines showed around his facial bones in contrast to the unattractive red flush which had crept over his face and neck. Martin was once again on his feet, frankly shouting with rage.
“Let me tell you, Arthur, that if you go on running that mill as if you were outfitting the Union Army with cardboard shoes, you can expect every firm in the business to walk right over you.”
“The walking didn’t start until we let you open that glossy office in New York. Nobody expected you to have the energy to go out and look for new contracts, but I did expect you to be able to hang onto customers we’ve had for fifty-five years.”
“What do you expect me to sell? Antique methods and high prices? If you listened to me and made the slightest effort to modernize, we wouldn’t be slipping from first place to bottom of the list.”
“If I listened to you, we would have lost every customer we had and every penny to boot! What did you do when one of our biggest customers threatened to stop ordering? You couldn’t even be bothered to get out of your chair and go and see them. I had to go and now we’ve got a new contract with them.”
“And what the hell do you mean by going out to Wisconsin without telling me? I’m in charge of sales. You stick to your mill in Massachusetts and keep your nose out of my business!”
“This is my business. If you think I’m going to stand by and watch you wreck the work of eighty years, you’ve got another think coming. I expect to hand this business over to my son in better shape than I found it. If the only way I can do that is by getting rid of you, then I can do that too. But if you’re going to run sales, you’re going to do it the way I tell you to and that isn’t going to mean sitting around too bone-lazy to save a twenty-million-dollar contract.”
“So you think you can get rid of me! You’d ruin yourself if you did. Ask anybody who’s seen that plant. Ask Grace, ask the bank, ask Nicolls.”
Both men turned to look at Nicolls as a thunderous silence filled the room. Ken smiled weakly at being suddenly recalled to their attention and wondered what in Lord’s name was the tactful thing to do. Arthur was covered with confusion as he realized that an outsider had been witness to his outburst of temper. Martin, moved by a totally reflexive response, went to the bar and suggested another round of drinks. Obviously this was his panacea for any social crisis.
“Not for me, thank you,” answered Nicolls. “I have to be getting back to the office.”
“Nonsense,” growled Arthur in some embarrassment. “You mustn’t let this scene bother you, Ken. I am extremely sorry that we’ve brawled in your presence but you shouldn’t make too much of it. Martin and I don’t always see eye to eye about managing the business, and we’ve both lost our tempers before.”
“Yes,” said Martin, handing Ken a drink which he was obliged to accept unless he was prepared to make an issue of it. “Everybody’s nerves are on edge right now, and Arthur and I usually have to have a row before we can decide on any new policy anyway.”
“It’s not that I’m saying we couldn’t do with a few changes,” said Arthur in mellowed tones. “I would like to put some money into research now that we know what direction we want to go in—mass production and precutting. And I realize perfectly that, even if we were willing to go on relying upon skilled labor, the supply of trained craftsmen in this field is rapidly dwindling and won’t be replenished. I just don’t want us to go in over our heads on expenditure, and I don’t want to cut Grace’s dividends. She’s having a hard enough time, and, after all, the purpose of a small family firm is to support the family.”
“All right,” Martin grinned. “I’ll go along with that, so long as I’m included in the definition of family. Grace shall have her dividends and no kicks from me.”
Ken marveled at Grace’s position in the family. She seemed to him uniformly unpleasant. She was relentless in her demands, perfectly prepared to deal with either man behind the other’s back,
perpetually hysterical, and, it now appeared, a grave social handicap. But the one question on which complete accord could be achieved between Martin and Arthur was the necessity of providing Grace with an income. Grace knew how to play her hand.
“What’s more, Arthur, I’ll admit that you were right about Wisconsin Paper and Novelty,” Martin added handsomely, making his amende honorable. “I ought to have gone out to Beloit, instead of trying to handle it from New York. When I got their letter saying they weren’t going to renew, I was so stunned I couldn’t think straight.”
“Well, well, that’s over and done with now,” said Arthur, with an uncomfortable glance at Ken as if unwilling to reopen the subject of their recent quarrel. “The important thing is that we’ve got a good chance of getting them to sign a bigger contract than ever before. If we can get just one more like that, we’ll have enough extra earnings to subsidize a research program.”
“Well, that’s not going to be easy unless we can satisfy people we’re in a position to increase production substantially. But I’m seeing a man from West Virginia Pulp and Paper this week.”
“Good,” said Arthur approvingly. “I’ve brought down some statistics on our production for the last quarter which you’ll want to see.”
And as the conversation now threatened to become severely technical, Ken felt he could take his leave gracefully. No attempts were made to detain him this time, but his departure was marked by the excessive cordiality due a guest who has been badly treated. Martin repeatedly assured him of a warm welcome whenever he felt inclined to drop by, and Arthur, clapping him fondly on the shoulder, promised to look in when he came to the bank to see Thatcher.
Finally making his escape, Ken felt a wave of relief as he mounted the steps to the street. He turned toward Eighth Street and mulled over the recent interview as he walked along. Curiously enough he was not thinking of it in terms of his duties as a trust officer. He was thinking that, if he was to suffer all the disadvantages entailed by admission to family quarrels, maybe it was time that he began to enjoy some of the advantages of a relative too. Perhaps he should plan to spend the weekend in Framingham.
Chapter 18
Consolidated Statement
In Buffalo, John Thatcher was already finishing luncheon and having his coffee before he interrupted his idle appraisal of the crowded dining room of the Statler to examine his own motives. An elderly bus boy sidestepped a group of diners who had unexpectedly pushed their chairs back to stand up and mill about in the way of the scurrying staff, an indifferent maître d’hôtel leaned against his service desk and watched the waitresses swinging in and out of the kitchen—when a sudden inner voice spoke somewhat severely to John Thatcher: “You want to go out to Buffalo Industrial Products yourself, to see the people that Schneider worked for.” He considered the truth of this with amusement.
“Do you want anything else, sir?” a waitress asked deferentially. John Thatcher liked to think that it was force of character that got him good service; in fact, it was because he looked like a good tipper.
“No thank you,” he said, pleasantly if absently. “The check please.”
It was forthcoming promptly. He left it on the table, tossed a bill over it, edged his way past another group milling this time around a table that was being cleared, and headed for the telephone booths in the lobby.
“You can always tell the really good ones,” the waitress said as she stuffed a five-dollar bill in the pocket of her apron. “Money doesn’t mean a thing to them.”
Bryant Cottrell was surprised to hear that Thatcher was still in Buffalo. He thought, although of course he couldn’t be absolutely sure, that he might be able to contact Stanislas Michaels and arrange an interview. This afternoon? Well, of course, that was very short notice, and it might develop ..."
“Try,” said John Thatcher tersely.
And Bryant Cottrell did try. Within half an hour, Cottrell’s secretary called back with a message: “Mr. Michaels expects you at three-thirty. Car will be ready at three o’clock.” He retrieved his suitcase from the baggage room, read The New York Times in the lobby, and at nearly three picked up his coat and hat and strolled out to the street. He waited no more than a minute or two, when the First National’s impeccably polished Chrysler arrived.
“Hello, Mr. Thatcher,” the driver greeted him as he jumped out to open the door for him. “They told me you want to go out to Lackawanna this time.”
“That’s right, Ben,” Thatcher replied, settling himself in the back seat. He looked around the whitened city; the snow was now falling thickly and it was bitterly cold. People on the streets were bundled up against the biting wind, and Thatcher thought that there were fewer cars than usual on Delaware Avenue.
“How’s the driving going to be?”
Ben dismissed the weather with a lordly gesture, as he slammed his door and started the big gray car. “We’ve got chains on now, so it won’t make any difference.”
The drive to Lackawanna was spent in a detailed comparison of the merits of chains versus snow tires. “I mean, when you really need traction, you’ve got to have chains,” Ben said authoritatively as they drove along the Skyway Drive at a pace suitable to the dignity of the First National Bank and the Chrysler.
Thatcher nodded; he liked to talk to specialists. Someday, Walter Bowman would lecture him about snow tires, so one part of his mind stored Ben’s observations. The other part, however, was concerned with Buffalo Industrial Products.
For once, he thought, watching the grimy stacks of the Bethlehem Steel plant drift by, his position could be straightforward and businesslike. And truthful, if not completely so. He was going to find out what the Michaels family’s position would be if Kathryn Schneider wanted to sell the interest in BIP that she would presumably inherit. A perfectly sensible reason for an interview. He reminded himself that he must write Bryant Cottrell and tell him the results of his fishing expedition.
“Here we are, Mr. Thatcher,” Ben said, as he pulled into the driveway of a long, shedlike building. “BIP.”
Buffalo Industrial Products had not yet reached the level of conspicuous affluence which creates landscaped marvels and carpeted noiseless waiting rooms, furnished with Danish contour chairs, and one luxuriant pot of tropical foliage. Lackawanna, as a whole, seemed due for an industrial face-lifting. Thatcher walked up a driveway through a cluttered delivery yard; as he entered the building his ears were assaulted by a heavy rumble of machinery. Sitting at a scarred desk in a hallway, rather than in a waiting room, there was not a Goddess-like young woman with exotic make-up, but a middle-aged woman wearing a cheap maroon sweater to ward off the chills that came from the opening of the front door. She looked mildly surprised when he interrupted her typing to identify himself and explain that he had an appointment with the president of the firm.
“He’s the third office down the hall,” she said, returning to her typing. Thatcher understood this to mean that he should proceed, without waiting for preliminary buzzings. He went. At the third office door down the dingy hall, Thatcher paused in uncertainty. BIP also dispensed with such niceties as name plates. He knocked, and opened the door.
Stan Michaels, clad in a blue work shirt with rolled-up sleeves, was talking to a young woman. He looked up, and said, “Come in. You’re Mr. ...”
“Thatcher.”
The bull-chested man shifted heavily in his chair. “People at the First National told me you want to talk to me about something. Schneider’s common stock, I guess they said.” He waved Thatcher into a straight-backed chair. No nonsense about taking his coat off, Thatcher noted with appreciation.
Michaels in fact was not even looking at his visitor.
“Mr. Thatcher and I have business, Jeannie,” he said meaningfully.
“I know you do, Pa, you just told me,” the tone of voice was discontented. “And I told you that I’m staying. I’ve got my interests to protect too.”
“Jeannie,” he said in a pleading voice. But t
he young woman, who appeared to be set on disagreeableness, turned to Thatcher who sketched a half-rise. “How do you do, Mr. Thatcher. My name is Jean Novak. Mrs. Novak.” She was built on generous lines like her father and was, Thatcher guessed, about thirty years old.
“How do you do?” he replied. “I won’t be interrupting you for long.”
“I’ve got plenty of time,” she said with a twist of her lips, and a sharp look at her father who looked heavily disapproving.
“Splendid,” said Thatcher heartily. He was not prepared to let shrewish young women set the tone of his conversations. Jeannie Novak gave him a look of dislike.
Thatcher turned to Michaels. “Now, Mr. Michaels, I think I need not take too much of your time. Perhaps Mr. Cottrell did not explain ...”
“Didn’t explain a damn thing,” Michaels said, cutting Thatcher off but not in anger but as an additional bit of information.
“No,” Thatcher said. “Well, it is a little complicated to discuss by phone, but the situation is roughly that I represent the Sloan Guaranty Trust Bank. Of New York,” he added, but Michaels merely nodded. “We are acting as trustees for the heirs of Robert Schneider in another matter. Mrs. Schneider has asked us about the possibility ...”
“Mrs. Schneider,” Jeannie Novak said cutting in with loathing. “She’s got a nerve asking anybody for anything.”
“Jeannie,” her father said, in a warning tone of voice. “What do you want to find out, Mr. Thatcher?” Thatcher watched him clench and unclench his fists in what must be a gesture of impatience. Or fear. Both Stan Michaels and his daughter were taut with ... was it fear? Jeannie Novak had risen to her feet and was staring out the grimy window.
