Frank Gross replaced his glasses, blinked his eyes into focus, and examined the flimsy carbon of the report form. WALLET … no. PAPERS … none. LAUNDRY MARKS … none … there ought to be a federal law about laundry marks … initials A.B. on shirtsleeves. SUIT … medium brown with faint red overplaid … custom-tailored by D. Andruzzi, Palm Beach, Florida … no customer label. Coat … 44 long. Trousers … 40 waist, 35 inseam. HAT … Dobbs, 6⅞, initials A.B. CONTENTS OF POCKETS … small coins, total $1.57, bus token from Canton, Ohio, Camel cigarettes, Dunhill lighter with initials A.B.
Frank vented an impatient snort at the imbecile who had made out the report, mumbling aloud, “I know his initials are A.B. How many times you got to keep telling me?”
With a resigned sigh, he opened the upper right-hand drawer of his desk and took out a pad of message blanks. He wrote two telegrams. One was addressed to CHIEF POLICE, PALM BEACH, FLA., the other to CHIEF POLICE, CANTON, OHIO. On out-of-the-city cases, Frank never addressed a message to an individual of lesser status than Chief Police. If they didn’t like it, so what? Served them right for allowing their citizens to make a nuisance of themselves to the City of New York.
The message written, Frank Gross walked to his locker, took out his hat, and started for home. MacIntosh had said to make it special … Okay, it was special. What more could he do?
5.02 P.M. EDT
George Caswell, breasting the five o’clock human tide that roared down Wall Street toward the subway entrance, finally managed to make the appointed corner. The traffic officer recognized him, grinned a polite salute and flipped his hand to indicate the Cadillac that was idling in the No Parking zone halfway up the block.
Neil Finch was already in the back seat and the chauffeur had the car moving the moment that Caswell was inside. The two men were friends of long standing, a relationship so secure that it had withstood both competition and proximity. They were the heads of two rival stock-brokerage houses—Caswell & Co. and Slade & Finch—and for the last nine years they had lived in adjoining Long Island estates. During the summer months they rode back and forth together, using their cars on alternate days.
“Hope it wasn’t too inconvenient, Neil, my holding you up like this,” Caswell said.
“No. Good thing. Gave me a chance to clear a few things off my desk.”
They rode in silence until the car stopped, blocked by a traffic snarl.
“I hear your friend was in town today,” Finch said.
“Who’s that?”
“Avery Bullard. Wingate happened to see him coming out of your office.”
“Oh. Yes, Bullard was in. As a matter of fact that’s one thing that held me up, waiting for him to call me.”
“Found himself an executive vice-president yet?”
“That’s what he was to call me about. He was having lunch with Bruce Pilcher.”
“Bruce Pilcher?”
“You know him, don’t you?”
“Of course.” There was a pointed pause. “You say Pilcher had lunch with Avery Bullard?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Tredway in any kind of trouble, George?”
“Trouble? What do you mean?”
“Something must have happened at lunch that gave Pilcher an extremely unfavorable impression of the Tredway Corporation.”
“I can’t imagine what it could be.”
“You’re sure there’s no bad news in the offing?”
“Positive.”
“Well, you ought to know,” Finch said. “You’re still on the Tredway board, aren’t you?”
“Yes. What do you mean about Pilcher getting an unfavorable impression?”
“This is confidential, of course?”
“Naturally.”
“Could be only a coincidence, but it seems to fit together a little too well for that. What time was Bullard’s luncheon date with Pilcher?”
“Twelve-forty-five at Julius Steigel’s office in the Chippendale Building.”
“Then the lunch would be over by two-thirty?”
“I imagine so. What are you getting at?”
Finch turned, half twisting his body so that he faced George Caswell across the wide back seat of the limousine. “A few minutes after two-thirty Bruce Pilcher called our office and gave us a wide-open order to sell Tredway common short.”
Caswell jerked to attention. “So that’s where all that stock came from.”
“We got rid of two thousand shares in about twenty minutes.”
“I know. I bought it.”
“The hell you did! For your own account?”
“Yes.”
“You must have a lot of faith in that outfit.”
“I have a lot of faith in Avery Bullard,” Caswell said, hesitating before he went on as if he were debating the propriety of an important revelation. “I’ve been building a block of Tredway for the past several years, picking it up whenever I could. It’s not very actively traded, you know, most days not more than a few hundred shares. That’s why I was so surprised when I got back to the office and found that the boys had bought me two thousand shares this afternoon. Frankly, that’s considerably more that I’d expected to get when I told them to buy everything that turned up.”
“When did you place that order, George—to buy everything you could get?”
Caswell turned, squinting, as if the question surprised him. “About noon.”
“After you had talked to Bullard?”
“Yes.”
“Then Pilcher must have wormed something out of Bullard at lunch that you didn’t find out this morning.”
“I don’t see how that’s possible.”
“Pilcher is no fool. It’s plain that he had a tip on some really bad news.”
“There is no bad news. The company’s in excellent shape.”
Finch shook his head. “Bruce Pilcher wouldn’t have gone short on that much stock if he didn’t have a sure thing—if he weren’t positive that there was something coming up that would really break the price.”
“But what could it be?”
“Don’t ask me. You’re the specialist on Tredway. I’m simply telling you what happened. Cigar?”
“No thanks,” Caswell said, preoccupied. “Is Bruce Pilcher a regular customer of yours?”
Finch glanced away from the match flame as if he were surprised by the apparent irrelevancy of the question. “Occasional—perhaps a half-dozen transactions a year.”
“That’s what I thought,” George nodded grimly. “He has a very active account with us.”
Finch got the point immediately. “You think he switched this order to us to keep you from knowing who was selling?”
“Obviously.”
“Or else,” Finch said with a taunting grin, “he’d just gotten tired of doing business with a second-string broker.”
Caswell’s smile was a weak attempt. “Unless I miss my guess, Mr. Pilcher has crawled out on a very long limb. He’ll have a hard time covering a short sale of two thousand shares. The stock’s too inactive and most of it’s in very strong hands.”
“I hope you’re right, George. Hate to see an old war horse like you being put over the jumps by an upstart like Bruce Pilcher.”
“Save your worry for your customers, Neil. Pilcher’s the boy who’s put himself on a spot.”
“You still have no idea of what he might have gotten out of Bullard at lunch? He’s a clever young fox, George. You know that as well as I do.”
“Not clever enough to outsmart Avery Bullard.”
“He must have found out something.”
“I tell you there was nothing to find out,” Caswell said, his voice sharpened with a quick-passing edge of irritation. “I spent two hours with Avery Bullard this morning. We went over the whole business from stem to stern. If there was any bad news in the wind he’d have told me about it.”
“Sure? From some of the stories I’ve heard you tell about Mr. Avery Bullard I’ve gathered the impression that he can be a bit o
f a fox himself—if the occasion demands it.”
Caswell shook his head vigorously. “If I’ve ever said anything to give you that impression of Avery Bullard it was completely unintentional. He’s rough and tough and always swinging with both fists, but he’s one of the most uncompromisingly honest men that I’ve ever known in my whole life. I think—yes, it’s true—I have more respect for Avery Bullard than for any man I’ve ever done business with. If I were to lose my faith in him I’d lose my faith in everyone.”
“I long since have,” Finch said with a wry chuckle. “It’s not as much of a handicap as you might think. Helps you keep your perspective.”
George Caswell did not smile. He found no humor in Finch’s cynicism.
“What’s the matter, George, still worried?” Finch finally said, breaking the silence.
“Not worried,” Caswell said slowly. “Just wondering why Avery Bullard didn’t call me back this afternoon.
5.12 P.M. EDT
Bruce Pilcher, exercising his self-endowed prerogative as a third-generation member of the Greenback Club who had been proposed for membership on the day of his birth, ordered a very dry Martini to be served in the reading room, a violation of the house rules.
Andrew, the oldest of the club’s attendants, shuffled in with the cocktail and Bruce Pilcher flipped a dollar tip on the wet tray. The waiter sponged the bill dry, making no attempt to conceal the fact that his annoyance exceeded his gratitude.
Pilcher was completely unaware of Andrew’s openly critical attitude but he would not have been disturbed even if he had noticed it. The perpetually sour mien of all of the club’s employees was as much a part of the decorative scheme as the collection of gold-framed life-size nudes that sprawled lasciviously over the worthless stock certificates with which the walls were completely covered.
“Where are the late papers, Andrew?” Pilcher demanded.
The old waiter silently indicated the rack.
“I want the final editions. Is there any good reason why they shouldn’t be here by now?”
Andrew shuffled out.
Pilcher lifted the cocktail, studying the tracery of lemon oil that marbled the surface. The tremor of his hand started tiny ringlet waves and, as if their consumption might banish his nervousness, he gulped deeply, half of the glass in a single draught.
There was no reason for nervousness, he told himself. It was perfectly understandable why there had been nothing in the Wall Street Closing editions about Avery Bullard … hadn’t been time … might not be anything in the Final either. But that wouldn’t matter. It would be there in the morning. No, that wasn’t anything to be nervous about. Neither was the two thousand shares. Yes, he had been shocked when Wingate had called back to tell him that they had sold two thousand shares … hadn’t expected anything like that in twenty minutes on an inactive issue … but still it was all right … better than all right … perfect! When you held the winning cards, the bigger the pot the better.
Wingate had told him that the reason he had been able to sell so much Tredway was that there was a rumor on the floor that some of the smart-money boys were expecting an unusually good semi-annual report on Tredway’s first half.
Pilcher sipped his drink now. His hand was steady again. The smart-money boys wouldn’t seem so smart when the Times and the Herald Tribune came out tomorrow morning with Avery Bullard’s obituary. The Times might even use a picture. He smiled, remembering what Liebermann had said after the Congressional investigation. “About the only reward there’s left for an industrialist in this country is a nice obituary in the New York Times.”
The smart-money boys would have Avery Bullard’s obituary served up to them with their breakfast. Then the fun would start. The sell orders would pile up before the opening. The first sale would probably be off a point or a point and a half. Then it would really start sliding. By the end of the first hour …
His mind braked to a dead stop. Tomorrow was Saturday … the market would be closed! He stood up, waiting for the pounding of his heart to subside, telling himself that he must hold his balance, keep his brain sharp and clear, stay cold and smart. Did it really matter? No. What didn’t happen tomorrow would happen Monday morning. Monday would be even better. There would be the whole weekend of rumor and gossip about what the loss of Avery Bullard would mean to Tredway.
He marshaled more arguments but none was strong enough to counter the disconcerting knowledge that he had been guilty of an error of omission—there was a fact he had missed. The fact itself wasn’t important but the missing was! What else had he overlooked?
Bruce Pilcher gulped the last of the cocktail and the glass chattered with his trembling hand as it touched the table. Where else had he slipped?
The sharp point of his mind reached back like an auditor’s pencil, checkmarking the facts. Could he have been wrong about the man in the ambulance? No, it was unquestionably Avery Bullard. Was he dead? Yes, because the interne had covered his face. Wait! Did that mean for certain that he was dead? The checkmark hung suspended. The answer was vital. It was a key point. If Bullard weren’t actually dead, the whole situation changed.
His eyes darted nervously about the room. The sight of a telephone instrument flashed a thought. He would call the hospital. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Roosevelt. He remembered the name on the ambulance. His hand touched the phone and then drew away. This line went through the switchboard. It would be safer to use a private booth.
Impulse urged him to run but he forced himself to walk with a carefully measured stride, out through the lobby, speaking casually to three entering members in a voice that betrayed nothing, on to the telephone booth. His fingertips left damp brands on the thin paper as he turned the pages, searching for the number. He found it and dialed.
“Please connect me with someone who can tell me about the condition of a patient.”
“What is the name of the patient about whom you wish to inquire, sir?”
“Avery Bullard—Mr. Avery Bullard.”
“One moment, please.”
He waited, his lungs straining as if they had used up the last breath of air in the tiny cubicle.
“B as in Benjamin?” the voice finally came back.
“Yes,” and he spelled Avery Bullard’s full name.
“I’m sorry, sir, but we have no patient under that name.”
“But you must. I saw—he was taken to the hospital in an ambulance this afternoon.”
“There has been no one by that name admitted during the last twenty-four hours. Perhaps it was one of the other hospitals.”
“No, it was Roosevelt! I’m sure that—”
There was a distant click and then silence.
5.15 P.M. EDT
“Miss Finnick,” the girl at the desk in the waiting room said. “Down the hall. Second door on your right.”
The doctor was looking at a card when she opened the door, the card that the girl at the desk had made out.
“I’m Doctor Marston. Won’t you sit down.”
Anne Finnick hesitated, knowing that if she sat down she might lose her nerve and not be able to go through with it. “I’m a friend of Mrs. Paul Sansom’s.”
“Oh, yes,” the doctor said pleasantly, not seeming to notice that she was still standing. “What’s the trouble, Miss Finnick?”
This was the moment … she had to do it. “I want to know if I’m pregnant.”
She waited, watching his face. Viola had been right about him. He was a swell guy, not looking surprised or anything. She could say the rest of it. “I know if I am I got to go to somebody else to do something about it, but Viola said I would be crazy to get myself into a mess like that if I wasn’t sure. I ain’t asking you to do anything that ain’t all right, am I, just telling me whether I’m pregnant or not?”
“No indeed,” he said, softly positive. “And I hope you’re not.”
He really sounded like he meant it. Viola was sure right, this Dr. Marston was one awful nice guy
. It didn’t matter what he charged, it would be worth it, knowing for sure and being treated like a human being. She had all the money she needed. There had been five hundred and thirty-four dollars in the wallet.
5.21 P.M. EDT
The teletype bell rang, the machine buzzed, and then the type bars began to spatter black letters again: TAILOR D ANDRUZZI OUT OF BUSINESS RECORDS UNAVAILABLE WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN POLICE PALM BEACH
5.27 P.M. EDT
Bruce Pilcher was in the strangling grip of total terror. He had known fear before but never anything like this. His mind had passed the point where panic was a stimulant. Now it was a poison, so paralyzing to the motor centers of his brain that it was all but impossible to form a coherent thought.
His call to Roosevelt Hospital had convinced him that he had been guilty of a staggering blunder. The man he had seen being put into the ambulance could not have been Avery Bullard. Through the fog of terror he could see the outline of the trap that was closing in on him. He was short two thousand shares. There was a strong demand for Tredway stock. The way his selling order had been snapped up proved that. If he had to go into the market on Monday morning and try to cover … $2000 … $4000 … $8000 … $16,000 … catastrophy multiplied in geometric proportion.
He had less than four thousand dollars in the bank. It seemed incredible but it was true. His divorce settlement had taken fifty thousand cash. The house in Westchester was mortgaged for every cent he could borrow on it. If the stock went up even a few dollars a share he was bankrupt. He would not be able to meet his obligations and that meant the end of his reputation and his career.
There was only one way he could save himself … get his hands on two thousand shares of Tredway stock before the market opened Monday morning. Where … where … where? The pounding of the word loosened a fragment from the hard shell of his memory … Shaw … Loren P. Shaw. Yes, that was it! Shaw was the comptroller of the Tredway Corporation now. Shaw could find some way to get that stock. He had Shaw under his thumb. Shaw wouldn’t dare refuse him, not when he reminded him that he still remembered what had happened on that government contract for Alliance back in … No, good God, no! Was he insane? Shaw had more on him than he had on Shaw. He didn’t have Shaw under his thumb. It was the other way around!
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