As Alex Oldham checked off the few remaining notes that Shaw had given him, his wife said, “Alex, do you suppose this might mean anything for us?”
She was a Millburgh girl—he had met her one year when he had gone down for a sales meeting—and he knew she had always hoped that someday they would move back there to live.
“It might,” he said sympathetically, thinking that she’d been a good sport about it, not hounding him all the time the way a lot of wives would have done. “All depends on what happens to Walt Dudley. If he should move up, we might get a break.”
“Mr. Shaw will be the new president, won’t he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, didn’t you think that he was going to be executive vice-president—before this happened?”
“Probably mean that his inviting us up to Maine is off,” he said as an indirect agreement.
“Then wouldn’t Mr. Dudley be moved up to executive vice-president?”
“Don’t start counting any chickens,” he said.
“Well, it would be logical, wouldn’t it?”
“A lot of logical things never happen. You learn that after you’ve been with an outfit like this as long as I have.”
“Maybe more of them will happen now that Mr. Bullard is dead. If all of the—” She stopped, bewildered by the shocked censure in the sharp glance he gave her. “But Alex, you always said that Mr. Bullard was—”
A snap of his hand stopped her. “I know, I know,” he said quickly, impelled by some demanding urge for forgiveness. “Bullard could drive a man nuts sometimes. But it didn’t mean anything—nothing! I wish to God he were still alive. I do! No matter what it may mean for us. I wish to God it hadn’t happened.”
He closed his eyes and saw again, as he knew he would see all the rest of his life, the accusing deathly stillness of the face that had looked up at him when the policeman had turned back the sheet.
8
MILLBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA
8.28 P.M. EDT
The Tredway Tower had two lives, one lived by day, the other by night. Its day life was heavily populated, brightly lighted, highly purposeful, and animated by a thousand sounds—men sounds and machine sounds, sighs and shouts, clatter and clack, giggles and groans, door bangs and drawer bumps, whine and whisper, footsteps running, footsteps dragging, the life sounds of business.
The day life ended, except for the final mad rush of outpouring humanity, with the first stroke of the five o’clock carillon, or, if Mr. Bullard was in town and the carillon not rung, with the sweep of the second hand on the master clock that relayed the same moment to repeater clocks on all twenty-four floors.
As the day life flooded out, the night life ebbed in. Gray-faced women shuffled wearily in through the lobby, their eyes down and averted as if they sensed the incongruity of their presence in this great hall of glittering black marble and sculptured bronze. Reaching the back lobby, where marble and bronze gave way to behind-the-scenes gray paint, they clumped into the freight elevator. Finally, after a long and unprotested delay, they would be dispersed to the various floors of the building where, with brush and broom and mop and scrub bucket, they would begin their methodical erasure of the soil that the day life had left.
After the scrubwomen came the men janitors. As befitted their higher level in the social world of the Tower’s night life, they claimed the privilege of a momentarily later arrival. After the janitors came the maintenance men who, through such acts of skill as the replacement of light bulbs and the adjustment of flush valves in the washrooms, had raised themselves to the aristocracy of the Tower’s night life.
Normally, there was no overlap between the Tredway Tower’s day life and its night life. Except for an occasional late-staying day worker—who was called a “hold-up” until eight o’clock and a “sticker” if he remained later—the world of the night life was a world unto itself. It was not as drab as the casual glimpser might suspect. There were coffee percolators bubbling in the slop sink closets, cigarettes and occasionally good cigars in unlocked desks, and the big canvas bags, soft-stuffed with wastepaper, made a pleasantly rustling mattress for an occasional amatory adventure.
Tonight, however, there was neither bubble nor rustle and not a cigar was being smoked. There was at least one “sticker” on every floor of the building. Men had started coming back to their offices just before eight o’clock and now everything was in a turmoil. The head janitors were rushing around from floor to floor trying to reorganize cleaning schedules and placate annoyed scrubwomen. It couldn’t have happened on a worse night. Friday was the end of the week, the night when the once-a-week jobs were done.
The explanation that Mr. Bullard had died was widely used by the harried head janitors, but it had little effect upon the women. They all echoed the sentiments of Mrs. O’Toole, who, being the only Tredway scrubwoman of Irish descent, had logically assumed the role of spokeswoman. “If it’s a wake they’ve got to be holding, I’m thinking they could have found some place for it that wouldn’t be disturbing the work of those that have an honest living to earn.”
The only voice that might have registered a dissent was not heard. Anna Schultz, who had cleaned the Executive Suite for the last thirteen years, was sitting stolidly in the darkened back corridor of the twenty-third floor waiting for the meeting in Mr. Shaw’s office to break up. Her hopes had been raised several times when someone had come out, but that no sooner happened than someone else went in. Now there were half a dozen men from the lower floor who were waiting around in the hall and, even more discouragingly, Mr. Walling and Mr. Alderson had just come up and gone into Mr. Alderson’s office.
Anna accepted her misfortune placidly. The head janitor knew that there were a lot of “stickers” in the Executive Suite so he never argued about the hours of overtime that she got in. Some months, when Mr. Bullard had been in town a great deal, she picked up between twenty-five and thirty dollars extra. Now, filling her wait with lazy speculation, she wondered if the new president would be as good. If it was going to be that Mr. Shaw he was starting out fine. She’d get at least two hours of overtime tonight, maybe three.
8.31 P.M. EDT
Hardly more than a dozen words had been spoken since Don Walling had followed Alderson into his office. Now, watching the older man carefully, he felt an increasing awareness of the diffidence that he had sensed as soon as they had arrived on the twenty-third floor. He had expected Frederick Alderson to enter Shaw’s office immediately, an intention that Alderson’s first step after he got off the elevator had seemed to confirm, but then he had hesitated, turned, and gone into his own office with a gesture that asked Walling to follow him.
For the last two minutes, Alderson had been occupying himself with his notebook, writing so slowly that he seemed to be drawing the letters of the words.
Walling finally felt impelled to break the silence. “Shaw seems to have called in most of the major department heads.”
The remark touched a nerve-sprung trigger that released a short burst of words from Alderson. “Can’t see any point to it, no point at all.”
The poised assurance that Alderson had displayed on the way downtown had vanished completely, and Don Walling felt the imperative necessity for its quick return. “If you’ll pardon my saying so, Mr. Alderson, I think the point is rather obvious.”
“What?”
“Shaw’s making a running jump to get into the saddle. He’s called in everyone to let them know that the reins are in his hands.”
The words had part of the effect that he wanted them to have. Alderson’s face did harden with determination but the effort it required seemed more than should have been necessary. He stood up and said, “Let’s roll,” but the words were more mimicry than command and his stride was hesitant as he walked out of the office and crossed to Shaw’s door.
Don Walling, following close behind, saw Loren Shaw look up as Alderson opened the door.
“Oh, Fred! Good. Glad you’re here,”
Shaw said pleasantly. “Oh, Don, too? Fine. Come in. Perhaps you can make a suggestion here.”
Van Ormand, the advertising and publicity manager, sat beside Shaw’s desk. He was wearing a white dinner jacket, making it clear that he had been called away from the Friday Dance at the country club.
“Van and I have a plan rather well sketched out, I believe, but it’s possible that there’s something we’ve missed,” Shaw said. “We’ll have a major story on the wire within an hour for the New York morning papers—Times and Herald Tribune. There’ll be a special story for the financial papers and a follow-up later for the evening and Sunday papers. The same basic story as the New York release but with a stronger company slant will be sent to all of the morning papers in our factory cities. There’ll be a shorter release for all the wire services. We’ll telephone the business editors of Time and Newsweek. That pretty much takes care of the first priority stuff. The monthly trade magazines have all closed so we have plenty of time there. Retailing Daily doesn’t publish tomorrow but we’ll have them all set for Monday.” Unexpectedly, his eyes flicked toward Alderson. “Anything I’ve missed, Fred?”
The question followed the rapid-fire recital so closely that Alderson was taken unaware and his only reply was a stumbling negative.
Don Walling, despite his growing apprehension, couldn’t help but regard Alderson’s bewilderment sympathetically for he, too, had been bowled over by the performance. Shaw had not once glanced at a note nor had he looked at Ormand for cue or confirmation. His tone had implied a thoroughly professional knowledge of the publicist’s craft.
Van Ormand gathered up his papers and left on the half gallop with a fervent, “Thank you very much for your help, sir,” for Shaw, a quick nod for Alderson, an even quicker one for Walling.
After the door had closed, Alderson said, “I hope Ormand isn’t handling this as if it were some publicity story.”
Walling winced. It was a pettish remark and made more so by Alderson’s manner. Again he could understand the origin because he, too, had been repulsed by Shaw’s coldly unemotional approach, but that was no excuse for Alderson’s lack of poise.
Shaw had taken a fresh handkerchief from his desk drawer and was pressing it between his slowly rubbed palms. “I’m quite confident that we can rely on Ormand’s judgment and good taste, don’t you think so, Don?”
The question at the end was another quick thrust. Don Walling hesitated, suspicious that it was an intentional effort on Shaw’s part to wedge him away from Frederick Alderson’s support. He made his reply as indirect as possible. “I can’t see that there’s actually much involved except sending out obituaries.”
Shaw nodded and added, “—in various lengths with the emphasis shifted to suit the editorial requirements of the different papers and magazines. Quite right. Did you have something other than that in mind, Fred?”
Again the question came unexpectedly, like the cracker on the end of an idly snapped whip. It was the third time that Shaw had done the same thing in the last two minutes and Don Walling was sure now that it was a calculated technique. He would be on his guard from now on.
“The news releases represent more of a task than one might suspect,” Shaw said. “I thought it best to reach Ormand and get him down here at once. When it first occurred to me I almost failed to do it, thinking that someone else would certainly have thought of it before I did. Apparently no one did.”
The technique had been varied now but the knife thrust was no less sharp. Don Walling hoped that Alderson wouldn’t attempt a reply and, fortunately, he didn’t.
“I’ve tied up a few other loose ends,” Shaw said, glancing at a sheet of paper that lay in front of him. “None of them of any great moment, but I’ll pass them along as a matter of information. The funeral will be Monday at four-thirty. I’ve asked that—”
Alderson interrupted with a sharply explosive bark. It was not an intelligible word, but no word could have expressed so well the same blend of astonishment and anger that Don Walling felt welling up within himself. It was an audacious presumption for Shaw to have jumped in and set the time of the funeral. He glanced at Alderson and, to his relieved surprise, saw that his jaw was firm and his hand steady.
“The funeral will be at two,” Alderson said grimly. The words were a thrown gauntlet, an unmistakable challenge.
Shaw touched the handkerchief to his lips as if he were checking the imperturbability of his expressionless mask. “At St. Martin’s?”
“Yes.”
“I see,” Shaw said, clearing his throat softly. “Perhaps I was misinformed. When I checked the church calendar I found that a wedding had been scheduled for two.”
Despite the effort that he had been making to keep from constantly watching Alderson’s face, Don Walling could not avoid a side glance. He knew from what had been said coming down in the car that Alderson had not checked with the church, because he had mentioned it as one of the things that remained to be done. He saw now that Alderson had been hit hard and felt the urge to say something that would give him a moment of recovery. The only thing he could think of to say was that the time of the funeral was an unimportant point that was hardly worth arguing, yet he was prevented from saying that because Frederick Alderson had clearly made it a major issue.
“Something can be done about the church,” Alderson said finally.
“Perhaps,” Shaw conceded graciously. “There was, however, another point that I had in mind. I believe I’m correct in assuming that the highest proportion of the older factory workers—those who might wish to attend the funeral—will be found on the seven to three shift. By having the funeral at four-thirty we’ll make it possible for them to be there.”
“That makes no difference,” Alderson snapped. “The factory will be closed.”
“For the day?” Shaw asked blandly.
“Yes, for the day!”
Walling had tried to catch Alderson’s eye before his reply but the older man’s anger had made him blaze back instantly, too fast to see the trap that he was stepping into. Only a few months before the president of the factory union had died and the vice-president, Max Hartzell, making a quick bid for popularity, had demanded that the day of the funeral be made a paid holiday for all factories. Paid holidays had been one of the most troublesome issues in previous contract negotiations and Avery Bullard, wary of giving more ground, had turned down the request. Hartzell had then carried the issue back to the union membership and, using its emotional content to the limit, had all but caused a walkout. In the end, the strike had been averted but Alderson should have realized, as Shaw obviously did, that a precedent had been established that could not be broken now without the danger of another serious flare-up.
“In view of the union situation—” Walling began, letting his voice drop then, hoping that it would be enough to jog Alderson’s memory.
Alderson appeared not to have heard him. He was staring at Shaw, his body immobilized by anger. “I suppose you were thinking of the money it would cost?”
“Not as a first consideration,” Shaw explained evenly. “My thinking was largely based on the point that Don just made—the union situation—although you are quite right, Fred, in suggesting that the cost is something that can’t be overlooked either. I happened to recall Mr. Bullard’s pointing out to the union that a paid holiday would represent a loss to the company of approximately $87,000. That figure, of course, was before the last wage raise. It would be somewhat more at the current rates.”
“I thought so,” Alderson said pointlessly.
Walling could not avoid a grudging admiration for the way that Shaw kept his face from reflecting, by even the faintest glimmer, any trace of the annoyance that he must be feeling.
“I also recalled,” Shaw went on, “Mr. Bullard’s argument to the union delegates that a paid holiday could hardly be considered mourning since the crowd at Joyland Park would unquestionably be larger than the crowd at the funeral.”
The roller coaste
r roared again in Walling’s mind and he heard the background screams of joy and laughter. Shaw was right. A holiday wouldn’t be a day of mourning, it would be a day of celebration. The cost would be a thoroughly unjustified expenditure of a large sum of money. On top of everything else, it would stir up a hornet’s nest with the union. What was the matter with Alderson? Couldn’t he see that? It was understandable that he had missed thinking about those things before, but now that he had thought about them there was only one possible decision. Shaw had already made it. Alderson had no choice except to confirm it, but it was plain that he wasn’t going to do so. He looked as if he were holding his breath and a purplish undertone was spreading slowly over his face.
“There’s another consideration,” Shaw went on. “It’s minor, perhaps, yet it seemed worth taking into account. The four-thirty time would make it more convenient to close the Chicago market display during the funeral period.”
Walling clenched his fists. The word “convenient” had been badly chosen and he found himself wishing that Shaw hadn’t used it. It made the meaning clear enough but instinct told him that it would only add to the anger that was already fogging Alderson’s mind.
“Convenient?” Alderson demanded with an acid bite. “That seems to be your attitude toward everything, Shaw—to make Mr. Bullard’s death as convenient as possible—for yourself. I think you’ll find some other ideas on that subject!”
Alderson’s rise and move toward the door was so unexpected and so rapidly made that Walling was caught off guard. He was only starting to stand as Alderson disappeared. His first thought was to follow, but Shaw stepped around from behind the desk and half blocked the way. It was impossible to push past him without obvious discourtesy.
Shaw’s voice showed a pronounced change, suddenly presuming an intimacy that had not been there before. “Don, tell me—am I wrong or did the old boy seem a little shaky just then? I know that he hasn’t been well but—you know him much better than I do, of course—what do you think?”
Executive Suite Page 19
