Balance Wheel

by Taylor Caldwell

  Charles gave Mr. Waite the paper. He sat there, hunched slightly forward, looking more solid and obdurate by the moment. Mr. Waite examined the paper casually. “Yes. I can see that it is very close to the railroad. A spur; yes.” He smiled at Charles. “Mr. Wittmann, we are prepared to offer you a large amount for the river property. I will consult with my president, and perhaps we can even raise it to twice the amount.”

  “No,” said Charles. “You haven’t enough money to buy that property, Mr. Waite.”

  Mr. Bouchard, who had been sitting so still and so watchful, said: “I think you are wasting your time, Elson. Mr. Wittmann does not intend to sell the property to you.” He passed his hand over his thick rough shock of gray hair. “Am I correct, Mr. Wittmann?”

  “You are correct.”

  Mr. Waite remarked: “Mr. Wittmann, I’m afraid I don’t understand. You seem to be taking a very objective business discussion personally.”

  “That’s right. I do take it personally. That property is to be the Wittmann Civic Park.”

  Mr. Waite was provoked that he had underestimated Charles. He also thought Charles a fool, who, having made a mistake, was mulishly standing by it. Mr. Bouchard said: “You see, Elson. You’ve been wrong from the very beginning. I suggest you look into this—this Burnsley matter.”

  Mr. Waite turned to Mr. Bouchard. Charles expected some exasperated remark. But the two men only looked at each other in silence. Then Mr. Waite said, remotely: “Very well, Mr. Wittmann. I accept your decision. What do you want for that Burnsley property?”

  Charles had been prepared to name a price which would give him a small but substantial profit. But he had seen the speechless exchange between the other two. Se he named a large price, twice as much as he had intended to name, and even more than the Connington Steel Company had offered for the river property. To his surprise, Mr. Bouchard smiled. Mr. Waite was astonished.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Wittmann.”

  “I’m not anxious to sell the Burnsley land, either,” said Charles. “In fact, for a long time I’ve considered building another shop there, myself. I was ready to do you a favor, but, as you said, you have arranged dinner for six-thirty, and it is that now. Take it or leave it, Mr. Waite.”

  Mr. Bouchard laughed.

  Mr. Waite studied Charles. He decided he detested him. “It almost seems as if you wish to keep the Connington out of this territory, Mr. Wittmann.”

  Charles considered this. He said: “Perhaps you are right, Mr. Waite. We aren’t a very large city. We have small industries, here. We are a peaceful people, Quakers, Mennonites, Pennsylvania Germans. We don’t consider money of paramount importance. We don’t especially want a huge mill like yours, here. You will bring in what we call ‘outsiders.’ Of an unpredictable kind. Call us conservative, if you wish. Call us suspicious of strangers. You are entitled to your opinion.” He cleared his throat. “Mr. Waite, I might call your attention to the fact that if you refuse the Burnsley property you won’t buy anything like it near Andersburg. The Mayor of this city is a personal friend of mine. I have many other influential friends here.”

  Again, Mr. Bouchard laughed. He appeared to be enjoying himself at Mr. Waite’s expense. “Come, come,” he said. “This is degenerating into something disagreeable. That is not the way to do business. Elson, why don’t you agree to Mr. Wittmann’s price, and let us go down to dinner?”

  So, thought Charles, they want that mill here. They need a “great deal of steel.”

  Mr. Waite let his face clear. Charles could see him doing it, determinedly. Mr. Waite smiled pleasantly. “Mr. Wittmann, you have us in a very tight place, and I am afraid you are taking advantage of it. However, I’ll agree to that property. I’ll agree to your price. Shall we shake hands on it?”

  “Of course.” But Charles did not put out his hand. “But before we do that, suppose you write out an agreement?”

  With an air of amused boredom, Mr. Waite went to a distant desk, wrote out an agreement with quick strokes of a pen on the bottom of the paper which Charles had given him. “The company will confirm this within a few days, formally,” he said. He had recovered his politeness. Again, he extended his hand, and Charles took it. The hand felt cold and metallic in his own.

  They went downstairs together, in the steel-lace elevator, murmuring casually for the benefit of the elevator man. The huge dining room was almost full, a blaze of white tablecloths, red velvet draperies, red plush chairs, crystal chandeliers, and gilt everywhere. Charles knew he ought to feel elated, for he had concluded a “smart” piece of business, a really tremendous piece of business. But instead, he was depressed and very weary. He wanted to be rid of these men. He wanted not to see them, or to be in their company.

  Mr. Waite had arranged for a quiet table in a corner, to which they were conducted by an obsequious head-waiter. Charles sat down, in silence, and bitterly contemplated his silver. Mr. Waite and Mr. Bouchard were quite at ease. Mr. Waite, it appeared, had previously arranged for a very fine dinner. Charles, usually vitally interested in food, regarded the excellent roast beef with repulsion. He was not stirred by a mention of the best champagne. If his host and Mr. Bouchard were aware of his taciturn withdrawal, they did not show it. He heard his voice saying a few words. They sounded dull and uninspired, even to himself. I was never a gay conversationalist, he thought, but now I’m really surpassing myself. I sound like a morose bull.

  He knew that Mr. Bouchard was not, himself, a man for dinner repartee. But Mr. Bouchard was doing all he could to make the occasion agreeable. He asked astute questions about Charles’ business, and listened with more than polite interest. There was an honest kindness in his words, a sincerity. Charles found himself responding, in spite of his suspicions. This man might be a powerful and ruthless personality. It was evident, in the movement of his short thick hands, his quiet strength, his lack of elegance. But he was also a man who could reflect, and have his moments of thoughtfulness. Unwillingly, Charles began to like him. The shadow of Colonel Grayson retreated, became a fantastic memory. But Charles could not like Mr. Waite. Charles decided that not only was Mr. Waite a much lesser man than Mr. Bouchard, but a much shallower one, for all his conversational ability, his smoothness, his authoritative air. He lacked Mr. Bouchard’s simple power.

  By the time dessert appeared, and the champagne, Charles’ tightness had somewhat relaxed. Mr. Bouchard had not spoken of the aeroplane steering-control assembly. He had asked only about Charles’ business, had talked only of Andersburg and his good opinion of the city. When Charles asked a question about Bouchard and Sons, Mr. Bouchard answered without hesitation, and with simplicity, as a king might answer about his country, of which he was proud.

  Mr. Bouchard offered Charles a cigar. He took it. He sipped his coffee. Mr. Bouchard settled himself easily in his chair, while Mr: Waite concentrated upon his dessert.

  “Mr. Wittmann,” said Mr. Bouchard, without obliqueness, “I wanted to talk to you about something. Really minor, and of no real importance, perhaps. But we’ve learned, accidentally, that you have some sort of patent for an aeroplane. You haven’t used it, have you? You probably don’t intend to use it. And so I’m wondering if you’d be interested in selling that patent to Bouchard and Sons.”

  CHAPTER X

  There it was. Charles put down his coffee. Colonel Grayson was no longer a shadow. He was a living if invisible presence. All the vague anxieties which had plagued Charles came back. He said in a low voice: “No.”

  Mr. Bouchard was puzzled. “Why not, Mr. Wittmann? You manufacture machine tools. You have that aeroplane patent. You aren’t thinking of going into that business, are you?” He smiled.

  Charles said: “No.”

  No one spoke. Mr. Waite carefully clipped at his cigar. Mr. Bouchard smoked slowly and contemplatively. Then he said: “‘No,’ what, Mr. Wittmann?”

  “I mean, I can’t sell you that patent.”

  “You have a previous offer?” />
  The champagne which Charles had drunk suddenly made him ill. He struggled with his nausea. He heard himself saying: “You might say that I’ve had a ‘previous offer.’”

  “H’m.” Mr. Bouchard was thoughtful. He puffed at his cigar, looked at it with dislike. “I don’t know why I smoke,” he commented. “I never cared about it.” He put the cigar down in the ash tray. “Mr. Wittmann, I know this sounds inquisitive, but would you mind telling me who made the offer to you?”

  Charles raised his eyes. “It was a tentative offer, only.”

  “A bigger concern than Bouchard?” Mr. Bouchard was politely incredulous.

  “No.”

  “Then—” said Mr. Bouchard, cautiously.

  It was a time to keep one’s head. Mr. Bouchard had mentioned an “order.” It was not Charles’ intention to jeopardize that order. But still, he felt very sick. “I just said—Mr. Bouchard, I can’t sell you that patent. You seem to know all about it. It’s in my name, and not in the name of the company.”

  “I’m not in the least interested in aeroplanes, and I don’t know what all this is about,” remarked Mr. Waite, pleasantly. “But Mr. Bouchard is a friend of mine. Put it down as curiosity, Mr. Wittmann, and say that we just are interested in who has made you a ‘previous offer.’”

  The cigar Charles had been smoking was of even better quality than Jochen’s, but Charles could not smoke it now. “I don’t talk about my—customers,” he said. “All I can say at present is that I can’t sell Mr. Bouchard that aeroplane steering-control assembly. You know exactly what it is, don’t you, Mr. Bouchard?”

  Mr. Bouchard considered this for a moment or two. He was frowning at his cigar. He thought: Damn Jules. He ought to have taken care of this, himself. I don’t have the subtlety—He said: “Yes, I know exactly what it is, Mr. Wittmann. We’ve looked over all the patents in Washington. Yours is the best. That is why we are interested. If you refuse, you might regret it. Some other inventor will think up an even better assembly than yours, sometime. Perhaps very soon.”

  “Then, all you have to do is to wait.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t ‘wait.’ We hoped to go into production on that patent very soon. We have our own aeroplane factory—a small one, by the way. You see, Mr. Wittmann, we, like you, believe in America, in experimentation. We believe that the aeroplane has a great commercial future. We want to sell our idea to the American people. We think we can persuade the people to use aeroplanes as regularly as they use the railroads. We may be wrong; but we can try. And Bouchard and Sons make very few mistakes.”

  Charles said, and knew he should not have said it as soon as the words were uttered: “You mean you want the patent for the American people?”

  He was sure he was right when he saw the swift and secret glance between Mr. Waite and Mr. Bouchard. Then Mr. Bouchard was saying reasonably: “Why, of course, Mr. Wittmann. Who else?”

  (Charles heard Colonel Grayson saying: “We can trust you?”)

  He said: “Suppose I sold you the patent with the stipulation it was not to be sold abroad, or lent, or exchanged?”

  Again, that oblique glance ran between the other two men. Charles cursed himself. But Mr. Bouchard was smiling again: “Well, now, Mr. Wittmann, why should you say that? You know very well that that stipulation would be absurd. You, yourself, have lent patents abroad. For instance, you have a special tool for rifle bores. You lent it to Germany. Or was it England?”

  Charles was silent. He felt thick and stupid and dazed. Finally, he muttered: “That was three years ago.” He knew that what he was saying was all wrong. He was betraying himself.

  Mr. Bouchard appeared to be puzzled. “What does it matter when it was, Mr. Wittmann? You are a business man. You know that there can be no restrictions. Frankly, buying the patent from you was only my idea. A very vague but interesting idea. If we bought it, I don’t know if we’d ever use it. Possibly a better one will soon be invented. In the meantime—”

  “No,” said Charles.

  “But you haven’t given me a valid reason.” Mr. Bouchard waited for Charles to speak, but Charles did not. “Mr. Wittmann, you paid $2,000 for that patent. We are prepared to pay you ten thousand.”

  Mr. Waite laughed easily, as if he considered the offer absurd. “Leon!” he exclaimed.

  “I don’t believe you have ‘a previous offer,’” said Mr. Bouchard, bluntly.

  It was an insult, and Charles knew it. On any other occasion he would have replied in kind. But he knew what he knew, and he knew that the others were suspicious and were trying to goad him. So he kept his voice quiet: “Maybe yes, maybe no. I’m not saying, Mr. Bouchard.”

  The waiter poured more champagne. Mr. Bouchard and Mr. Waite watched him with interest. “The best champagne I’ve ever tasted,” observed Bouchard.

  Charles had gone too far; it did not seem to him that it would hurt to go even further, so great was his panic. “Very good champagne, Mr. Bouchard. But I notice that you haven’t drunk any. The waiter had to pour out the first glass he gave you.”

  Mr. Bouchard laughed, all good-humor. “I always get caught when I try to be polite. No, I don’t like wines, or spirits, or any alcohol. It’s my failing. I should, though. I’m of French descent.”

  “French descent,” repeated Charles. “Do you like the French people, Mr. Bouchard?”

  “I flatter myself I am a very tolerant man, Mr. Wittmann,” said Leon, seriously. “I have no racial preferences. When it comes to business, one man’s money is as good as another’s.”

  They hope to smoke me out, thought Charles. He gripped the arm of his chair. It was a naive remark, and a dangerous one, he knew, but he said: “I am an American. I happen to have a preference for Americans.”

  They had caught him, in spite of himself, or because of his folly, and he knew it. For they were staring at him impassively. Mr. Bouchard said, after an interval: “Mr. Wittmann, I understood you were a German.”

  “I am of German extraction. My father and my grandfather left Germany because they preferred a free country. I do, too. I am an American, Mr. Bouchard.”

  Leon had betrayed no Latin characteristics before, but he did so, now. He shrugged, very eloquently. That shrug mysteriously changed his own appearance. His lethargy vanished. His broad and inexpressive face became alive. Yet, he made no gesture, and his voice was still calm: “I’m thinking of America, too, Mr. Wittmann. I’m thinking of American industry, of American expansion and experimentation. That’s why I want to buy your patent. And, frankly, I don’t understand your inexplicable objection to selling it to

  Charles paused. “Maybe the patent is very valuable. I want to think about it. I want to do the best for my company. Perhaps we may go into the aeroplane business, ourselves, if it’s suddenly so important.”

  Once again, the peculiar flash passed between Mr. Bouchard and Mr. Waite. They were puzzled, Charles thought, with relief. He had put them off the track.

  Mr. Bouchard said: “Well, no one in America is as big as Bouchard and Sons. And I can assure you that no one else would ever make you the offer we are making you now. See here, Mr. Wittmann, I have another idea. Keep your patent. But make the assembly for us. We’ll supply you with the necessary materials, if you wish. You can make the assembly for us. It’ll be a very large order, I assure you. Rather inconvenient for us, but we are reasonable people.”

  Charles asked: “Is that the order you mentioned before, Mr. Bouchard?”

  Leon shook his head. “No. The sawing machines you made for us a couple of years ago—the patent of which you hold—were excellent. I intend to give you an order for more of them, many more of them. But we’ll discuss that later. However, let’s be reasonable. You haven’t offered a single valid reason why you won’t sell us that patent. And I take it you won’t make the assembly for us?”

  Charles nodded. “You’re right, Mr. Bouchard. The patent is mine. I’m not going to sell it. And I’m not going to make the assembly for you. I’m sorr
y, but I have my reasons.”

  “You could tell me what they are?”

  But Charles shook his head. He had handled this all wrong. They were making him feel so witless and crass and ignorant. And then he knew that this was their intention.

  “Mr. Bouchard, you’re asking very leading questions. You surely don’t expect me, as a business man, to answer them, do you? I’ve told you all I could: Others have expressed an interest in that patent. I’m a cautious man. I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps I could do better, myself, with that patent. I’ve thought of manufacturing it, myself—”

  “For whom?” asked Mr. Bouchard, quickly.

  Charles was silenced. He knew he had to speak, however, and to speak naturally. He hated himself for his slow thinking, his measured thinking.

  “I don’t know. Mr. Bouchard, I have inherited some German characteristics. I’m not volatile. I take time to consider. I do nothing hastily. You might even say I’m cautious, or cunning. That’s what the French say about the Germans, don’t they?”

  “I didn’t say that, Mr. Wittmann,” replied Mr. Bouchard, gravely. His eyes were very intent, now, upon Charles. They had lost their dull, uninterested expression. “I’ve never underestimated you. You are a very intelligent man. So, I’m afraid that your evasions aren’t impressing me that you are ‘cautious’ or ‘cunning.’”

  Charles was terribly afraid. Everything he had done and said had been wrong, all wrong. Bouchard was on the track of something. He was full of suspicion. He was deeply engrossed.

  Charles tried to laugh. “You first insult me, then try to flatter me, Mr. Bouchard. I do these things myself, when I’m trying to convince some obdurate customer, or somebody. Usually, it works very well.”

  But Mr. Bouchard’s gravity increased. He leaned his short thick elbows on the table, and bent towards Charles. Mr. Waite was listening with acute intentness.