Balance Wheel

by Taylor Caldwell

  Then at a long distance he heard the faint and mournful music of a street organ. He stopped, involuntarily, and listened. He knew that music; he had heard it from Jimmy’s gramophone. It was the Miserere.

  He listened. Down the long and purple aisles of the streets the music drifted. The lament for men.

  CHAPTER XLIV

  Charles stopped in at the home of his friend Dr. Metzger just as the latter was opening his office. It was only half-past eight. “Gustave,” said Charles, “I feel like hell. And today I’m no use at all. I’ve got to be; I have to do perhaps the most serious thing I’ve ever done in my life, and I’m shaking like a leaf. Can you give me something to quiet me down for a few hours at least?”

  Dr. Metzger regarded him with anxiety. “Sit down, Charlie,” he said, trying not to sound too alarmed. “Still not sleeping, eh? Well. Let’s see what I can do for you.” He went into his laboratory. Charles, exhausted, leaned his elbow on the doctor’s desk. Two newspapers were there, one the extra edition gotten out last night by the Clarion, and the other by the morning paper. The Clarion screamed in huge black headlines: “ARCHDUKE OF AUSTRIA AND WIFE MURDERED TODAY IN SARAJEVO!” But the morning paper had only a single column on the left-hand side of the paper, and the heading read, simply, “Murdered in Sarajevo: Austrian Archduke and wife.”

  The Clarion shouted and ejaculated in three front-page columns. The morning paper referred to the whole story as “another mess in the Balkans.”

  Later, Charles was to wonder if the Clarion had been the only paper in the happy, newly prosperous and baseball-absorbed country which had been endowed with any prophetic vision at all. Certainly, he found out in the following few weeks, no other paper had taken June 28, 1914, too seriously.

  Charles had not read the Clarion’s unprecedented Sunday night extra edition. He opened the paper to see if there was any editorial comment on the murders. There was. Charles’ tired eyes swam as he read: “There will be very few people today in America who will realize that this dastardly assassination is the overture to a universal calamity.” He put aside the paper. Dr. Metzger was entering the office with a glass of water and two pills in his hand.

  Charles obediently swallowed the pills. Then he sat there, gasping a little, while Dr. Metzger took his blood pressure, and pursed his lips at the reading. The doctor sat down, thoughtfully tapped his fingers on his desk. “Better go slow, Charlie. You say you’ve got to do something today. ‘Serious.’ Put it off until you calm down. You’re not doing so well. Why don’t you go home and go to bed for a couple of days?”

  “Can’t,” replied Charles, impatiently. He pointed at the Clarion’s headline. “What do you think of that?”

  The doctor considered the Clarion, and then the morning paper. He shook his head. “Maybe Grimsley’s too excited. ‘Universal calamity.’ Has he been reading a crystal ball, or something?” But the doctor’s face was worried.

  “You know Grimsley’s right,” said Charles.

  “Now, now, Charlie. I knew the Clarion before Grimsley became editor, and it had a lot of common sense. Grimsley’s got a nose for news. But you know how he plays up the least little thing. Someone gets into a hunting accident, and Grimsley hints, in headlines, that perhaps it was murder. Charlie, you go home and read about the Giants, or something.” He pointed his finger at Charles. “How long do you think your heart and blood vessels are going to stand the strain you’re putting on them?

  “How’s Jimmy?” he continued, smiling affectionately as he always did when Charles’ son was mentioned.

  Charles buttoned his coat. He tucked a newspaper under his arm. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about Jimmy,” he said. He looked down at the Clarion’s headlines.

  “Now, now,” said the doctor, again.

  It was Charles’ intention to send for Jochen the moment he arrived at the office. But Friederich was already waiting for him there, and he was in a frightful condition. His cheek twitched as Charles had not seen it twitch for months. He was ghastly pale, and his lips were purplish, and there were dark marks under his eyes. He had the Clarion open on his knees, and when he saw Charles he jumped up and cried: “It’s come!”

  Charles sat down. The sedative had given him some calm. He said: “Yes.”

  Friederich began to run up and down the office, distracted. “No one will believe it! I never liked Grimsley, because of his sneers at Socialism, but he’s right, this time.” All his wild fanaticism had returned, and Charles knew what the romantic description of one’s heart “sinking” really meant. Socialism. Friederich had not mentioned the word for months.

  “Only a Socialized world could have prevented this!” he exclaimed. “But a greedy Capitalistic world has caused this catastrophe, and all the catastrophes that’ll follow it.” He stopped beside Charles, and panted. Charles closed his eyes for a moment. He tried to find the right words. Then, his eyes still closed, he said faintly: “It’s the world, Fred, just the world of men. It always is.”

  Friederich flung himself into a chair. “You—” he began. Charles lifted his hand. “I just met George Hadden on the street a few minutes ago,” he said. He did not open his eyes, but he felt an uneasy quiet fall on his brother. “He told me he had taken you to the Park, yesterday, with Helen, in his new automobile. Incidentally, that was a wonderful speech you made. Wonderful,” he added, and he heard his own voice with sincerity. “Armageddon. Yes. You prophesied it. And you know why, and it hasn’t anything to do with Capitalism, or anything. You said so, yourself. It’s just men.”

  Friederich opened his mouth to speak, then he closed it

  “Wonderful speech,” repeated Charles. “Hope you have a copy of it. It ought to be printed. Helen Hadden told me afterwards that it was the most moving thing she’d ever heard.”

  He opened his eyes. Friederich was almost smiling, but his color was still very bad and his misery was still very evident. He said: “Thank you, Karl.”

  Charles spread the newspaper he had been carrying open to a certain page. He struggled with the lassitude which the pills had given him. The most serious day in his life, perhaps. He could not fail, he dared not fail. Inwardly he prayed: You’ve got to help me. God Almighty, You’ve got to help me!

  He pointed to a photograph. “See this, Fred? Recognize this man?”

  Friederich, who was stiff and rigid with agitation, bent forward and looked at the photograph. “It’s Herman Belz,” he said. He looked at the date, three days ago. “I read it. One of his best speeches.”

  Oh, God, thought Charles. “I saw this man, here in Andersburg, the day Willie died,” he said.

  Friederich was incredulous. “Impossible! Belz has not been in Andersburg since—since a year ago.”

  Charles said, with quiet savagery: “Yes, he was. I met him. He was going up to Brinkwell’s in old Harry Hoffmann’s hack, and the Ford was stuck in the mud. I helped get it out.”

  “Brinkwell?” Friederich was aghast, and disbelieving. “Impossible!”

  “Not impossible. Fred, can you think of any reason why he’d be visiting Brinkwell, knowing what Brinkwell is, and what he’s doing?”

  Friederich jumped up again, in wild excitement. “You are mistaken, Karl! He wrote me, about three days before Wilhelm died. He was in Chicago, and he said he could not come to Andersburg for some time.”

  “He was here,” said Charles. “He tried not to show himself.” And then he told Friederich of the incident on the mountain road. He looked into Friederich’s flickering eyes as he did so, and held them, and Friederich knew that he spoke the truth. Friederich fell once more into his chair, and if he had been an appalling color before, his color was even more terrifying now. As Charles had done, he closed his eyes. Fine beads of sweat appeared over his lips and on his forehead.

  “It’s all part of the picture,” said Charles, in conclusion. “And that’s why I wanted to see you today. Fred, you must listen to me. Today, we must come to a decision.”

  But Friederich
, shaken and distraught, kept his eyes shut. “Belz—and Brinkwell,” he murmured.

  “The man isn’t what you think he is,” said Charles. “But I think you knew he wasn’t, a long time ago. You were miserable, because you knew instinctively that he’s one of the men who are trying to destroy all of us.”

  Friederich’s hands clenched and unclenched. He said, simply: “I think I’m going to be sick.” He opened his eyes and looked at Charles with the desperate expression of a mortally stricken child. “I’m going to be sick,” he repeated. And then he actually retched.

  Innocent, thought Charles, with despairing pity. He reached across his desk and took his brother’s arm firmly. “No, you’re not,” he said. “There’s too much to be done, today, and I need your help. Today’s the day you’ve got to trust me. Fred, control yourself, and listen.”

  “I’m controlling myself. I’m listening.” Friederich’s voice shook. He put his hands over his face, pressed very hard, dragged his hands down. His fingers left red welts on the yellowish skin. Then he braced his thin shoulders, took out his handkerchief, and wiped his damp forehead. “I’ve had a blow. But I’m listening, Karl.”

  “You’re due for a worse one, so prepare yourself,” said Charles. “Today, unless you help me, we’re all done. There’ll be nothing left in a few weeks, or months. Nothing for you; nothing for me.”

  Friederich looked at him, affrighted. “What are you saying, Karl?” he stammered.

  Charles was laying a long sheaf of papers on his desk, bound in blue. “I’m not using hysterical words, Fred. I’m stating a very simple fact.” He pointed to the papers. “Our father’s will. Let me quote you a section.” Then he read: “‘In full knowledge of the natures of all my sons, I hereby make this provision: In the event one of my sons takes any action what-soever which will jeopardize my company, which will militate against the financial welfare of this company, to the financial or other ruin of my sons, then the majority of my sons are hereby commanded to oust the offending member and pay him a reasonable and just sum for his interest in the said company, said sum to be established by the majority of my sons, and at least one appraiser.’”

  Friederich listened in dull stupefaction, his handkerchief clenched in one of his hands.

  “You knew this provision,” said Charles. “You heard it read by the lawyers. Now the time has come. Listen, for God’s sake. Listen very carefully.”

  Friederich nodded, dumbly.

  Then Charles began to talk. The warm sunlight lay on the windows of the office. It expanded. Then it spread. It touched Charles’ back. It seeped onto the desk. Finally it rose higher and struck on Friederich’s ghostly face. Charles talked on, doggedly. He kept his voice quiet. He told everything. He told of what he had learned from Oliver Prescott and George Hadden, and when he mentioned Phyllis’ name his voice remained without emotion.

  Friederich did not speak at all, not to ask a single question, not to make a single exclamation. He made not the slightest gesture of disbelief, or objection. He just sat there. Even when the sun was full in his staring eyes he did not turn aside. Charles’ words beat relentlessly on his ears. He saw Charles’ face, ruthless and cold.

  The sun was fingering the opposite wall when Charles came to the end. “And there you have it all,” he said. “You knew some of it, to some extent. But you didn’t know how far the villainy had gone, and how complete it was.”

  He fumbled for the small bottle Dr. Metzger had given him over two hours ago. He took it out of his pocket and looked at it. He shook two pills out into the palm of his hand. Then he said: “Get me a glass of water, Fred. I don’t think I can stand up.”

  It was this one remark that convinced Friederich more than anything else that Charles had been telling the truth, and only the truth. Then he went to the water-bottle and brought Charles a glass of water. He stood over Charles, still trembling, and watched his brother swallow the pills. Charles’ shoulders were sagging, and now, for the first time, Friederich felt pity for Charles, the deep pity for a brother who is suffering, and it gave him strength.

  He put his hand on Charles’ shoulder, awkwardly. His voice was uncertain with this alien compassion, this sense of being stronger than Charles just now, this conviction that Charles needed him and could do nothing without him: “Karl, try to be calm. You are ill. You ought to have told me before. Did you not know you could trust me?”

  Something broke in Charles. He put down the glass. He looked up at Friederich. Then he put his own hand on the hand on his shoulder. “I knew,” he said. “I knew I could rely upon you.” And it seemed to himself that he spoke sincerely.

  Friederich sat down. “All those months,” he said. “You had all this in you. But you did not speak. Did you think I was so—so wretched a brother that you couldn’t trust me?” He paused. “But I was. I was.”

  Charles could say nothing. He leaned back in his chair and spread his hands flat on the desk.

  Friederich’s strength grew, as Charles’ declined. “We have no other way,” said Friederich. “Jochen must go. He must be told at once. No, you are not well enough. Tomorrow—”

  “No,” said Charles. “Now.” He touched the bell on his desk. “I can’t stand another day of this.” Parker came in, and Charles, almost weakly, said: “Please ask Mr. Jochen to come in at once, Parker.”

  The sedative began to work again. Charles’ eyes closed heavily. He heard Jochen come in, with his ponderous tread. Then he opened his eyes. The two brothers looked at each other in a long silence across the desk. Jochen ignored Friederich.

  “Well,” he said.

  He must have known, Charles remembered, later. Nothing else could have accounted for his profound and sudden loss of color. Nothing else could have caused that sudden shrinking of facial skin and muscles. Jochen sat down in another chair. But he did not cross his knees easily. He sat straight and massive and stiff, his clenched hands on his knees. “Well?” he said again.

  Charles lifted his father’s will, pointed to the section he had read to Friederich, and said: “Perhaps you remember this?”

  Jochen did not take the paper immediately. He seemed fascinated, paralyzed, by Charles’ expression. He gave Friederich a glance. Then he made a very slight movement. This was not the Friederich he knew. Still staring at Friederich, he took the paper, and then he read the section Charles had indicated.

  If possible, his color became even paler. He licked his lips. The paper shook in his hands. Then he put it down. “What—what has that to do with me?” he asked.

  “Everything,” Charles said. “Joe, you’re through. You are out, out of the Wittmann Machine Tool Company. You know why. Let’s not waste time talking about it.”

  The papers literally fell on Charles’ desk from Jochen’s big hands.

  “Are you insane?” he stuttered.

  “No,” said Charles. “And you know I’m not. I was, on Saturday, after I learned what you had been saying about me and about—about me, all over town. That, on top of what I already knew about you and Brinkwell. And the Connington. And your plot to destroy our father’s company, and make it a subsidiary of the Connington, with yourself, probably, as president. That, on top of knowing how you tried to set Willie against me, to make yourselves a majority to get me out. You discounted Fred, here. You thought, at the last, that he was weak, that he could be pulled in by you, when you were ready to tell all your lies to him. You were just about ready, when Willie died, weren’t you?”

  He said, when Jochen did not answer him: “Yes, I was insane, on Saturday. I wanted to kill you. I might have, if I’d found you. But you were with Brinkwell, weren’t you? I made sure of that.”

  The ruddy Wittmann color did not return to Jochen’s face, but all at once its expression was ferocious with hatred. He seemed to swell. His jaws bulged. He clenched his fist and began to beat it very slowly but meatily on Charles’ desk. He looked at Charles, and his eyes were full of malignance.

  “All right,” he said. “Y
ou’ve told your own lies to this—this imitation of a man. Now, I have something to say, myself, and when I’ve said it you’ll give it a lot of thought. A lot of thought.”

  “There’s nothing to say,” said Charles. “I refuse to allow you to say anything. Fred and I are agreed that you’re getting out. You can’t set aside the provisions of that will. Fred and I are a majority. Aren’t we?” He turned to Friederich. Jochen automatically turned, also.

  Friederich did not hesitate. “We are,” he said. Fascinated again, Jochen stared at him.

  “And I am the executor of Willie’s will,” said Charles. “I have been given authority in that will to do what I wish, in so far as Willie’s share is concerned. I have power of attorney. I don’t want to protract this, Joe. Just—get out. You’ll have your share in cash, in a week or so.”

  Then he said: “Or do you want to make a public issue of this, in the courts, Joe? Do you want me to drag in Brinkwell’s name, too? Do you know what will happen, then? Brinkwell wouldn’t give you a look after that. He has his own name to protect, and the name of the Connington. Just go, quietly, and take your money when it’s ready. Go quietly, and Brinkwell will give you a job in the Connington. After all, you can be valuable to him; you’re an able man. Besides, if you keep your mouth shut, he wouldn’t dare not to make it up to you handsomely. But just talk, Joe. Just force me to take this to the courts. And Joe, that’ll be the end of you.”

  He pointed at his brother, with one implacable finger. “Joe, don’t tempt me. You are tempting me, now. You are driving me dangerously to the point where I’ll forget you’re my father’s son, too. Don’t do it, Joe. I don’t want to do this to you.”

  Charles’ voice had been quiet, but Jochen heard its undertones. Now terror returned to him, and rage, and hatred. He stood up.

  “Is that so?” he shouted. “You’ve talked and talked, like the smug rascal you are. But I have something to say! I’ll say it, too, and you can’t stop me. Or”—and now he leaned towards Charles—“would you like me to have my day in court, too?”