Kane and Abel

by Jeffrey Archer

  Abel was not surprised to hear that.

  ‘Mr Leroy has indicated that he has no objection to her selling the stock to a third party, as she feels that at her age she would like to have a little cash to spend. I thought I would apprise you of the situation, Mr Rosnovski, in case you know of someone who might wish to purchase my client’s shares.’

  ‘How much is Miss Leroy hoping to realize for her stock?’ asked Abel.

  ‘Oh, I believe she’d be willing to let it go for as little as sixty-five thousand dollars.’

  ‘Sixty-five thousand dollars is rather high for a stock that has never paid a dividend,’ said Abel. ‘And has no prospect of doing so for some years,’ he added.

  ‘Ah,’ said Curtis Fenton, ‘but you must remember that the value of the eleven hotels should also be taken into consideration.’

  ‘But control of the company would still remain in the hands of Mr Leroy, which makes Miss Leroy’s twenty-five per cent holding nothing but pieces of paper.’

  ‘Come, come, Mr Rosnovski, twenty-five per cent of eleven hotels would be a very valuable asset in return for a mere sixty-five thousand dollars.’

  ‘Not while Mr Leroy has overall control. Offer Miss Leroy forty thousand dollars, Mr Fenton, and I may be able to find you someone who is interested.’

  ‘You don’t think that person might consider going a little higher, do you?’ Mr Fenton’s eyebrow raised on the word higher.

  ‘Not a penny more, Mr Fenton.’

  The bank manager brought his fingertips delicately together, well aware of how much Abel had deposited with the bank.

  ‘In the circumstances, I can only ask Miss Leroy what her response would be to such an offer. I will contact you again as soon as she has instructed me.’

  After he left Curtis Fenton’s office, Abel hurried back to the hotel to double-check his personal holdings. His brokerage account stood at $33,112 and his personal checking account at $3,008. He found it difficult to concentrate on his daily responsibilities, wondering how Miss Leroy would react to his bid and daydreaming about what he would do if he held a 25 per cent interest in the Richmond Group.

  He thought for some time about informing Davis Leroy, fearful that the genial Texan might view him as a threat. But after a couple of days he decided the fairest thing would be to call his boss and tell him exactly what he had in mind.

  ‘I want you to know why I am doing this, Davis. I believe the Richmond Group has a great future, and you can be sure that I’ll work even harder if I know my own money is involved.’ He paused. ‘But if you want to take up that twenty-five per cent yourself, I shall naturally withdraw my bid.’

  To his surprise, the escape ladder was not grasped.

  ‘Well, see here, Abel, if you have that much confidence in the group, go ahead, son, and buy Amy out. I’d be proud to have you for a partner. You’ve earned it. By the way, I’ll be up next week for the Reds-Cubs game. Care to join me?’

  ‘Sure would,’ said Abel. ‘And thank you, Davis - you’ll never have cause to regret your decision.’

  ‘I’m sure I won’t, partner.’

  Abel returned to the bank a week later. This time it was he who asked to see the manager. Once again he sat in the green leather button chair and waited impatiently for Curtis Fenton to speak.

  ‘I am surprised to find,’ began Fenton, not looking at all surprised, ‘that Miss Leroy will accept a bid of forty thousand dollars for her twenty-five per cent holding in the Richmond Group. As I have now secured her agreement, I must ask if you are in a position to disclose your buyer.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Abel confidently. ‘I will be the principal.’

  ‘I see, Mr Rosnovski’ - again not showing any surprise. ‘May I ask how you propose to pay the forty thousand dollars?’

  ‘I shall liquidate my stock holdings and release any spare cash in my personal account, which will leave a shortfall of about four thousand dollars. I hope the bank will be willing to loan me that sum, since you are so confident that the Richmond Group stock is undervalued. In any case, four thousand dollars probably represents nothing more than the bank’s commission on the deal.’

  Curtis Fenton blinked, and tried not to frown. Gentlemen did not usually make that sort of comment in his office; it stung all the more because Abel had the sum exactly right. ‘Will you give me a little time to consider your proposal, Mr Rosnovski?’

  ‘If you wait long enough, I won’t need a loan,’ said Abel. ‘The way the market’s climbing at the moment, my other investments will soon be worth the full forty thousand.’

  Abel had to wait a further week before he was informed that Continental Trust was willing to back him. He immediately cleared both his accounts, and borrowed a little under $4,000 to make up the shortfall on the forty thousand.

  Within six months he had paid off the $4,000 loan by careful buying and selling of stock between March and August 1929, some of the most bullish days the stock market had ever experienced. By September 1929 both his accounts were back in credit, and he even had enough spare cash to buy a new Buick to go with his 25 per cent of the Richmond Group. His holding in Davis Leroy’s empire also gave him the confidence to pursue his daughter and the other 75 per cent.

  A week later, he invited Melanie to a Mozart concert at the Chicago Symphony Hall. Donning his latest suit, which reminded him that he was gaining a little weight, and wearing his first silk tie, he felt confident as he glanced in the mirror that the evening would be a success. After the concert, Abel avoided the Richmond, excellent though its food had become, and escorted Melanie to the Loop for dinner. He was particularly careful to allow her to talk about subjects she felt at ease with: her upcoming degree, and her father, although she also seemed fascinated by the recent success of the hotel. Emboldened, he asked her to join him in his room for a drink. It was the first time she had seen it, and she appeared surprised by how many books were on the shelves, and how many pictures hung on the walls.

  Abel poured the Coca-Cola she requested, dropped two cubes of ice into it and felt a new confidence from the smile that rewarded him when he handed her the glass. He couldn’t help staring briefly at her slim, crossed legs. He poured himself a bourbon and put on the Chicago Symphony Orchestra’s performance of Eine kleine Nachtmusik.

  Abel sat down beside her and reflectively swirled the drink in his glass. ‘For many years I heard no music. When I did, Mozart spoke to my heart as no other composer has done.’

  ‘How very European you sound sometimes, Abel.’ She pulled free the edge of her silk dress, which Abel was sitting on. ‘Who would have thought a hotel manager would have even heard of Mozart?’

  ‘One of my ancestors, the second Baron Rosnovski,’ said Abel, ‘once met the maestro, and became a close friend of the Mozart family, so I have always felt he was part of my life.’

  Melanie’s smile was unfathomable. Abel leaned sideways and kissed her cheek below the ear, where her fair curls were drawn back from her face. ‘Frederick Stock captured the mood of the third movement to perfection, don’t you think?’ he said.

  Abel tried a second kiss. This time she turned her face towards him and allowed herself to be kissed on the lips. Then she drew away.

  ‘I think I ought to be getting back to the university.’

  ‘But you’ve only just arrived,’ said Abel.

  ‘Yes, I know, but I have to be up in time for an early morning class.’

  Abel kissed her again. She fell back on the couch as he tried to move his hand onto her breast. She broke away quickly.

  ‘I must be going, Abel,’ she insisted.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ he said, ‘you don’t have to go yet.’ Once again he pulled her towards him.

  This time she pushed him away more firmly. ‘Abel, what do you think you’re doing? Just because you take me to a concert and buy me an occasional meal doesn’t mean you have the right to maul me.’

  ‘But we’ve been going out for months,’ said Abel. ‘I didn’t think you’d m
ind.’

  ‘We have not been going out for months, Abel. I dine with you occasionally in my father’s hotel, but you shouldn’t construe that to mean there’s anything between us.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Abel. ‘The last thing I wanted you to think was that I was going too far. I simply wanted you to know how I feel.’

  ‘I would never consider starting a relationship with a man,’ she said, ‘who I wasn’t going to marry.’

  ‘But I do want to marry you,’ said Abel quietly.

  Melanie burst out laughing.

  ‘What’s so funny about that?’ he asked, sitting bolt upright.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Abel, I could never marry you.’

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Abel, shocked by the finality of her statement.

  ‘A southern lady would never consider marrying a first-generation Polish immigrant,’ she replied, pushing her silk dress back into place.

  ‘But I am a baron,’ said Abel, a little haughtily.

  Melanie burst out laughing again. ‘You don’t think anybody believes that, do you, Abel? Don’t you realize the whole staff laughs behind your back whenever you mention your title?’

  Abel was stunned, his face draining of all colour. ‘They laugh at me behind my back?’ he repeated. His normally slight accent had become pronounced.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Surely you know that your nickname in the hotel is the Chicago Baron.’

  Abel was speechless.

  ‘Now, don’t be silly and get all self-conscious about it, Abel. I think you’ve done a wonderful job for Daddy, and I know he admires you, but I could never marry you.’

  ‘You could never marry me,’ Abel said quietly.

  ‘Of course not. Daddy likes you, but he wouldn’t want a Polack as a son-in-law.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have offended you,’ said Abel, rising from the sofa.

  ‘You haven’t, Abel. I’m flattered. Let’s forget you ever raised the subject. Perhaps you would be kind enough to take me back to the university?’

  Somehow he managed to walk across and help Melanie on with her cloak. He became more conscious of his limp as he escorted her down the corridor. They went down in the elevator, and neither spoke as he drove her to the university. He parked the car and accompanied her to the front lodge, where he kissed her hand.

  ‘I do hope this doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends,’ said Melanie.

  ‘Of course not,’ he managed.

  ‘Thank you for taking me to the concert, Abel. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble in finding a nice Polish girl to marry you. Good night.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Abel.

  On March 21, 1929, Blair and Company announced its merger with the Bank of America, the third in a series of bank consolidations that seemed to point to a brighter tomorrow. On March 25, Tony Simmons sent William a note pointing out that the market had broken another all-time record, and proceeded to invest even more of the bank’s money into stocks. By then William had sold seventy-five per cent of his stock, a move that had already cost him more than $2 million - and one that clearly worried Alan Lloyd.

  ‘I hope to goodness you know what you’re doing, William.’

  Alan, I’ve been beating the stock market since I was fourteen, and I’ve always done it by bucking the trend.’

  But as the market continued to climb through the summer of 1929, even William stopped selling, and began to wonder if Tony Simmons’s judgement had been right all along.

  As the time for Alan Lloyd’s retirement drew nearer, Simmons’s undisguised ambition to succeed him as chairman began to take on the look of a fait accompli. The prospect troubled William, who considered Simmons’s thinking far too conventional. He was always a yard behind the rest of the market, which is fine during boom years when investments are going well, but can be disastrous in leaner, more competitive times. A shrewd investor, in William’s opinion, did not just run with the herd, thundering or otherwise, but worked out in advance the direction in which that herd would be turning next. William still felt that the stock market looked risky, while Simmons was convinced that America was entering a golden era.

  William’s other problem was that Tony Simmons was only forty-three, and if he was appointed chairman of Kane and Cabot, William could not hope to succeed him for at least another twenty years. That hardly fitted in with what Harvard described as ‘one’s career pattern’.

  Despite these distractions, the image of Katherine Brookes continually interrupted his thoughts. He wrote to her as often as he could about the sale of her stocks and bonds: formal typewritten letters that elicited no more than formal handwritten responses. She must have thought he was the most conscientious banker on Wall Street. Then, early in the fall, she wrote to tell him that she had found a buyer for the Florida estate. William wrote requesting that she allow him to negotiate the terms of the sale on the bank’s behalf. She agreed by return of post.

  William took the train to Florida a week later. During the journey he had begun to wonder if his image of Mrs Brookes would turn out to be an illusion, and he stepped off the train with some apprehension, only to be overwhelmed by how much more beautiful she appeared in person than in his recollection. The slight wind blew her black dress against her body as she stood waiting on the platform, revealing a silhouette that ensured that every man except William would look at her a second time. William’s eyes never left her.

  She was still in mourning, and her manner towards him was so reserved and correct that William initially despaired of making any impression. He spun out the negotiations with the farmer who was purchasing Buckhurst Park for as long as he could, and persuaded Katherine to retain one-third of the sale price while the bank took the other two-thirds. Finally, after the legal papers were signed, he could find no more excuses for not returning to Boston. He invited her to dinner at his hotel on the final evening, determined to reveal something of his feelings for her. Not for the first time, she took him by surprise. Before he had broached the subject she asked him, twirling her glass to avoid looking at him, if he would like to stay at Buckhurst Park for the weekend.

  ‘A chance for us to talk about something other than finance,’ she suggested. William remained silent.

  Finally she found the courage to continue. ‘The strange thing is that I seem to have enjoyed the last few days more than any time I can remember.’ She blushed again. ‘I’ve expressed that badly, and you’ll think the worst of me.’

  William’s pulse quickened. ‘Katherine, I’ve wanted to say something like that for the past eight months.’

  ‘Then you’ll stay for a few days?’

  ‘You bet I will,’ said William, taking her hand.

  That night she installed him in a guest bedroom at Buck-hurst Park. William would always look back on those days as a golden interlude in his life. He rode with Katherine, and she out-jumped him. He swam with her, and she out-distanced him. He walked with her, and always needed to turn back first. Finally he resorted to playing poker with her, and won $3.5 million over the weekend.

  ‘Will you take a cheque?’ she said grandly.

  ‘You forget, I know what you’re worth, Mrs Brookes. But I’ll make a deal with you. You have to go on playing until you’ve won it all back.’

  ‘That may take some time.’

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ said William.

  He found himself telling Kate of long-forgotten incidents from his past, things he had never discussed even with Matthew - his respect for his father, his love for his mother, his blind hatred of Henry Osborne, his ambitions for Kane and Cabot. She in turn told him of her childhood in Boston, her school days in Virginia and her early marriage to Max Brookes.

  When they said goodbye at the station, he kissed her for the first time.

  ‘Kate, I’m going to say something very presumptuous. I hope one day you’ll feel the same about me as you did about Max.’

  ‘I already do,’ she said quietly.

  William touched her cheek. ‘D
on’t stay out of my life for another eight months.’

  ‘I can’t - you’ve sold my house.’

  On the journey back to Boston, feeling happier and more settled than at any time since his father’s death, William drafted a report on the sale of Buckhurst Park, his mind returning continually to Kate and the past few days. Just before the train drew into South Station, he scribbled a quick note in his illegible handwriting.

  Kate,

  I find I’m missing you already, and it’s only been a few hours. Please write and let me know when you’ll be coming to Boston. Meanwhile I’ll be getting back to work, and may be able to put you out of my mind for quite long periods of time (i.e. 10+/- 5 minutes) at a stretch.

  Love,

  William

  P.S. You still owe me $17.5 million dollars.

  He had just dropped the envelope into the mailbox on Charles Street when all thoughts of Kate were driven from his mind by the cry of a newsboy.

  ‘Wall Street Collapse!’

  William seized a copy of the paper and rapidly skimmed the front page. The market had plummeted overnight. Some financiers were saying it was nothing more than a readjustment; William saw it as the beginning of the landslide he had been predicting for months. He hurried to the bank, and almost ran to the chairman’s office.

  ‘I’m confident that the market will recover during the next few weeks,’ Alan Lloyd said soothingly.

  ‘No it won’t,’ said William. ‘The market is stretched to its limit. Overloaded with small investors who thought they would make a quick buck and are now going to have to run for cover. Can’t you see the balloon is about to burst? I’m going to sell every stock in my possession. By the end of the year the bottom will have dropped out of the market. I did warn the board in February, Alan.’

  ‘I still don’t agree with you, William, but I’ll call a full board meeting immediately, so we can discuss your views in greater detail.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said William. He returned to his office, and immediately picked up the telephone on his desk.