Executive Suite (11 page)

Don wondered if there might be a hidden meaning in Avery Bullard's use of the word “ripe.” The year after the war he found out. He was brought back to Millburgh to head the new Design and Development department, responsible for styling and product development work for all nine factories.

Don Walling's return to Millburgh had not turned out to be the triumphal ascent that he expected. There had been a difficult period of personal adjustment. As general manager of the Pittsburgh plant, he had been at the top of the heap, with almost total authority. In Millburgh, he was only the junior member of the executive staff, hemmed in by the carefully guarded lines that marked the delegation of responsibility to a dozen other department heads. Even after he was given his vice-presidency, he still sat at the foot of the directors' table, outranked by all of the others. He had anticipated his return to designing with considerable pleasure, excited by the possibilities of centralized design control over nine factories, but Grimm and Dudley had thwarted most of his first efforts. Grimm had said that since the factories were all oversold as it was, there was no need to waste the money that putting out new models would entail, and Dudley had agreed that his sales department didn't want to extend the length of the line. Product development work had continually faced handicaps that grew out of the same situation. There was no laboratory building and experimental tests had to be made in the factories. The only way that new processes could be worked out was to stop production on a factory line and, as Shaw pointed out, and the others agreed, that would mean a cut in output and higher costs.

Until these last few months, Don Walling had felt no serious concern about the attitude of the other vice-presidents. It was Avery Bullard's attitude that really mattered and the president had always backed him up, ordering at least a few new patterns into the line every season, and a continuation of development work on the molding process as well as the experimentation that was underway on a new finishing method and a new dry-kiln design. Of late, however, Walling had sensed that Bullard's support was being given with greater and greater reluctance. It seemed that there had been a progressive weakening of the president's driving urge for constant improvement.

In the last month, Don Walling had been called to Avery Bullard's office only twice and neither time had he felt the energizing stimulus that contact with the president had always given him before. The last conference had been the most unsatisfactory of all. He had gone up with a layout of the new finishing process and an armful of experimental samples showing what could be done with it. Avery Bullard had hardly looked at them. He had spent all of the time discussing a memorandum from Shaw which recommended that all development effort for the rest of the year be concentrated on projects that would have a direct effect on immediate profits. In the end, Don Walling won a partial victory—Bullard agreed that the work on the molding process should continue—but he had left the president's office with the disquieting feeling that, more and more, Avery Bullard's most admirable qualities were being destroyed by the comptroller's unrelenting drive to squeeze out the last penny of net profit from current operations. That had never been Avery Bullard's way of management. It was not the way he had built the Tredway Corporation.

Now, riding up in the elevator, Don Walling's thoughts were more of Shaw than of Avery Bullard, and the disappointment-born anger with which he had forced himself to leave the factory was transferred to the man who sat behind the closed door that he faced as he stepped off on the twenty-third floor.

“Meeting six o'clock, Mr. Walling,” Luigi said importantly.

“I know, Luigi. Thank you.”

5.53 P.M. EDT

During the minutes that had just passed, Loren P. Shaw had looked at his multi-dialed watch so frequently that an observer, if there had been one present, might easily have judged him to be afflicted with a severe nervous disorder. There was no observer. Shaw was alone in his office and acutely conscious of his solitude. The muffled sounds that came through the wall told him that the other vice-presidents were gathering in Alderson's office, as they frequently did before an executive committee meeting, to compare speculations on what Avery Bullard's next move might be.

Shaw knew that any attempt to outguess the unpredictable Mr. Bullard was a futile waste of time, yet he always found it difficult to restrain himself from joining his fellow vice-presidents' guessing circle. The fact that he had not once done so since Fitzgerald's death represented a triumph of reason over emotion. An executive's rank was measured by the offices he entered. If you went to another man's office instead of forcing him to come to yours, you openly acknowledged his superior status.

According to Loren Shaw's battle plan, the resistance of every such temptation was the winning of another skirmish that carried him one step closer to the executive vice-presidency. His eventual selection, of course, was inevitable—Bullard could not possibly pick anyone else as executive vice-president, it was obvious that none of the others were even remotely qualified—yet every day that it could be moved nearer meant the elimination of another twenty-four hours of tortured waiting.

Deeper in Loren Shaw's mind, too deep for completely conscious recognition, was the fear of what might happen in that moment after he opened the door of Alderson's office, when all eyes would be upon him, when he might be forced to recognize that there was no warmth in their greeting, no invitation to share their fellowship.

Even subconscious thought never passed that point because Loren Shaw had, as an instinctive measure of self-protection, solidly blocked his mind against the acknowledgment that he was not liked by other men. Since that day in high school when he had been defeated in an election for treasurer of the sophomore class, he had always avoided any situation where he might be demeaned by the worthless opinions of superficial fools.

Fighting against the tugging forces that held Loren Shaw in his own office was the full strength of a personal characteristic that was the dominating force in his life. He was an extremely inquisitive man. Curiosity is a normal human trait but in Loren Shaw it had been developed to abnormal proportions. When anyone else knew something that he did not know, particularly when that knowledge might have even an indirect bearing on his own personal future, he was driven to an emotional pitch that frequently pressed the limits of his endurance. Back in his high school days there had been several occasions when he had become physically ill while waiting for the announcement of examination results, despite the fact that he was always absolutely certain that he had made a top grade.

During this last hour and a half, Loren Shaw had endured the constantly mounting torture of not knowing why Avery Bullard had called a special meeting of the executive committee. Nervous perspiration had dampened the palms of his hands again and he opened his desk to take another fresh linen handkerchief from the supply that he kept in the carved teakwood box that fitted the bottom drawer. It was the tenth handkerchief that he had used that day, a necessary extravagance that he placed in the same category with his suits, all of which were made by the New York tailor who, according to
Fortune
magazine, confined his patronage to the nation's top industrial executives.

Loren Shaw closed the drawer on the slightly rumpled handkerchief, moving noiselessly to avoid the possibility of missing any sound that might come through the wall. There were no intelligible words but he could distinguish Walt Dudley's muffled voice and the low rumble of Jesse Grimm's answering laughter.

Shaw's thin lips curled in distaste. Dudley had told another of those moronic stories of his … still carrying on like a road salesman instead of a vice-president of the Tredway Corporation … blabbering fool! At least Jesse Grimm had the good sense to keep his mouth shut most of the time. But neither of them mattered … they were both out of the running … so was that old fuddy-duddy Alderson.

Once again, as it had a thousand times since Fitzgerald's death, the sharp needle of Shaw's mind found the same groove in the same record and he heard the same answer … Loren P. Shaw, Executive Vice-President. There
was
no other answer. There couldn't be! It was like a simple problem in mathematics. You could work it a dozen ways but the answer was always the same.

But now, in the same groove of the same record, came the unavoidable question and the equally unavoidable fear that always trailed it … why was Bullard delaying?

With every asking that question had squeezed out another drop of resentment, until now Loren Shaw's mind was brimming with the acid of long-distilled anger. He hated Avery Bullard with the special hatred of the tortured for the torturer. He hated him for the calculated cruelty that he had inflicted with these months of waiting, for his damnable secrecy, for going to New York without saying a word about what he was doing, for calling an executive meeting with no one knowing why.

No one? Shaw stiffened, apprehensively. Did they know in that office beyond the wall? Did Grimm know … or Alderson … or Dudley or Walling? Walling? No, he hadn't heard Walling's voice. He must not be there. Wasn't this the night that Walling was running that factory test of the molding process? Yes, this was Friday. That meant Walling wouldn't be at the executive committee meeting. Of course not … Bullard would never insist on his fair-haired favorite inconveniencing himself!

Shaw reacted instantly. This was his chance! For two weeks he had been holding a special budget report showing that Walling had already overrun the first half budget for experimental work by $6254.18—and on top of that he had a special $6000 appropriation pending for some old press that he wanted rebuilt and set up at Pike Street. Shaw had not sent the report to the president's office because he knew that Avery Bullard would have brushed it aside. But reading the memorandum in executive committee meeting would give the matter an entirely different status. Once entered on the minutes it could not be disregarded … and tonight Walling wouldn't be there to soft-soap himself out of trouble. It was about time that somebody tripped him up … he had bilked Avery Bullard long enough. Of course they all did it … Alderson and Grimm and Dudley, too … slipping in to the president's office all the time for those secret little conferences of theirs … but Walling was the worst, the worst by far!

The sound of shuffling chairs came through the wall and Shaw glanced at his watch. Five-fifty-six … four minutes … the others were going up now. He could still wait one more minute. Then he could be sure that they would all be in the directors' room when he entered. Ever since Fitzgerald's death, Loren Shaw had made a point of timing his meeting entrances so that the others would be forced to look up at his entrance, demanding their acknowledgment that he was the acting executive vice-president, even though there had been a delay in the formality of his election.

His watch told him now that he dared not wait a second longer. Hurriedly snatching up a fresh handkerchief and the special budget report, he started out of the door and up the steps, setting his face in the same studied smile of quizzical inquiry that he had noted so often on the portraits of industrial leaders appearing on the covers of
Business Week
magazine.

As his eyes came level with the upper floor, Loren Shaw saw that his plan had doubly miscarried. The other vice-presidents were still standing outside the door of the directors' room, forming a half-circle with Miss Martin at its focus … and Walling was there! Their eyes were away from him, so he carefully folded the budget report and put it in his breast pocket. Timing was important … this wasn't the time.

Erica Martin's voice faded in as he reached the head of the staircase and walked toward the group. “—but I'm sure he'll be here on the six-thirteen. With the two trains so close together he could easily have missed one and taken the other. As a matter of fact, he didn't actually say that he was taking the five-fifty-four. I merely assumed that from the fact that he called the meeting for six.”

Shaw stepped forward, his eyes on Erica Martin, avoiding the others. “Then Mr. Bullard isn't here yet?”

“No. Eddie called from the station. He's waiting now for the six-thirteen.”

Shaw let his eyes circle the four vice-presidential faces, instantly recognizing the opportunity that their annoyance gave him for an effective countermeasure. Holding his smile, broadening it slightly to indicate that the extra half-hour of waiting should be a matter of no concern whatsoever, he unobtrusively took the single step that allowed him to put his hand on the knob of the door. Then with a gesture that was clearly that of a host opening the way for his guests, he pushed back the door. “Gentlemen, there's no reason why you shouldn't make yourselves comfortable.”

He had a moment of elation as the group broke and moved past him through the door. No one held back … no one debated his position … no one even looked at him.

Carefully timing his movement, Loren Shaw turned from the door just as Erica Martin was about to disappear inside her office.

“Oh, Miss Martin?”

“Yes?”

He stood without moving, forcing her to take a step toward him. “It just occurred to me, Miss Martin, that there may be certain reports of one kind or another that Mr. Bullard might want at this meeting. Is there anything that you'd suggest I have ready for him?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Shaw, but I can't tell you what the meeting is about. I don't know.”

He felt the sharp tug of anger as he watched her turn and enter her office. It was a struggle to recapture the smile that was needed before he could step inside the directors' room.

Grimm and Walling were standing at the far side of the room with their backs to him. He circled the table, walking close enough to hear a smattering of their conversation. It was something about phenolformaldehyde resin. They didn't know what the meeting was about either.