Executive Suite (30 page)

The presidency of the Tredway Corporation had been Loren Shaw's calculated goal since that first evening, four years ago, when he had carefully planted the seed in Avery Bullard's mind that had eventually led to his employment as Vice-President and Comptroller. Actually it went back farther than that, back through all of the companies for which he had directed management studies while he had been employed by Parkington-McConnell. In every study there had been one paramount question, a question that was never asked or answered in his leather-bound final reports but only in the privacy of his own mind—“Is this the company in which I can rise higher than all of the company presidents whose insults I have been forced to endure?”

The insults had been, of course, personal rather than professional. No one had ever dared question Loren Shaw's professional competence—his position as a vice-president and senior analyst for Parkington-McConnell had made him invulnerable on that score—but that had not saved him from the searing injustice of constantly being made to feel that he was the social and educational inferior of the corporation presidents who, ironically, had to pay a stiff fee in order to have him tell them how to run their businesses. “Shaw?” they would ask. “Met a very distinguished gentleman at Bar Harbor last summer—Judge Shaw—a relative of yours by any chance?” Or if it wasn't Bar Harbor it was the
Queen Mary
or Palm Beach or the Riviera. There was nothing he could ever say then except a reluctant, “I'm afraid not, sir.” But that wouldn't stop them. “I suppose you're Harvard Business, Mr. Shaw—or perhaps Wharton? Most of you chaps in your line seem to be one or the other.” The question would claw at his entrails but again there was nothing that he could do except change the subject as rapidly as possible. His only education beyond high school had been a night coaching-course to prepare him to take the state board examination for a Certified Public Accountant. Loren Shaw's only degree was C.P.A.

Becoming a C.P.A. had been as calculatedly purposeful as had been every other move in Loren Shaw's life. His sharp reading of the newspapers—particularly the accounts of court cases involving famous men and large sums of money—had revealed that rich and socially prominent families offered fat fees and an open door to bright young men who knew every crack and crevice in the income tax regulations. In a very few years Loren Shaw was receiving the fat fees—but the doors did not open. He was not invited, socially, to the homes of his clients and, gradually, he came to see that he never would be. The more successful he became, the more anxious they were to see him only in the guarded privacy of their inner offices.

When Parkington-McConnell had offered him a vice-presidency he had accepted. The vice-presidency in itself was not a great distinction—there were thirty-two of them in order that no client need feel slighted—but Mr. Parkington's promise that he would “live in constant and intimate personal contact with the nation's outstanding industrial leaders” had been a real inducement. Furthermore, as old Mr. Parkington had pointed out, a bright young man ought to find chances to broaden himself. That had been a superfluous observation. Loren Shaw was no fool.

During his second year in his new connection, Loren Shaw had married the kind of a wife that his plan called for. Her father, Harrington Van Tern, was a Parkington-McConnell client so Shaw had access to all the facts about Van Tern's daughter, Evelyn. She was a graduate of Miss Millington's, a member of the Junior League, the great-granddaughter of an ambassador, the granddaughter of a lieutenant-governor, the daughter of a man who could trace his Main Line ancestry to one of William Penn's closest friends, and the sister of the internationally famous Wally Van Tern. As everyone knew, Wally Van Tern's third wife was a French countess, which would automatically make Evelyn's husband the brother-in-law of aristocracy. It was unfortunate—but not unforgivable in the light of her other qualifications—that Evelyn Van Tern was four years older than he was, cadaverously unattractive, somewhat of an alcoholic, and rarely pleasant for more than a few minutes at a time. She gave him what he wanted, and what she did not give him was relatively unimportant.

No one of the Tredway vice-presidents had a social background superior to the one Loren Shaw acquired. That was something that had impressed him early in his study of the Tredway Corporation. Furthermore, the way to the executive vice-presidency was clearly open. A confidential report wheedled out of a bumbling doctor had revealed the fact that Fitzgerald was in bad health. Alderson, whom Bullard had already by-passed for Fitzgerald, was clearly on the downgrade. Grimm was a top-notch manufacturing man but with no experience in any other phase of the business. Dudley, like Grimm, was excellent in his own field but not well-rounded enough to be general management timber.

Fitzgerald's death had confirmed Loren Shaw's faith in his plan. There was, of course, the hazard that Bullard, in one of the moments of impetuous behavior with which he was unfortunately afflicted, might select someone else as executive vice-president. Loren Shaw had not been abnormally worried. The Vice-President and Comptroller was in the winning spot. It was his executive responsibility to run to earth every case of waste, inefficiency, or failure to operate in accordance with the standards of modern business practice—and it was also his responsibility to set the standards. He was playing a game that couldn't be lost because he was both a participant and the referee.

Profit leaks were not hard to find in a rapidly expanding company operating in the biggest boom the furniture industry had ever known. It was regrettable, of course, that the uncovering of every leak inevitably alienated the vice-president who had failed to find and plug it himself, but Loren Shaw did not allow himself to be too concerned. His plan was based on the premise that the only person whose opinion really mattered was Avery Bullard.

In any event, as he often reassured himself, no one could ever say that anything he had done had not been in the best interests of the corporation. No one could argue that he had not been right when he had installed a system of tight budgetary control—nor when he had put complete cost accounting on every factory operation, co-ordinated purchasing with better inventory control on raw materials, established scientific pricing methods and set up sound salary administration. In less than four years the Tredway Corporation's return on invested capital had increased by almost fifty per cent. That was the real answer. No one could fight back against a record like that!

Now, suddenly, Loren Shaw had seen his whole plan blasted to bits—and by the bare margin of a single week. Only a few more days, at the directors' meeting next Tuesday, Bullard would surely have had the board elect him executive vice-president. But now Avery Bullard was dead and Loren Shaw faced the staggering injustice of having his fate determined by the very men whose friendship he had been forced to sacrifice on the altar of his duty to the corporation.

The cigarette that Loren Shaw lighted as he sat on the edge of the bed spread a stale and bitter taste through his mouth. He stumped it out and walked through his dressing room and on into the glass-paneled bathroom. Anger followed him like a clinging vapor. “Damn it!” he said aloud and the curse opened the sluiceway for another torrent of self-criticism. Why had he behaved as he had last night? Because he hadn't had a plan! Yes, that was the reason … he had acted on impulse and only fools did that. Yes, he had been a fool … worse than a fool … a damned senseless idiot! He had handled Alderson in the worst possible way … and probably alienated Walling in the bargain. That last thing he had said to Walling at the door had been the worst of all … begging … making himself sound weak and uncertain. Why had he rushed down to the office and called in all of the department heads? Why hadn't he realized that they didn't matter? Department heads didn't elect new presidents … there wasn't a vote in the whole twenty of them. Alderson was a vote … Walling was a vote. Alderson's vote was probably lost from the start, but there might still have been a chance to get Walling's. Alderson had outwitted him with Walling. Yes, damn it, that's what he should have done … what Alderson had been smart enough to do … get to Walling! Walling might be the one to cast the deciding vote.

Unconsciously, Loren Shaw lighted another cigarette. The new plan was beginning to take shape in his mind. Alderson's vote was lost. Grimm couldn't be counted on, he'd probably go along with Alderson. Walling and Dudley were question marks … but he could get at least one of the two by offering the executive vice-presidency. No … there was another way to get Dudley … if he had to do it. He could save the executive vice-presidency to pay for Walling's vote. But why hadn't Dudley called him back from Chicago? Maybe the plane had been late … he'd call this morning. Yes, he'd get Dudley and Walling. But that was only two votes … three votes with his own. He had to have one more. That meant that he had to have either George Caswell or Julia Tredway Prince. Caswell was a possibility … Caswell couldn't overlook that profit record … but Julia Tredway Prince …

A shivering grimace contorted his face as his back-spinning mind recreated the memory of the hour that he had spent with Julia Tredway Prince. At least he had gotten there first … beaten Alderson to the punch … but he had spoiled everything by letting her throw him off balance so badly when she had asked if he were one of the Shaws of Charleston who had such a lovely place in Jamaica? And why couldn't he have forgotten that she had once been insane and still might be? No, no, no … she wasn't the one who was insane … he was! If he hadn't been temporarily insane he wouldn't have gone blabbering on to her about profit margins and return on net worth. Julia Tredway Prince hadn't understood a word he had said. All he had succeeded in doing was to make himself look like a groveling, cringing, coal-dusted kid from Wilkes-Barre who was scared to death of the great lady in the big house.

A groaning curse escaped his lips and, braced by his trembling arms as he bent over the lavatory, he fought back the temptation to vomit.

KENT COUNTY, MARYLAND

7.05 A.M. EDT

Jesse Grimm dug his thumbs into the top of his beltless khaki trousers and leaned against the porch post. His gaze followed the cedar-bordered path to the wharf, skipped like a stone across the glass-smooth water of the sheltered cove, and then settled on the distant sweep of Chesapeake Bay. The north wind that had come up overnight had swept the sky until it was as flawlessly blue as a polished jewel. The air was so clear that he could see the patches on the gray sails of an old four-master that was out in the steamer channel beating its slow way to Baltimore with a deckload of lumber. Nearer, a white skipjack trailed the feathered arrow of its wake toward the crab factory, the too-loud single-lunged cough of its engine making it seem closer than it was. Still nearer, gulls screamed in frantic delight over the food-filled tide rush at the inlet and, across the cove from the wharf, a fish hawk plunged down from the top of a dead chestnut and hit the water with an explosive splash.

Contentedly, Jesse Grimm let his eyes swing toward the shop … the bright new-wood color so pleasant against the black-green of the cedars that it was almost a shame to think of painting it. He grinned as he thought of the way Abe had kidded him up at Teel's Store last night about not having the doors hung. The doors were all hung and Abe had even made a start on the workbench.

The screen door squeaked behind him and he turned to see Sarah blinking at the brightness of the morning, tucking in a wisp of gray hair that had escaped her hurried arrangement.

“Why didn't you call me, Jesse? I didn't know you were up.”

“No hurry,” he said amiably. “Nice morning.”

“I was hoping it would be,” she said as if his pleasure were the only concern in her life—and he knew that wasn't far from the truth.

“Jesse?”

“What now?” That funny little grin on her face told him that there was something she wanted him to do.

“Were you going up to the store to make that call to Fred before breakfast or after breakfast?”

“What did you forget?”

“Syrup—unless you don't want pancakes. I forgot to get any,” she said, feigning mock shame at the lapse.

“Sure I want pancakes. Always have pancakes down here on Saturday morning.”

He yawned in a deep draught of the clean north-wind air and walked close to her as he passed, doubling a teasing fist at her cheek.

She reached up and took the fist in her hands. “I hope whatever Fred wants you about isn't something that will make you go back early.”

“Nothing's going to make me go back early.”

“Jesse, you haven't told Mr. Bullard about your retiring yet have you?”

“No. Thinking about it on the way down. Ought to give him as much warning as I can, I guess, so I decided to tell him the first of the week—Monday or Tuesday.”

“What's he going to say?”

“Raise hell, I expect.”

“You won't let him talk you out of it, will you, Jesse?”

“Not a chance.”

She nodded, pleased, calling after him as he walked to the car, “Now, don't get talking to somebody up there at the store and stay all morning.”

“Seems to me you're getting kind of bossy lately,” he called back.

“Might as well get used to it,” she laughed. “First real chance to boss you I've ever had.”

“Too bad about you,” he chuckled, getting in the car. Funny thing about Sarah … up in Millburgh she was always jumping on him because he didn't do enough talking and down here she worried about his doing too much talking.

MILLBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA

7.14 A.M. EDT

Don Walling's awakening was no slow emergence. He was suddenly blasted into consciousness by the explosive impact of a seventy-pound boy landing beside him after a running high jump over the end of the bed.