Executive Suite (35 page)

Luigi opened the door on the twenty-fourth floor.

Erica Martin was waiting for him, but she made no move to enter the cab.

“You took Mr. Walling down a few minutes ago, didn't you, Luigi?”

“Mr. Walling? Yes, I take him down.”

“Do you know how soon he's coming back?”

Luigi spread his hands in a broad gesture of negation. “All I know is—very big hurry—very important.”

“You don't know where he was going?”

Luigi repeated the gesture.

“When he comes back, Luigi, will you tell him that I want to see him as soon as possible?”

“Sure, Miss Martin, I tell him right away.”

“Thank you, Luigi.”

“He's fine man—Mr. Walling,” Luigi said quickly, stopping the turn that she had started to make.

“Yes, he is. A very fine man.”

“How soon he move up?”

“What?”

Luigi used a little smile to tell Miss Martin that it was no use to try to fool him. “I know—after the funeral, then he will move. Before that it would not be right.”

She stared at him. “Luigi, he—he didn't tell you anything that—” Of course he hadn't … no one knew … no one could possibly know until the directors' meeting on Tuesday … perhaps not even then.

Luigi used the little smile again. Miss Martin was very surprised that he knew something that he was not supposed to know. “You don't worry, Miss Martin. I don't tell nobody. Many years—many things I know I don't tell.”

Going down the shaft, Luigi speculated on the strangeness of Miss Martin's being, in some ways, so very much like Maria. It always made Maria feel badly to have him guess a secret. Sometimes she would be very angry, so angry that she would sleep with her back to him the whole night and not even get up to fix his breakfast.

Regretfully, Luigi acknowledged the fact that he was not a very smart man. A man who was smart would not let a woman know that he had guessed a secret. But Miss Martin would forgive him. Miss Martin was a very fine woman. It was nice that she would not be alone after the funeral. After the Duke had died the Duchess had lived alone in the castle all the rest of her life and it was said in the village that there was no night when she did not cry. That was very bad. It was good that a woman should cry sometimes because that was her nature … and afterward she was a better woman … but it was not good that a woman should cry every night because she did not have a man. Every woman should have a man … even if he was not a smart man. That was what he often told Maria and he knew that Maria knew it was true even if she would not very often say that it was true. But it was better not to make a woman say that something was true … just as it was better not to let a woman know that you had guessed her secret.

11

LONG ISLAND SOUND

9.52 A.M. EDT

The Sound was as flat as a mirror, a dirty mirror, streaked with the scum lines that marked the flow of the tidal currents. Two hours before there had been the promise of a northerly wind but the promise had been broken with the rising sun and now there was not enough air moving to keep
Moonsweep's
mainsail from slatting wildly as the cutter rolled to the wake of a far-passing steamer. The swell moved on toward the shore and George Caswell's eyes followed its passage across the glassy water until it finally broke as a single wave against the Yacht Club dock.

All around them lay the other yachts that were waiting for the start of the race. They squatted as wounded birds, their sails hanging like broken wings. The reflecting surface of the smooth water amplified the sound of a hundred voices and carried them through the still air with amazing clarity, setting up a chatter that sounded more like a cocktail party than a yacht race, an illusion that was enhanced by the floating beer cans that littered the water and, occasionally catching the sun, sparkled like embedded jewels.

For the last half-hour, George Caswell had regretted the habit-made decision that made him come aboard this morning, but now that he was there he could think of no explainably plausible reason for going back ashore. Deserting his crew in the face of a dull drifting match was hardly a sporting thing to do and therefore completely beyond consideration.

Actually, as he had told himself a dozen times, his gnawing inner desire to get to Millburgh at once was also completely insupportable. There was no reason to go. Nothing would happen over the weekend. Everyone would be too stunned by Avery Bullard's death to even start thinking about who the new president might be until after the funeral.

Resigned to patience, he stretched out on the cabin top and stared up at the sky where, as in a mirage, he saw himself in the directors' room of the Tredway Corporation. Admittedly, he would not be able to match Avery Bullard's familiarity with the technical details of furniture manufacture, but that would be no bar to the successful performance of his duties as president. Actually, it might be a help rather than a hindrance … he would have the benefit of a more detached attitude. That was a point that A. R. Andrews had made a few weeks ago when they had been talking about Chloro-Chemical … managing Tredway would be fairly simple … nothing like as difficult as Chloro-Chemical. Andrews was always having some new scientific development come along to upset his applecart. There would be nothing like that at Tredway. Furniture manufacturing was stabilized. Except for a little mechanization coming along now and then, there hadn't been any seriously disturbing changes in the last hundred years. Yes, furniture was a nice stable business … the kind of business a man could enjoy.

He brushed away a seagoing housefly that was buzzing around his nose and began to sketch in the first rough outline of his presidential plan, remembering the advice that he had given Ronnie Atkins when he had gone in as president of Rookery Paper, the repetition of advice that he had heard his father give another new corporation president many years before.

Yes, that was the thing to do … not try to be another Bullard … different approach … change of pace. And it would be sound, too … more delegation of authority … spread the management down the line. Bullard had missed some bets there. With a man like Jesse Grimm as vice-president in charge of manufacturing, there was no reason why the president had to get into that end of it very deeply himself … just see that Jesse, in turn, delegated down the line. Same thing with the sales side … Dudley was a top-notch man, no question about that, just give him his head. Shaw was an excellent comptroller … very thorough, completely reliable. Alderson had the experience background … good source of advice … use him the way Andrews had used old Mallinson. Walling? Walling was one of those bright young chaps … ideas … good to have around … kept you sparked up. Fine bunch of men … hard to beat. With a crowd like that around him, a president didn't have to worry too much about …

“See that, sir?”

The voice was above him and he looked up into Ken Case's anxious face. “What?”

Ken was pointing and Caswell rolled his body to let his eyes follow Case's finger to the committee boat at the far end of the starting line. A yellow and blue pennant was flying.

“Another postponement, sir,” Ken explained.

Caswell sat up, rubbing a back muscle that had been crushed against the grab rail.

“I've been thinking, sir,” Case said, “if you're planning to get back ashore in time for the Brighton wedding—well, sir, it looks now like the race is going to be nothing but a ghoster. It's bound to be a late finish—maybe over the time limit.”

He grasped at the straw. “Ken, I do hate to leave you fellows to fight it out alone, but I am afraid you're right about Mrs. Caswell rather counting on me to turn up for that wedding. Sure you wouldn't mind too much?”

“Not at all, sir,” Case said, catching himself when he heard his voice sounding a shade too eager. “Of course, it won't be the same without you, sir, but we'll give it the old fight—huh, fellows?”

There was a chatter of agreement from the cockpit and as the boom swung, Caswell saw the other crew members watching him … fine bunch of boys. “Well, perhaps it would be best.” He walked aft and started down the companionway. “I'm sure you'll do quite as well without me.”

The general disagreement was pleasantly reassuring.

“Shall I blow the launch for you, sir?” Ken Case called down.

“Oh, yes, please do.”

Case was a nice, clean-cut boy … be a good idea to find a spot for him down at Tredway after he finished Harvard Business. There were a few things that Avery Bullard hadn't been entirely right about and one of them was that all the good boys came from the Middle West.

He heard Ken blow the launch signal and by the time he had changed his clothes and come back on deck, the club tender was already lying alongside.

“Sorry about the weather, sir,” Ken called down from the rail as Caswell seated himself in the launch. “Next week we'll try to whistle up a real sailing breeze for you.”

“Good luck,” he called back as the launch started. There was no point in saying that there would be no next week, that he would never step aboard
Moonsweep
again. There would be no spare weekends after he took over the presidency of the Tredway Corporation.

Looking back over the bubbling wake of the launch, George Caswell saw the yacht grow smaller and smaller, farther and farther away. He felt no regret. She was already a part of the past.

The launch landed him on the dinghy float and, because his eyes were down to watch his step as he crossed the plank that joined the float to the wharf, he did not see Bruce Pilcher until they were face to face.

“This must be my lucky day,” Pilcher said affably. “I drove out on the chance that I might see you, only to find that you were out on your boat. It was pure luck that I happened to see the launch picking you up. You're not racing?”

It was a direct question and an answer was unavoidable. He made it as short as possible. “No.”

“I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

George Caswell hesitated. The circumstances under which he was almost certain that Pilcher had made the short sale of Tredway stock had generated a feeling close to disgust, yet his ingrained gentility made open discourtesy difficult. He said, as coldly as he felt he dared, “I'm rather busy this morning.”

“Not too busy, I'm sure, to be interested in what I have to tell you,” Pilcher said confidently. “It concerns the Tredway Corporation.”

“I suspected as much.” He was not surprised that there was no humility in Pilcher's approach. He often dealt with men whose prime asset was their ability to run a good bluff when they were in a tight spot.

“I'm assuming, of course, that you know of Bullard's death,” Pilcher said.

“Yes.” He started to walk up the path, forcing Pilcher to follow him.

“What you may or may not know is that Mr. Bullard had a conference yesterday with Mr. Steigel and myself.”

“I know.”

“Good,” Pilcher said as if an important first point had been made. “What I'm quite certain that you don't know, Mr. Caswell, is what transpired at that meeting.”

Caswell held a cautious silence to cover the moment while he considered a question that flashed into his mind. Had Avery Bullard gone so far as to offer Pilcher the executive vice-presidency? It was highly unlikely—yet, knowing Bullard's tendency toward snap judgment and impulsive action, he conceded to himself that there was an outside chance that it might have happened.

“A rather important agreement was negotiated at our meeting,” Pilcher went on, “and since it vitally affects the Tredway Corporation—as well as your own interests—I felt justified in coming to you for some counsel as to how I should proceed from this point forward. Of course, if Mr. Bullard's unfortunate death had not intervened—”

“What was the agreement?” Caswell cut in.

“Cigarette?” Pilcher asked, delaying the revelation as if he were savoring its content.

“No, thank you.”

They walked a few steps, Caswell determined not to break the silence.

“Perhaps I'm assuming more interest than you have,” Pilcher said finally. “I thought you might like to know that we negotiated the sale of Odessa Stores to the Tredway Corporation.”

George Caswell's self-control was forced to the limit but he managed to avoid a visible reaction. After the first moment, however, he realized that his silence might be interpreted as acceptance. He stopped, facing Pilcher, his hand on the rail that bordered the walk. “I'm afraid I find that rather surprising.”

“Yes, it worked out more rapidly than I expected, too,” Pilcher said, his voice bland with assurance.

“What was the basis of the sale?”

“Quite favorable to both parties I should say—three million dollars in cash and ten thousand shares of Tredway common.”

Caswell had been prepared to disbelieve anything that Pilcher might say, but a quick mental calculation based on the market value of Tredway common made him see that Bullard might well have jumped at a chance to buy Odessa Stores at what was obviously a bargain price. But logic still failed to counteract his suspicion and he said cautiously, “I'm sure it's unnecessary to remind you, Mr. Pilcher, that any agreement Mr. Bullard might have signed was necessarily contingent upon the confirmation of the Tredway board. I am assuming, of course, that there was a signed agreement?”

“No, unfortunately not,” Pilcher said without hesitation. “And to further complicate the problem, Mr. Steigel had a stroke last night. It's the opinion of the doctors that he may never regain consciousness. I'm sure you can see that it's a rather unusual situation.”

“Extremely!”

“Exactly—and that's why I felt compelled to seek your advice.”

George Caswell hesitated, his anger rising. “My advice would be to forget the whole thing, Pilcher, and as quickly as possible.”