Executive Suite (36 page)

“Isn't that a rather hasty judgment?” Bruce Pilcher asked with cool cynicism.

“I can't imagine anyone taking you very seriously. What weight would anyone give to a verbal agreement—”

“—with one of the parties dead,” Pilcher picked up, “—the other party completely paralyzed and most unlikely to live through the day—and myself as the only witness. I'm quite willing to admit, as I did before, that it's a highly unusual situation. There is, however, one further fact of some importance. Before he lost consciousness, Julius Steigel told his grandson, Bernard, of our agreement. Since Bernard will be the old man's principal heir, and since he revered his grandfather's judgment, I'm sure he'll be quite willing to complete the deal. There'll be no trouble on that score. From Tredway's standpoint—well, if you're at all familiar with Odessa's statement, I'm sure you can see that it's a bargain price, barely more than current assets. No Tredway director could conceivably vote against confirmation.”

“I'm not so certain of that,” Caswell said, guarding his voice against an admission of what was undeniably true.

“With further thought, I think you will be,” Pilcher smiled. “Now the second point—and I'm sure this will interest you—is that Tredway will undoubtedly float a new stock issue to fund the purchase. Caswell & Co., of course, will handle it. In addition, the security business involved in the settling of the Steigel estate will be considerable. As a rough estimate, I would say that the total profit of Caswell & Co.—properly handled, of course—might approximate a quarter of a million dollars.”

The cold chill of anger almost froze George Caswell's voice in his throat. “What's your angle, Pilcher?”

“Angle?” Pilcher asked as if he were surprised at Caswell's use of the word. “Naturally I have an interest.”

“Naturally.”

Bruce Pilcher snapped his long fingers and flipped his cigarette in a high arc out over the green grass. “All I want for myself is the presidency of the Tredway Corporation.”

Caswell knew that he was staring at Pilcher in open astonishment but he was too shocked to make any further attempt to keep from displaying his true feelings.

“You seem surprised,” Pilcher said, “—at the modesty of my ambition, no doubt—but that's all I want for myself, Mr. Caswell, only the presidency of Tredway—plus, as you'd expect, the quite normal option to buy a block of Tredway stock at a favorable price. Shall we say ten thousand shares at forty?”

“You're asking me to go along with this?” Caswell asked.

“I think it might be to your interest.”

For the first time in his life, George Caswell gave way to total anger. “Pilcher, of all of the rotten bastards that I have ever known, you are unquestionably the worst! You're everything that I despise, everything that—” His voice broke off in trembling rage.

Pilcher's smile froze on his face, but he was a good enough actor to keep his voice almost unchanged. “I must say I find that a rather surprising reaction.”

“Shut up, Pilcher! To begin with you're a liar. I know what happened! Yesterday, after you saw Bullard drop dead, you sold Tredway short—two thousand shares.”

Pilcher's face blanched. “How did you—?”

“If there were one word of truth in any of the damned lies that you've been telling me, you wouldn't have sold that stock short. God, what a bastard you are!”

Propelled by the force of anger that could no longer be trusted to express itself in words, George Caswell spun on his heel and strode rapidly away.

Behind him he heard Pilcher's muffled shout. “You'll not get away with this, Caswell! No man can call me—damn you, I'll get what I want and you can't stop me!”

There were lost minutes while George Caswell sat in his car waiting for the trembling aftermath of his anger to subside. He was stunned at having experienced an emotional intensity far beyond anything of which he had ever thought himself capable.

With the slow return of clear-headed thinking, he remembered Pilcher's parting threat. One thing was certain … Pilcher would stop at nothing to get the presidency of the Tredway Corporation. If Pilcher should talk to Julia Tredway Prince …

He stepped hard on the starter and the motor roared. It was an act of decision. He dared not waste a minute in getting to Millburgh.

NEW YORK CITY

10.17 A.M. EDT

“I don't know what to do about going to Chicago tonight,” Alex Oldham said uneasily.

“Well, of course you won't go, dear,” his wife said astonished at such a ridiculous idea.

“We'll have a devil of a lot of customers out there in Chicago on Monday. I don't know what—” He stopped, embarrassed at the absent-mindedness that had almost made him say that he didn't know what Mr. Bullard would think of a district manager missing the first day of the Chicago market. “I guess you're right, dear,” he said submissively. “I ought to go down for the funeral.”

“Of course I'm right. Monday's no day not to be in Millburgh.”

He knew what she meant … things would be happening in Millburgh … out of sight, out of mind. She was right.

KENT COUNTY, MARYLAND

10.18 A.M. EDT

“Goodness, Jesse, I don't know what we're going to do with a whole dozen soft crabs.”

“Eat 'em. You never really had a soft crab until you ate one just out of the water like that.”

Sarah Grimm opened the refrigerator door. “What did he charge you, Jesse?”

“Charge? Nothing. Herb was just being friendly,” he said, not thinking it necessary to say that he had spent an hour tinkering Herb's water pump. That was just being friendly, too.

“That's nice, isn't it?” She was moving the milk bottles and the butter jar so that the crabs could be right next to the freezing unit. “Down here it's a lot like it used to be in Pittsburgh, isn't it, Jesse? Remember the time that Mrs. Kerchek brought over that Polish soup when you had the flu?”

He watched her, wondering if she wasn't being a little too cheerful, trying to keep his mind off Avery Bullard's death. “Sarah?”

She turned, wiping her hands.

“Sarah, you sure we're doing the right thing? If you wanted it, you could be the wife of the president of the Tredway Corporation.”

Her little smile was as quick as her voice. “I'd rather have free soft-shell crabs and a live husband to eat them.”

“Okay, Sarah, I just wanted to be sure.”

“You aren't going to regret it, are you, Jesse?”

He looked at her for a long time. “Not if you figure you can stand me around underfoot all day long.”

“I guess I'll manage,” she said, looking at him sidewise, the way she used to do years ago when she was expecting to be kissed.

NEW YORK CITY

10.21 A.M. EDT

The dress hung in soft scarlet folds over the clerk's arm. “Will this be a charge or will you pay for it?”

“I got the money here,” Anne Finnick said. She stepped back into the dressing room and pulled the curtain. It wasn't any of that snooty clerk's business how much money she had. Some of the bills still looked kind of funny from being all soaked the way they were, but she found three twenties that looked all right.

WEST COVE, LONG ISLAND

10.24 A.M. EDT

“But, George darling, you can't!” Kitty Caswell squealed in horror-stricken anguish. “We have to go to Nancy Brighton's wedding this afternoon at six.”

She had been put out when he came home to pack a bag and had surprised him as he was leaving a note for her on the front-hall table.

“I'm sorry, Kitty, but I have no choice. Something very important has come up.”

“What?”

“It's just business, dear. Don't bother your pretty little head about it.”

“I want to know.”

“Kitty darling, I—”

“Tell me.”

He took a deep breath that barely escaped being a sigh. “A very unscrupulous man is trying to get control of the Tredway Corporation and I have to stop him.”

“Who?”

“No one you'd know, dear. Now I do have to hurry or—”

“What's his name?”

He took another deep breath. “His name is Pilcher.”

“Pilcher?”

“Now, dear—” He lifted his bag.

“No,” she nodded in studied agreement. “We've never had him to dinner. I'm sure of that.”

“And we never will!”

He started to plant a farewell kiss, but her voice held his lips away. “Is he really unscrupulous?”

“Very!”

“Maybe we should have him to dinner, George. He sounds interesting. All of the other people we know are so terribly scrupulous.”

“Kitty, don't be a fool!” he said too sharply, immediately softening his voice to wipe the spanked child look from her face. “I'm sorry, dear, but I do have to go.”

“All right,” she said contritely, tiptoeing up for the kiss.

He said what he hadn't intended to say. “Maybe I can be back in time for the wedding.”

She glanced at his bag. “You're just saying that.”

“It's only an hour each way and with some luck I might get through in time.”

“An hour?”

“I called Ronnie and he's letting me have his plane.”

“Oh, George, no! Not in that awful little plane.”

“Darling, it's not a little plane—it's his company's DC 3 and they have—”

Unaccountably, she quickly pulled down his face and kissed him again, fervent and crushing, and then quickly broke away. “Hurry, dear, or you won't get back in time.”

12

MILLBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA

10.29 A.M. EDT

Don Walling had been at the Federal Club for a full half-hour waiting for Alderson to arrive. How in hell could the old man have taken that much time to get rid of Dudley … even if he had driven him all the way home? Talk! Yes, damn it, that was Alderson's trouble … talk, talk, talk … but they were a pair, Alderson and Dudley … probably sitting out there now yapping their heads off.

The long wait had sensitized his nerve ends until every sound was an irritation. From behind the closed doors of the Wagon Room, he heard the crash of a heavy object and jumped up to begin another aimless pacing of the room. Why had Alderson wanted to meet him here in this godforsaken place? The Federal Club was a damned morgue at any time of day … all the worse at ten-thirty in the forenoon.

Footsteps sounded in the hall and he wheeled to face the door. It was only an old man shuffling past toward the kitchen. He looked like a flophouse bum, but a glimpse of his face made Don Walling recognize him as one of the old waiters who, after he was attired in his immaculate uniform, would become the social arbiter upon whom Federal Club members would call to verify their own high standing when out-of-town guests were present … “Yes sir, old Joe here remembers when my father used to bring me in here when I was only a kid in knickers, don't you, Joe?”… and old Joe, or Harry, or George, or whoever it was, would always say, “Yes,” because the waiters were a part of the club, too, and as anxious to have an honored past as any of the regular members.

The past! Yes, that was the trouble with the Federal Club crowd … and a hell of a lot of other people, too. They thought the past meant something. It didn't! The past was done … finished … water over the dam. There was nothing you could do about it. Yesterday didn't matter. It was today that counted … today and tomorrow and next week and next month. God, but there was a lot to do … get that experimental press rigged and no damned makeshift setup, either … push that work on the highspeed dry kiln to get rid of that honeycombing … and don't try to tell me it can't be done because it can … burn the tail off those railroad boys for another siding at Pike Street and keep burning until you get some action because one of these days we're going to need that warehouse and all hell will break loose if …

“Oh good morning, Mr. Walling.” It was a voice that sounded as if it had been breathed over a lapel carnation. Don Walling turned to recognize the club steward. He had stepped out of the Wagon Room, hastily closing the door as if to guard the room's secret contents.

Walling was surprised that the steward knew his name because, on the infrequent occasions when he came to the club for lunch, the steward always managed to be fully occupied with the window-tables that were secretly reserved for the members whose ancestry traced to an old North Front family.

“Dear, dear,” the steward said. “So very sad about Mr. Bullard, isn't it? One of our most valued members. A splendid man, splendid indeed.” He spied a stray scrap of paper on the floor and his arm pecked down for it like the long neck of a feeding bird. “You must excuse us, Mr. Walling. This time of the morning we're not quite tidied up, you know. It's rare indeed to have one of our good members put in an appearance before noon.”

“I'm waiting for Mr. Alderson,” Walling said in forced explanation. “He's meeting me here.”

“Oh, Mr. Alderson? Yes, indeed! Splendid man, isn't he, splendid, indeed.” A thought seemed to strike him and he raised his hand as if he were holding a teacup. “Perhaps while you're waiting—there's Mr. Alderson now.”

“I'm sorry it took so long,” Alderson said in weary apology. He was breathing hard as if he had been walking rapidly. “I thought the best thing to do was to run him out to his house. Taking him to the office would have meant dumping him into Shaw's lap.”

Walling found himself nodding in agreement. Alderson's apologetic manner had already dulled the edge of his annoyance. “Where can we talk?”

“Upstairs in one of the cardrooms?” It was a question, not a statement, and Alderson's voice seemed resignedly apprehensive.