Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less (2 page)

Mrs. Rennick (a widow who lived off the
investments left by her late husband) rented a small apartment on Park Avenue,
one of the more fasionable parts of New York. She was somewhat surprised to
receive a call from a Henryk Metelski, asking to see her on an urgent private
matter. A final mention of Halgarten & Co. gave her a little more
confidence and she agreed to meet Henryk at the Waldorf-Astoria at four o’clock.

Henryk had never been to the
Waldorf-Astoria, but after four years on the Stock Exchange there were few
hotels or restaurants he had not heard mentioned in other people’s
conversations. He knew that Mrs. Rennick was more likely to have tea with him
there than agree to see a man with a name like Henryk Metelski in her own
apartment, especially as over the telephone his Polish accent was more
pronounced than on meeting him face to face.

After lunch Henryk asked the Senior
Messenger if he might have the afternoon off, feigning influenza. His boss did
not object to the request as Henryk had never missed as much as an hour in his
four years. Henryk went home, had a bath and put on his best suit.

As Henryk stood in the softly carpeted foyer
of the Waldorf-Astoria, he blushed for his sartorial naivety. Henryk imagined
everybody to be staring at him and he buried his short, amply covered frame in
the large leather chair. Some of the other patrons of the Waldorf-Astoria were
amply covered too, though Henryk felt it was more likely to have been Pommes de
terre Maitre d’Hôtel that had caused their obesity than
french
fries. It was too late for him to wish he had put a little less grease on his
black, wavy hair and to regret that his shoes were so down-at-heel. He
scratched at an irritating pustule on the side of his mouth. His suit, in which
he felt so assured and prosperous among his friends, was shiny, skimpy, cheap
and loud. He did not match up to the decor, less still to the patrons, of the
hotel, and, feeling inadequate for the first time in his life, he edged
gingerly into the Jefferson Room, stationed himself behind a copy of
The New Yorker,
and prayed for his guest
to arrive quickly. Waiters fluttered deferentially around the well-provendered
tables, ignoring Henryk with instinctive superciliousness. One did nothing but
circle the tearoom with delicately proffered lump sugar from silver tongs in a
white-gloved hand: Henryk was enormously impressed.

Rose Rennick arrived a few minutes later
with two small dogs and an outrageous hat. Henryk thought she looked over
sixty, overweight, over-madeup and overdressed, but she had a warm smile and
seemed to know everyone, moving from table to table, chatting to the regular
Waldorf-Astoria tea set. She eventually reached what she had rightly guessed to
be Henryk’s table, and was rather startled by him, not just because he was
strangely dressed, but because he looked even younger than his eighteen years.

Mrs. Rennick ordered tea while Henryk told
his story of how there had been an unfortunate mistake with her cheque, which
had been wrongly made over to his firm at the Stock Exchange the day before.
His firm had instructed him to return the cheque immediately and to say how
sorry they were. Henryk then passed over the draft for $50,000 and told her he
would lose his job if she decided to take the matter any further, as he had
been entirely responsible for the mistake. Mrs. Rennick had, in fact, only been
informed of the missing cheque that morning and did not realise that it had
been cashed, as it would have taken a few days to go through her account.
Henryk’s perfectly genuine anxiety as he stumbled through his tale would have
convinced a more critical observer of human nature than Mrs. Rennick. Readily
she agreed to let the matter drop, only too pleased to have her money back, and
as it was in the form of a draft from the Morgan Bank, she had lost nothing.
Henryk breathed a sigh of relief and for the first time began to relax and
enjoy himself. He even called for the man with the sugar and tongs.

After a respectable period of time had passed,
Henryk explained that he must return to work, thanked Mrs. Rennick, paid the
bill and left. Outside in the street he whistled with relief. His new shirt was
soaked in sweat (Mrs. Rennick would have called it perspiration) but he was out
in the open and could breathe again. His first major operation had been a
success.

He stood in Park Avenue, amused that the
venue for his confrontation with Mrs. Rennick had been the Waldorf-Astoria, as
it was the very hotel where John D. Rockefeller, Jr. (the president of Standard
Oil) had a suite. Henryk had arrived on foot and used the main entrance, while
Mr. Rockefeller had earlier arrived by subway and taken his private lift to the
Waldorf Towers. Few New Yorkers were aware that Rockefeller had his own private
station built fifty feet below the Waldorf-Astoria so that he did not have to
travel eight blocks to Grand Central Station, there being no stop between there
and 125
^th
Street. (The station is still there today, but no
Rockefellers live at the Waldorf-Astoria and the train never stops there.)
While Henryk was discussing his $50,000 with Mrs. Rennick, Rockefeller was
discussing an investment of $5,000,000 with President Coolidge’s Secretary of
the Treasury, Andrew W. Mellon.

The next day Henryk returned to work as
normal. He knew he must cash the shares before the end of five days to clear
his debt with the Morgan Bank and the stockbroker–the account on the New York
Stock Exchange runs for five business days or seven calendar days. On the last
day of the account the shares were standing at $23.30. He sold at $23.15,
clearing his overdraft of $49,625 and, after expenses, realised a profit of
$7,490, which he left deposited with the Morgan Bank.

Over the next three years, Henryk stopped
ringing Mr. Gronowich, and started dealing for
himself
,
in small amounts to begin with. Times were still good, and while he didn’t
always make a profit, he had learnt to master the occasional bear market as
well as the more common boom. His system in the bear market was to sell short–not
a process for the ethical in business, but he soon mastered the art of selling
shares he didn’t own in expectation of a subsequent fall in price. His instinct
for the market trends refined as rapidly as his taste in suits, and the guile
learnt in the back streets of the Lower East Side stood him in good stead.
Henryk had discovered that the whole world was a jungle–sometimes the lions and
tigers wore suits.

When the market collapsed in 1929 he had
turned his $7,490 into $51,000 in liquid assets, having sold on every share he
possessed. He had moved to a smart flat in Brooklyn and was driving a rather
ostentatious Stutz. Henryk had realised at an early age that he had entered
upon life with three main disadvantages–his name, background and impecunity.
The money problem was solving itself, and so he decided to expunge the others.
First, he made application to have a legal change of name by court order to
Harvey David Metcalfe. Second, he cut off all contact with his friends from the
Polish community, and so in May 1930 he came of age with a new name and a new
background.

It was later that year he met Roger
Sharpley, a young man from Boston who had inherited his father’s import and
export company
. Educated at Choate and later at Dartmouth
College, Sharpley had the assurance and charm of the Boston set, so often
envied by the rest of America. He was tall and fair and looked as if he had
come from Viking stock, and with the air of the gifted amateur, found most
things came easily to him, especially women. He was in total contrast to
Harvey. It was that contrast that brought them together.

Roger’s only ambition was to join the Navy,
but after graduating from Dartmouth he had had to return to the family firm
because of his father’s ill health. He had only been with the firm a few months
when his father died. Roger would have liked to have sold Sharpley & Son to
the first bidder, but his father, Henry, had made a codicil to his will to the
effect that if the firm were sold before Roger was forty years old (that being
the last day one can enlist for the U. S. Navy), the money was to be divided
between his relatives.

Roger found himself between the devil and
the deep blue sea. Business life held no interest for him, and he felt
miserably incompetent left in charge of the family firm. It gave him a steady
income, but he knew it could not long survive on its past reputation. On the
other hand, he could not sell it and join the Navy without leaving himself
penniless. Harvey and Roger met at the Exchange, and while neither liked or
understood the other, each thought there might be something in the acquaintance
to his own advantage. Harvey was right.

Gradually, in discussions well primed by
late night Bourbon, Harvey learnt from Roger that Sharpley & Son had been
founded in 1833, though they did not like to be reminded that their first
successful trading had been in slaves. From there they had progressed to become
experts in the import of whisky and the export of furs. Although only small in
size, they had a reputation for honesty and efficiency–a reputation which had
been built over nearly a hundred years. Harvey gleaned from Roger that the
income from Sharpley & Son for the year 1929-30 was $30,000 on a turnover
of $420,000. It had been as high as $82,000 in the halcyon days of his father,
but the firm was now being run by its ageing vice-president and general
manager, John Bodie, who was satisfied with his position, realising that the
gift God had given to every other generation of Sharpleys had sadly missed
Roger. Bodie could well remember Roger in his diapers, and was not much more
impressed now. Still, Roger left him a free hand to run the firm the way old
Mr. Sharpley had always run it, though sometimes even Bodie wondered if his
methods were appropriate for the times. He was due to retire in five months at
the age of sixty, but knew that Roger would be lost without him and would have
to keep him on at least until the age of sixty-five. Knowing the codicil to
Henry Sharpley’s will, he felt safe from any thunderbolts.

Harvey gave the problem some considerable
thought, and after two lengthy sessions with a skilful New York lawyer,
suggested the following course of action to Roger: Harvey would buy 49 per cent
of Sharpley & Son for $100,000 and the first $20,000 profit each year. At
the age of forty Roger would relinquish the remaining 51 per cent for a further
$100,000. There would be three Board members–Harvey, Roger and one nominated by
Harvey, giving him overall control. As far as Harvey was concerned, Roger could
join the Navy and come to the annual shareholders’ meeting once a year.

Roger could not believe his luck and did not
even consult John Bodie, or anyone else at Sharpley & Son. He realised only
too well that they would try to talk him out of it. Harvey had counted on this
and had assessed his quarry accurately. Roger only gave the proposition a few
days’ consideration before he allowed the legal papers to be drawn up in New
York,
far enough away from Boston to be sure the firm did
not learn what was going on. Meanwhile, Harvey returned to the Morgan Bank,
where he was now looked upon as a reliable customer. The manager agreed to help
him in his new enterprise with a loan of $50,000 to add to his own $50,000,
enabling Harvey to acquire 49 per cent of Sharpley & Son, and become its
fifth president. The legal documents were signed in New York on October 14,
1930.

Roger left speedily for Newport, Rhode
Island, to commence his Officers’ Training Course in the U. S. Navy. Harvey
left for Grand Central Station to catch the train for Boston. His days as a
messenger boy on the New York Stock Exchange were over. He was twenty-one years
of age and the president of his own company.

Sharpley & Son’s seventeen staff in
Boston did not know what was about to hit them. When Harvey arrived on Monday
morning at six o’clock his first move was to take over Mr. Bodie’s office,
relegating him to a storeroom at the back of the building. John Bodie
eventually arrived, as he always did, at nine-thirty, and called the police,
thinking his office had been broken into–they left with red faces when Harvey
produced the legal documents.

Bodie, in unbelieving fury, called the
company lawyers, who had also drawn up the will for Henry Sharpley, to see if
they could remove this cancer that had appeared from nowhere. When the
documents signed by Harvey and Roger Sharpley had been carefully checked, Bodie
left within the hour and never returned. Harvey was on his way. A respectable
company, established for nearly a hundred years, was to be his vehicle for
future dubious transactions.

What looked like disaster to most, Harvey
could always manage to turn into a triumph. The American people were still
suffering from Prohibition, and although Harvey could export furs, he could not
import whisky. This had been one of the reasons for the fall in the company
profits over the past few years. But Harvey found that with a little bribery,
involving the mayor of Boston, the chief of police and the customs officials on
the Canadian border, plus a payment to the Mafia to ensure his products reached
the restaurants and speakeasies, somehow the whisky imports went up rather than
down. Sharpley & Son lost
its
more respectable and
long-serving staff, and replaced them with the animals that suited Harvey
Metcalfe’s particular jungle.

From 1930 to 1933, despite the Depression,
people continued to drink, and Harvey went from strength to strength, but when
Prohibition was finally lifted by President Roosevelt after overwhelming public
demand, the excitement went with it, and Harvey allowed the company to continue
to deal with whisky and furs while he branched into new fields. In 1933
Sharpley & Son celebrated a hundred years in business. In three years
Harvey had lost ninety-seven years of goodwill and still managed to double the
profit. One of his new interests was the export of arms. Harvey was never too
fussy about the final destination of his equipment; in fact, he was only too
happy to supply both sides.