Death Shall Overcome Page 3

  The first three people he saw were all Governors of the New York Stock Exchange. Further inspection revealed that the Curb Exchange, the commodity brokers, and the over-the-counter houses had satisfied themselves with nominal attendance, as if to emphasize that this was a family problem in someone else’s family. The Big Board had their best wishes, oh certainly, but anything more would smack of intrusiveness. And as for the Big Board—the suspicious density of senior partners suggested that many an executive felt with Thatcher that, if a blunder were to be made, he himself would make it, not some middling-to-junior subordinate.

  A small, stocky man in his forties had pushed his way to their side. “Thatcher! I’m glad to see you got back in time. We didn’t expect you.”

  As Thatcher introduced Withers to Arthur Foote, one of the partners at Schuyler & Schuyler, he reflected that Nathaniel Schuyler had organized this affair carefully enough to document the movements of some three hundred men. The old goat must be enjoying himself thoroughly as he prepared once again to shock the Street with a display of his brilliant strategy. “Look, why don’t you come and meet Ed Parry now?” Foote was continuing. “There’ll be a mob around him after our official announcement.”

  Glad to get this accomplished while Bradford Withers was still mindful of the cautions urged on him, Thatcher plodded along in the wake of the other two men.

  Edward Parry stood in an alcove with Nat Schuyler. Like everyone present, he looked simonized for the occasion. The lurking fear of television had triggered a wave of five o’clock shaves and clean shirts. In all other visible aspects, Parry was a credit to Nat Schuyler’s acumen—that is, he was a replica of a Wall Street financier with a dark skin. The net result was that his teeth and shirt looked cleaner than anybody else’s. His slow, considered speech and steady handclasp as he acknowledged their greeting confirmed the impression of integrity, reliability and conservatism. A man of property at every point. In a happier era he might have been a Republican.

  The whole thing went like clockwork. For five minutes they chatted on innocuous subjects, thereby edifying the room with a public demonstration of the Sloan’s lack of racial bias. That, after all, was what they were there for. Then Arthur Foote’s glance strayed over Thatcher’s shoulder to the doorway. “Excuse me. There’s someone who wants to meet Ed.”

  Thatcher turned to his companion, only to realize that once again he had been caught off base by Withers’ vagaries.

  “A forty-six-foot hull, you say? That’s pretty small.” Brad shook his head dubiously.

  “Yes,” agreed Parry. “But plastic makes all the difference. It’s not fiber glass, you know. Something completely different. This boatyard in England . . .”

  Withers was moved to animation. “I’d like to see that.”

  The conversation started to bristle with references to the Americas Cup Races and the Bermuda Races. Thatcher’s eyes met those of old Nat Schuyler. Above cadaverous cheeks, a distinct twinkle could be seen. Thatcher sighed. His worst fears were confirmed. Schuyler was having a hell of a good time.

  “Come on, Brad,” John said. “We can’t monopolize this corner. Foote is bringing some people over.”

  Detaching his reluctant superior, Thatcher fought a path to the bar and supplied himself with a Scotch and water. Withers, never one to change course easily, was describing the forty-six-foot paragon to some crony from the Century Club. Vigilance could be relaxed.

  A voice broke in on his meditations. “What are you doing, Thatcher? Making up a roll call?”

  Thatcher turned to find Stanton Carruthers at his elbow. He was the trust and estate man for one of the big law firms.

  “Counting,” replied Thatcher truthfully. “The first thing I saw was three member Governors. I wondered how many turned up.”

  “Fourteen.” Carruthers’ reply was prompt. He too had remarked the overpowering display of institutional solidarity.

  “What happened to the fifteenth? Dissenting opinion?”

  “Oh, no! Slipped disk. Poor Bentley is doubled up like a croquet hoop.”

  Carruthers wriggled sideways to give someone access to the bar. Snatches of small talk could be heard from all directions. Was a corporate reorganization going through and, if so, what would be its effect on second mortgage bondholders? Was Miller, Pierce and Dwyer moving uptown? Was it true what they were saying about the price of landscaping in Mamaroneck? Nobody was talking about the Stock Exchange, its membership—or Edward Parry.

  “This,” announced Thatcher, “is a very decorous meeting.”

  Carruthers looked at him speculatively.

  “You’ve been out of town, haven’t you?” Then he ventured further. “There isn’t going to be any trouble, here. Owen Abercrombie’s still making a last minute effort to get Schuyler to withdraw. The trouble will start after the formal application has been filed.”

  Thatcher nodded. Owen Abercrombie was Wall Street’s most vocal ultraconservative.

  “And when will that be?”

  “Of course I don’t know anything,” said Carruthers cautiously, “but I understand that Schuyler & Schuyler is going to make a statement about that right here.” Yes, that fitted in. Nat Schuyler would want to throw his glove down before as many people as possible. Preferably when they were all nervously on their best behavior.

  Not only the guests were nervous. A barman, no doubt overcome by the oppressive atmosphere, let a bowl of ice cubes crash to the table. The ensuing hush was broken only by the tinkle of breakage and one shrill voice carrying its remarks over into the silence by the impetus of its own defiance:

  “. . . suddenly acting as if they’ve got a right to be treated just like us . . .” The speaker stopped abruptly and then compounded his error by flushing fiery red as he became the cynosure of all eyes. Desperate conversation arose from seventy determined voices.

  “Couldn’t be more unfortunate,” said Carruthers with placid detachment. “Thank God we don’t act for them. They must be having their hands full.” He shuddered delicately at the thought of clients barreling along out of control.

  “Who is he?” Thatcher looked at the speaker disapprovingly. Only sandy hair and the back of a red neck met his inspection.

  “Young Caldwell, from Schuyler & Schuyler.”

  “You mean he’s one of Nat Schuyler’s partners?” asked Thatcher incredulously. “I don’t remember him.”

  “Well, he’s not a partner,” conceded Carruthers, admitting some slight meliorative. “But he’s their senior analyst. Been giving them a lot of trouble these past two weeks, talking indiscreetly. He’s from Alabama,” he concluded darkly.

  “What about the partners? Let’s see. Besides Nat, there was his cousin Ambrose, of course. That’s the vacant seat. And then there are Vin McCullough and Arthur Foote. Is there anybody else?”

  “No, you’ve got them all.” Carruthers smiled as if encouraging a promising pupil. “It’s a small house, and Nat always dominated it. Foote is backing him on this all the way, they say.”

  “And McCullough?”

  “He’s by no means enthusiastic about it. But what chance has he got, once Schuyler’s made up his mind. And naturally he wants to be careful not to be associated with Abercrombie’s group. Oh, hello, Clark. Hello, Robichaux. Just get here?”

  Lee Clark, a broker from one of the largest houses, agreed quickly that they had just arrived and went on to ask a question of his own.

  “What was that about Owen Abercrombie? Has he been up to something again?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Well, he will be,” said Clark sourly. “As if things aren’t bad enough without the John Birchers wanting to burn crosses or something. It’s gotten so that you can’t get anybody to understand reasonable objections because they’ve had to listen to some lunatic outpouring from Abercrombie.”

  Tom Robichaux, who had been busy at the bar, thrust a glass into Clark’s hand.

  “No use getting worked up,” he said sympathetically. �
��Here! Drink this and calm down.”

  Lee Clark shook his head irritably. “It’s all very well for you, Tom. You don’t have a penny at stake. Robichaux & Devane can just sit back and watch the fun.”

  “Now, that just shows how wrong you are,” said Robichaux, stung by the injustice of life. “Francis is keen on moral conscience. I spent the afternoon unloading twenty thousand shares of Stevenson Can at a loss. So we’re neither of us feeling funny about anything.”

  Clark started to explain that there were different ways of losing money, but Arthur Foote had sighted the latest arrivals and was bearing down on them.

  “Hello, Lee. Glad you were able to make it.” He shook hands cordially and then, with a fine show of indirection, turned to Carruthers. “Stanton, you haven’t had a chance to meet Ed Parry. Why don’t we get you a fresh drink and go over? Bourbon, is it? And maybe Lee would like to come, too?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Arthur! You don’t have to be so subtle about it,” grumbled his target. “You know perfectly well that I don’t have anything against Parry himself. But I do say, and I’ll say it to anybody, that Nat Schuyler is pulling a damn raw deal. And if he thinks that I’m just going to stand still while he jerks the rug from under me, he’s got another think coming . . .”

  “Well, that’s just fine, Lee,” replied his host hastily. “That’ll be one bourbon and soda and one tomato juice,” he added to the barman.

  “Tomato juice?” queried Robichaux sternly as the barman complied with the order.

  “Ulcers,” Foote explained sadly as he led his charges off without further display of hostility.

  “He didn’t have ulcers last week.”

  Thatcher inspected Robichaux, an investment banker and lifelong friend. There was no point, he knew, in trying to introduce a new subject of conversation until Tom had settled to his own satisfaction whatever doubts and suspicions had been raised in his butterfly mind by Foote’s order.

  Finally the tight look of concentration that had been narrowing Robichaux’ eyes relaxed. “You know what? I’ll bet all this fuss about Parry has had him worrying. He probably has got ulcers. I mean, there’s no reason to suppose that going teetotal has got anything to do with all this.” He waved his arm largely to indicate the gathering they were attending.

  “Certainly not.” Thatcher’s tone was bracing. “Particularly as Parry himself was ordering a refill on his Bloody Mary when I left him. You can drink your Scotch in peace without wondering whether it’s a clue to your racial sympathies, if any.”

  Robichaux looked at his companion suspiciously.

  “I don’t have to have any feelings about this sort of thing. Francis takes care of all that,” he explained simply. Not for the first time Thatcher found himself wondering how that militant Quaker and humanist, Francis Devane, managed to put up with his partner’s determined blindness to all extra-curricular obligations except wine, women, and song. Come to think of it, it was surprising that Devane was not playing a leading role in this drama.

  It turned out that he was. Arthur Foote, busy on another errand, bustled up. “Have you seen Devane?”

  “He’s over by the window,” said Robichaux. “Said he was going to stay put, in case you wanted him.”

  Thanking him, Foote sped off in the direction indicated. Robichaux followed his trail with interest. “I guess the balloon’s going up,” he said. “Francis is representing the president of the Stock Exchange today. Ponsonby had to go down to Washington.”

  “Then Nat Schuyler is going to announce that he’s filing an application to transfer his cousin’s seat to Parry, I suppose,” said Thatcher.

  “Yes. There’s going to be a public statement, with a potted biography of Parry. The Exchange wanted to keep everything quiet, but Schuyler persuaded them that a prepared statement to the Journal was better than a lot of inaccurate publicity.”

  Thatcher said that there were no flies on old Nat Schuyler.

  “A buck’s a buck,” said Robichaux philosophically. “And Nat’s little sprees usually bring him a pretty profit.”

  As usual, when it was a question of money, Robichaux was dead right. “There they go,” he continued as a parting in the crowd revealed Arthur Foote and Francis Devane standing together by the window. Foote was waving across the room to the alcove where Thatcher had been earlier. In response to his signal Edward Parry and Nat Schuyler were advancing to join him. Parry had taken a sheet of typewritten paper form his breast pocket and was carefully unfolding it. Schuyler, bring up the rear, looked jaunty and triumphant.

  “You have to hand it to old Nat,” said Robichaux, echoing Thatcher’s unspoken thought. “He does manage to get a kick out of things. Look at him. Everybody else there is handling that release as if it were dynamite, but he’s full of vinegar.”

  “My God, have they gotten to the press release already?” demanded a new voice.

  Two men had entered from the foyer while Thatcher and Robichaux had been watching history unfold. Expressionlessly Thatcher greeted Owen Abercrombie and Vincent McCullough. What was a partner of Schuyler & Schuyler doing with Abercrombie, today of all days?

  As if answering the question, Vin McCullough hastened to dissociate himself from his companion. “Owen and I caught the same elevator. I’d better get over there and join the firm. Grab yourself a drink, Owen.”

  Unconsciously straightening his tie and running a hand over his close-cropped graying hair, McCullough advanced to the support of his partners, present and presumptive. Foote, putting on horn-rimmed glasses to study the release which had been handed to him by Francis Devane, threw a questioning glance at McCullough and then at Abercrombie. Thatcher knew McCullough would be explaining the unfortunate proximity in the elevator even before he came to a halt.

  “What do you mean, a press release?” Owen Abercrobie’s question was literally hurled at Tom Robichaux.

  Robichaux repeated his explanation. “That’s absurd. I went out of my way to make an appointment with Schuyler for tomorrow morning to try and bring the old fool to his senses.” Abercrombie’s bushy eyebrows lowered into a scowl of astonishing ferocity. “He can’t get away with this.”

  “Well, it’s not my party, Owen,” replied Robichaux mildly. “If you’ve got any complaints, make them to the management.”

  “That’s what I intend to do! Schuyler & Schuyler will regret this, you take it from me!”

  Without further parley, Abercrombie plunged off to the windows where he could be seen haranguing Nat Schuyler. Within seconds he could be heard also. The phrase, “no sense of decency,” came winging its way back.

  “Wonderful how above-it-all Francis looks,” murmured Robichaux appreciatively. And indeed, Francis Devane, his handsome white head inclined, had engaged Edward Parry in discussion of some point in the release that they were both holding, thereby contriving to protect Parry from Abercrombie’s onslaught and to emphasize his own detachment.

  Suddenly it all came to an end. From nowhere, Lee Clark and Dean Caldwell materialized. For a moment there was a swirl of activity; then they emerged leading Owen Abercrombie. The altercation attracted the attention of the entire room although a few hardy souls were still doggedly discussing rising office costs.

  Arthur Foote took advantage of the near silence to clear his throat and raise an arm. “Gentlemen! If I could have your attention, please!”

  The babble of voices stilled.

  “We at Schuyler & Schuyler have asked you to come here this afternoon in order that the financial community may have the earliest intimation of the action we contemplate. I am happy to announce that, together with representatives of the New York Stock Exchange, we have prepared a statement explaining the proposed disposition of the seat on that Exchange held by the late Ambrose Schuyler. If you will bear with me for a moment, I will read that statement to you, and then be happy to answer any questions which you may have.”

  Everybody settled into receptive postures. Nat Schuyler and Francis Devane handed
Foote the release with gestures that seemed to indicate some emendations to the original draft. Foote nodded comprehendingly, took a revivifying gulp of his tomato juice, and started to read:

  “The brokerage house of Schuyler & Schuyler today departed from a time-honored tradition of Wall Street secre—, of Wall Str—”

  The speaker suddenly raised both hands to his throat and swayed forward. Those surrounding him leaped to his assistance. Voices rose in a discord of confusion.

  “He’s sick. Get a doctor!”

  “It must be a heart attack!”

  “He’s collapsed!”

  “Clear that couch!”

  But even as the couch was cleared and men crouched to lift Foote from the floor, Nat Schuyler rose to his feet and commanded the room with his voice.

  “I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  Chapter 3

  Fruitful Let Thy Sorrows Be

  THESE CHILLING WORDS echoed through the room as Nat Schuyler’s pronouncement was repeated, doubted, then accepted. Yet, after the first instinctive shock, Pine Street was gripped not by sorrow, but social perplexity.

  It was easy enough for the members of Schuyler & Schuyler, who knew what was expected of them. A grave Nathaniel Schuyler positioned himself correctly, like a chief mourner, as he awaited the arrival of the doctor. A step or two behind him stood Vin McCullough beside Edward Parry. Both men looked appropriately solemn.

  Dean Caldwell, deputized to handle details, which included obtaining a tablecloth to shield Arthur Foote’s sightless eyes, looked shaken as he returned from the telephone to station himself in the formal array. And this, too, was as it should be.

  The rest of the room, however, had milled away from the focus of interest, uncertain about the respectful thing to do. It was difficult to shift into formal funeral manner, although there seemed to be tacit agreement that immediate departure would be in poor taste. Accordingly, small groups of uncomfortable men were left to exchange brief, meaningless remarks in hushed voices. After initial confusion, the bartender nodded to his acolytes, and waiters sped through the room, removing half-empty glasses, overflowing ashtrays and other evidence of conviviality. Within a matter of minutes, the atmosphere was that of an extremely awkward wake.