Norman softened at Miles’s expression. “All right, boy. I won’t say that again. You’ve come to tell me you are about to move against that old hag, Cornelia, and that slug, DeWitt. Good. The time has come. How can I help you, now?” To show that he had regretted his denunciation, he refilled Miles’s glass. He sat down again on the worn and billowy chair which had been fashionable twenty years ago.
Miles began to speak, and he let a pleading note come into his voice, as if attempting to persuade Norman deWitt: “I’ve gone over this with you before. I know”—he hesitated—“that you hate Roosevelt. …”
Norman nodded; his eyes hardened. “Of course; we all do. But we know we can use him and the Northern element of his party. We can be expedient, too, you know.” He smiled contemptuously.
“Well,” said Miles, with an answering smile, “the President is anxious to create and increase prosperity. You and I know that the National Industrial Recovery Act will be declared unconstitutional by the Supreme Court very shortly, in spite of the President. You told me that the last time. Too bad. But it’s only a temporary delay, after all. The country will recover in spite of what the Supreme Court can do.”
Norman nodded again, and a strangely mysterious smile hovered on his mouth. “Yes, when we have a war. It is only my opinion, of course, but it may be sooner than we think. Perhaps in four or five years. The public must be educated to it. But, go on.”
“In the meantime,” said Miles, “the working people will suffer. As you know, I have a plan to modernize our entire railroad, in which you hold quite a block of shares picked up by you during the depression. If I can accomplish that, our closed repair shops will be reopened; we can place large orders with car builders, thus stimulating employment and prosperity everywhere. Our example might goad other roads into doing the same thing.” He stopped, and bit his tongue. He had almost used the “accursed word, competition.” “But we can’t move, can’t accomplish anything, until your half-sister Cornelia, and your nephew DeWitt, are made powerless—and I become president of the road. You know what damned conservatives they are, hoarding their private fortunes and refusing to disgorge any part of them for the benefit of the road and the workers.”
“I’ve agreed with you before that DeWitt will have to go,” said Norman reprovingly. “Cornelia, I suppose, will have to remain as a director. What can we do about DeWitt?”
Miles laughed. “We can ‘elevate’ him to the safe and powerless post of chairman.”
Norman moved in his chair, and laughed also. “All right, Miles, what do you want me to do?”
The game was dangerous, but the odds were with Miles. He told Norman what he wished him to do.
“We’re coming into the station,” said Fielding to his reflective brother. “What’ve you been dreaming about the past fifteen minutes?”
“I,” said Miles indifferently, “was thinking about a murderer.”
When they reached the Philadelphia offices of the Interstate Railroad Company, they found the board of directors already waiting for them. It was a matter of astonishment to Fielding that the directors, who were so much older than Miles, stood up when Miles entered, with expressions of deference. But Miles accepted the gesture as perfectly normal. He sat down in his seat near the head of the long table, and glanced at the empty chairs usually used by DeWitt and Cornelia. He said, “Aunt Cornelia told me last night that she ‘understood,’ and that she would not tell DeWitt of our invitation to her today, until this session has been completed. However, I asked her, for the sake of DeWitt, who is not any too well lately, not to tell him until day after tomorrow, because of the dinner we are having here in Philadelphia tomorrow night to honor her and the one hundredth birthday of the road. She’s a wily old girl; she doesn’t require reams of paper to explain things to her. She gets on to things immediately. We,” added Miles, glancing around the table, “are going to have a hard time with her. She may be old, but there’s no fuzziness in her mind.”
The white glare of the snow outside shone starkly on his face, and his eyes were a brilliant stare of blueness. The directors nodded soberly; they were fascinated, as always, by this small man’s aura of absolute power and compact authority. He communicated complete confidence to them.
“But Aunt Cornelia will have no weight, if you are with me,” Miles went on. “A few days ago I went to Washington and talked with Norman deWitt.”
The intent faces around the board darkened and tightened. Miles smiled. “Criminals always believe, and fanatics with them, that they are so much more intelligent than others. We must never forget that we are just as bright, or brighter. It is the one weapon we have against them. But we must never let them know we know the truth.
“Norman is willing to intercede in behalf of our road with the Interstate Commerce Commission, if, gentlemen, I am elected president of our company. This intercession will take the form of rate adjustments and other privileges, such as financing new issues for passenger modernization of the road. Well, gentlemen?”
The only other director not. present was old Mr. Hill. One of the others said, “Hill, Miles? You know how devoted he is to Cornelia.”
“We’ll manage Hill, shortly. After all, he may be old and very rich, but he wants even more money. He has what is called the ‘dynasty complex,’ and he has scores of great-grandchildren. When it comes brutally down to just dollars and cents, old Hill will weep with Cornelia, and throw in his vote with ours.”
“We’ll take the preliminary vote today,” said another director. “In Cornelia’s presence. She’s a very wise woman, and later she’ll begin to think how much money she’ll also make, herself, when we modernize the road.”
“Good,” said Miles. He opened his gold cigarette case and a director, his senior by at least fifteen years, sprang to his feet and lit the cigarette. Fielding grinned. What a boy was Miles! Miles was nodding in acknowledgement of the courtesy. Then he studied the papers on his desk, smiled, leaned back in his chair. He began to talk of casual and personal matters, and to inquire about the families of the directors. It was one of his rules that when a matter was precariously settled, it did nothing but unsettle it again if the thing were constantly discussed. He conveyed to the directors the idea that they had no alternative but to do what he wished, and that what he wished was to their advantage. He did this without any words, but only with the strong tone of his voice, his interest in their personal lives, the state of the weather, and plans they all had for the coming summer.
Cornelia arrived in about fifteen minutes, wrapped in the finest Russian sables, perfumed, swift-moving, and smilingly composed. Her small blue hat sat closely on her dyed red hair, and its veil was studded with diamonds. The men rose as one; she nodded to them gaily, sat down in her chair, and took off her gloves. While she did this, her alert eyes scrutinized each face. She continued to smile but a few of her facial muscles twitched.
“Well, here I am, boys, and I’m all intrigued about this mysteryr. Did I ever tell you I love mysteries? Miles can be very mysterious in such a calm way, and so I feel quite excited. Did someone inquire about DeWitt? Well, his cold is getting better, but he broods. I don’t know why. It can’t be the road, I don’t think. I do hope he won’t turn out to be like his father.” For an instant her smile was gone, and then it returned, more robust than ever, her fine white teeth flashing between her painted lips. She sighed, laughed. “You all look like undertakers, my dears. Except Miles.” She studied Miles. “The executioner, I think, would never look like a mortician. He usually takes such relish in his work.”
Miles rested his hands on the table. “Aunt Cornelia,” he said, “I am no executioner.” He was relieved that Cornelia had caught some inkling of what this session might portend. “Perhaps you could call me a surgeon.”
“Odd that a surgeon is present but not the—shall we say—victim?” She drew a deep breath and stared at Miles with all her formidable power. “You’re quite a dog, Miles, my little one. But I never underestimated y
ou. However, I want to tell you now that you’ll find me a very good antagonist.” She continued to stare at him. “Little Miles, ‘little Mr. Aaron.’ Yes, I’ve heard about that ancient sentimentality. But I’m going to give you some credit, Miles: you’re not sentimental. I doubt whether you ever considered yourself the adequate successor of my grandfather, your great-grandfather.”
The directors were becoming uneasy; they played with their papers and pretended to study them. Miles smiled gently. “No, I’m not sentimental, Aunt Cornelia. I’m a businessman, and I control twenty-nine per cent of the stock in the road. Naturally, I am interested in its welfare, and continued success. And,” he added more slowly, “I’m also interested in eliminating those who stand in the way of our common property.”
Cornelia let out a boom of genuine laughter. “Miles, I'm almost coming to believe in the story of ‘little Mr. Aaron’! You do resemble him, if my father’s reports, and the reports of others, are true. ‘Eliminating.’ Do you know, I prefer that word to the one Hitler uses: ‘liquidation.’ But it amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it?”
One of the directors murmured, “Cornelia, that’s—” But she shook her head at him archly, and her hazel eyes glittered through the blue web of her veil. “Oh, hell, Bertie, let’s not get into semantics. I knew from the very moment Miles called me the other night that you were all plotting something. Why else the secrecy? I’ve known, too, that he’s met you all very often, right here. But here I am, Cornelia deWitt Marshall, and here I sit, and I shall listen. What do you want?”
Miles waited, but the shamefaced directors suddenly became silent. Miles did not waste time in trying to force them to look at his contemptuous eyes. He addressed himself softly to Cornelia: “You are one of the directors of the road, Aunt Cornelia, and we intend to let you remain a director. What else can we do? But, after endless sessions, we’ve all come to the conclusion that DeWitt cannot remain as president. For reasons we’ve discussed with you before. It is now life or death for the road. DeWitt stands for its death. We stand for its life, and I expect that you will, too, eventually. The directors have agreed that I must be president; DeWitt will be chairman.” He lifted his hands, smiled at Cornelia, let his hands drop. “That is all there is to the whole thing.”
“So simple,” said Cornelia. She opened her case and took out a cigarette. Miles himself lit it for her, and she inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, dear. You were always such a courteous and quick little boy. You still are. Yes, so simple. Why are the other lads so quiet, Miles? Are they remembering that we control fifty-one per cent of the stock?”
“They are remembering,” said Miles, “that they have the power to vote me in as president, with your consent.”
Cornelia let her eyes wander acutely from one face to another. The men looked up, smiled miserably or sheepishly or grimly, according to their present emotions. But she had her answer. Her red eyebrows drew together thoughtfully; she dropped an ash from her cigarette, put the white cylinder into her mouth again. Her eyes narrowed to slits, shifted to a window. Then she spoke abstractedly: “And that is what they intend to do. I’m thinking of dear old Mr. Hill. But you’ll get around to him. Miles, you never do anything until you are sure, do you? Don’t bother to answer. You wouldn’t have called me in today if you hadn’t been sure.”
All at once the directors were speaking together in a babble of voices. Cornelia listened politely. They were terribly sorry, they wouldn’t have done this for worlds if there had been any other way—the road—concessions were necessary from the government, which would not grant concessions if DeWitt’s ideas prevailed—the road—modernize—surely she could see that for herself—future profits, unlimited expansion—she knew how devoted they all were to her, how much they admired her wisdom and understanding, and respected her opinions—the road—it was all for the best—she was still a director—DeWitt would be chairman—the road—
Cornelia nodded gravely as the men stood about her, gesticulating, pleading, arguing. But her eyes were beginning to dance. She said at last, “All right, boys, sit down. You’ve got it all settled. Let’s have no post-mortems. But aren’t you a little cowardly to leave it to me to tell DeWitt?”
Miles said, “I think the idea was cowardly—yes. I’m sorry. We’ll have a session next Monday, and we’ll tell him, ourselves. We should not even have considered leaving it all to you, Aunt Cornelia. But, in a way, it’s a compliment.”
She contemplated him seriously. “As you are not sentimental, I won’t remind you that you are my sister’s husband, and that your sister is married to my son.”
Miles said, as seriously, “It isn’t necessary to remind me. I’ve thought about it very often. But nothing is as important as the road. For all of us.”
Fielding interjected, “Yes, Aunt Cornelia, the road.” But she ignored him.
“Miles, have you Norman with you, Norman, my brother?
Miles replied without hesitation, “Yes. We have. Norman and I are great friends.”
Cornelia emitted such a roar of laughter that the directors were startled. She laughed until the tears ran down her raddled cheeks; she even slapped one of her silken thighs. “I thought so; I knew it! God, but this is wonderful! You and Norman! Such ‘great friends’! And how he hates me. Miles, you are a genius, a genius!” She paused to wipe her wet eyes, and shook her head over and over with unaffected mirth. “I’m going to live to be a hundred or more! I just couldn’t bear to miss the final episode between you and Norman, the swine that he is. For there will be that final episode. There’s no use in my telling him all about you, my dear child. He wouldn’t listen; I’m just the dyed old plutocrat, sitting on her bags of gold. Miles, I repeat, you are a genius.” She touched his coat sleeve lightly with her painted fingernails. “The future is going to be so interesting. I can’t wait.”
“Very interesting, and very profitable, for all of us,” said Miles. But Cornelia was laughing again in that silent room, without hysterics, and only with a kind of Homeric ecstasy. The men listened, and to them Cornelia had never appeared so gallant, so powerful, as she was now in her capitulation. They smiled at each other, and there was something sad in their smiles. Her laughter was dying away, gustily, and in enjoyment. She was looking at Miles again. “Yes, dear, I’ve no doubt that under you, as president, the road will prosper. I’ve no doubt that I’ll become a whole lot richer. But, do you know, I hate you like death.”
She turned away from him, and she was very quiet. “There is an old saying—‘man is never victorious, never defeated.’ DeWitt has a son. I’m remembering so many things. Your grandfather was defeated by my father, and your grandfather’s son has defeated the offspring of my father in return. Yes, DeWitt has a son.”
Now she looked at Miles and she was young and zestful again, glowing with purpose and exhilaration. “You are a railroader, Miles,” she said, and her coarse voice vibrated. “I can see it all, now. You know everything about the intricacies of the road, all about its management. You went to a good school—the Interstate. To you, as it has always been to me, the railroad is the first thing in your life, the dominant thing. You are more than clever; you are wise and subtle and shrewd. You’ve managed to get the promise of the present Administration to give its approval to your plans—if DeWitt is removed. If by some trick I could get the Administration to withhold its approval of you, I wouldn’t do it. No, Miles, I wouldn’t do it. For then the road would suffer. There would be the meanest of pressures and harassments, for nothing can be more vicious than a bureaucrat. Not even DeWitt and all his money, and Mary’s money, and mine, could stop the vindictive persecution. The road would go down.”
She put up her hand when Miles tried to speak. “Wait, my little man. I’m not finished yet. Rufus, DeWitt’s son, is my grandson. This past year or more he has begun to show authentic interest in the road. I’ve been watching him. I’m going to coach him, and tell him all I know. You have no son. But there will be Rufus in the future.
”
Fielding squinted his pale brown eyes at her. “Aunt Cornelia, you’re forgetting I have two boys, myself, younger than Rufus, of course. But my boys.”
For the first time she gave him her attention. “Your sons, Fielding?” she asked in contemptuous astonishment. “I’ve seen the little fellows. No, Fielding, not your sons.” She shook her head emphatically.
“If Rufus ever becomes the better man, then I won’t hold on to the presidency,” said Miles, and he was very grave. “If he ever becomes that better man, twenty years from now, I’ll be glad to withdraw. In fact, I’ll help him. As you have said, the road is first with me. When Rufus is. ready to come into the road next year, I’ll teach him, too. As if he were my own son.”
She regarded him fixedly. It was as if she had never seen him before, and was struck with amazement. The directors turned in a body to look at Miles with profound respect. He stood there near Cornelia, short, forceful, but very quiet and sincere, and he saw no one but her. Fielding blinked his eyes; ran a long and lanky hand over his lips. For the first time in his life he hated his brother. But wait, he thought to himself. You’ve all forgotten me, but I’m here, and I’m not the clown you think I am. He put a white knuckle against his teeth and pressed it, hard.
“Miles,” said Cornelia. She put another cigarette into her mouth and Miles lit it for her. “Well, Miles,” she murmured. “Damned if I don’t believe you.”
She stood up quickly, and she appeared to tower over them all. She put her hand on Miles’s shoulder and shook it indulgently. “You’re going to need me, Miles. I’m a director. No one knows more about the road than I do. I hate you, but I’ll help you.” She laughed down at him and shook his shoulder again, then turned and offered her big strong hand to each of the directors in turn. She had all the exuberance and resilience of youth about her, all its animal magnetism and fire. The men shook her hand with deep and honest feeling. A trouper, one said to himself. There’s no one like old Cornelia. But as Fielding shook her hand she could feel his malignance. She stopped to look at him intently, and said to Miles, “Your brother, my dear. I don’t think he likes any of us today.”