“I saw him before I left the office,” said Charles. “If Fred, during the fight between Joe and me, had heard a single sentence, he would have been so aroused that he would have come charging in on Joe.”
It was hopeless. But Mr. Scott was looking at Oliver. “One should never overlook a possibility,” he murmured. “Definitely not. A little discussion between you and Mr. Fred, Oliver? Ah, yes. In the meantime, however, suppose Charles’ story be typed out so that Mr. Fred could glance over it, in the very probable event he had heard anything, and could throw a little corroboration our way.”
“He never heard a thing,” Charles repeated. “I know he didn’t. Typed out? The whole thing?”
“Don’t worry, Charlie,” said Oliver, who was smiling slightly. “I’ll type it out, myself. No one else will read it except you and Fred—and you’ll sign it—”
“Sign it!” exclaimed Charles, with loathing and alarm.
“Don’t be so frightened and so middle-class,” said Oliver. “It’ll be filed away, in my own safe, and after it’s served its purpose I’ll give it to you and you can destroy it.”
“Served its purpose?” Charles repeated, baffled. But Mr. Scott was rising. He put his hand on Charles’ shoulder; “It’s really very odd how there almost always is a witness about, my boy.” He turned to Oliver. “While Charles’ statement is being typed by you, Oliver, Mr. Fred could be on his way here, after Charles has called him.” He walked out, in his majesty.
Oliver held out the telephone to Charles, but Charles, very red, balked. “I can’t stand Fred knowing anything about this, Oliver. It makes me sick. Fred’s an innocent—”
But Oliver held out the telephone. “We can’t overlook anything. Charlie, we must investigate everything.” So Charles called Friederich, who was very excited at hearing his brother’s reluctant voice. “Oliver Prescott’s?” repeated Friederich. “What is it, Karl? What is it?”
“Just a consultation,” said Charles, impatiently. “But a very important one. Just slip out. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.” He hung up. “I tell you, Oliver, Fred doesn’t know anything, never heard a word. It’s humiliating—I’d rather he didn’t know.”
Oliver gave Charles a magazine devoted to hunting and fishing. Then he went out with his few notes. Silence and peace brooded in the large quiet office. Charles was at first in a turmoil, but after a few minutes numbness clouded his thoughts. Half an hour went by. Then Oliver, holding a long sheet of paper, entered with Friederich, who was bristling with agitation and impatience.
“Karl, you’re alone,” he said, accusingly. He swung to Oliver. “Why did you keep me waiting, when I might have been here talking to my brother, and learning what he has to say? All this mystery!”
“I think Charles was talking with Mr. Scott,” said Oliver, smoothly. “Besides, he isn’t feeling well, and I thought he ought to be alone to collect his thoughts.”
Charles glanced at Oliver sharply, but Oliver was making the twitching Friederich comfortable in the best chair. Then the younger man sat down, smiling easily, as if this were only the most casual meeting of friends. Charles’ stomach tightened again; he began to sweat as he looked at the paper on Oliver’s desk. He wouldn’t sign it; God damn, if he’d sign that degrading story. He said: “Oliver, I don’t want Fred to read that. I can’t have it—”
This was exactly what Oliver wished him to say. He raised his eyebrows, looked wonderingly at Charles, and then at the tense Friederich. “You don’t want your brother, your fellow officer and director and co-owner of the Wittmann Machine Tool Company, to know anything so important to his own interests?”
“What’s this? What’s this?” cried Friederich, filled with the deepest suspicions. “Karl, are you trying to hide things from me again, after all your promises?”
A trick, thought Charles, fuming. Oliver was smiling. Charles said: “It’s a personal matter, Fred.”
“I disagree,” said Oliver. “And if you are right, Charlie, I’m sure you can trust your brother. Can’t you?”
“Of course I can,” said Charles, angrily.
“Then let him be the judge. Don’t change your mind now, Charlie. You, yourself, called Mr. Fred, you remember.”
He turned to Friederich, who was regarding Charles with darkly sparkling eyes of reawakened distrust. Charles wanted to get up and leave the room. But God only knew what Oliver might say. Charles checked his rising movement. Oliver held out the paper to Friederich, who was fumbling with his spectacles. “One thing, Mr. Fred. I must ask you to make no comment whatever until you have finished reading this. My object in showing you Charlie’s statement is that I believe you, as an important member of the Wittmann Company, ought to know what threatens your company and you, and another object is to see if you overheard anything of this story—inadvertently, of course.”
“Overheard?” said Fred.
“You didn’t—” Charles began, but Oliver interrupted deftly. “Sometimes it isn’t possible to prevent overhearing, Mr. Fred. Then one forgets, until one hears the story again. And then any information is of the most vital importance. Most vital,” he repeated, catching Friederich’s eye and holding it. “A witness in this case would be invaluable, and would stop everything in its tracks. Without such a witness, even an eavesdropper—accidentally, of course—I can’t tell you to what lengths your brother, Jochen, will go.”
Friederich stared at Oliver.
“Jochen could ruin all of you,” Oliver continued. “Charlie’s told me you know the whole story of his plottings against your company, with Mr. Brinkwell. This, I believe, and know, is the final act of the plot. So, you can see how terribly necessary it is for us to know if you heard a single phrase.” And he gave the paper to Friederich.
These lawyers, thought Charles, bitterly. They never overlook anyhing. He sat back in his chair, heat spreading over his face again as Friederich began to read. He watched his brother. After the first few sentences, Friederich sat up, rigidly. The paper began to shake in his hands. He turned it towards the light, holding it almost up to his nose. His face began to jerk, to color, to pale, to assume expressions of incredulity, disgust, excitement, fury. Charles tried to speak, once or twice, but Oliver, with a stern look, repressed him, and held up his hand. The moments ticked away, and no one said a word. Friederich did not utter a single exclamation, and this seemed very strange to Charles.
Then, still without speaking, Friederich placed the paper on Oliver’s desk. But he continued to look at it, hunched up in his chair, his body bent forward. His eyebrows twitched, his forehead wrinkled, his face became darkly red, his mouth moved, he inclined his head, straightened it, bent it again, as if conducting a conversation with someone. He did not glance at Charles, or even at Oliver.
“You see,” said Oliver, gently, “how important it is for us to know if you overheard anything.”
Charles said again: “You didn’t—” Oliver said: “Charlie, I must ask you not to speak, to interfere with a possible witness, who might be able to save you and your company. We only want the truth. If you insist upon interrupting, I must ask you to leave me alone with your brother.”
Friederich continued to stare at the paper, and no one spoke. Some enormous struggle was going on in the poor man. Charles felt compassion for him. He had only one thought, now, and that was to try to extricate his brother from this situation.
Friederich began to shiver, as if cold. He opened his mouth. No sound came from it. He tried again, and his voice was hoarse and low. Then he lifted a shaking finger and put it on a paragraph. He said: “I—I didn’t hear all of it. I knew Karl was going to tell Jochen to get out. It—it was all arranged, between Karl and me. I heard the first part between Karl and Jochen, because I was there, in the room. Karl knows. And then Jochen asked me to leave, and Karl asked me, too. So, I went out.”
He still did not look at either of the men. He was swallowing, painfully. His ears were scarlet. He went on, even more hoarsely: “I—I know all
Jochen’s tricks. He’s a bad man. No one can trust him. But, I went into my office, and closed the door. I knew Karl could take care of everything, without me.”
Charles sighed, in relief. Oliver frowned.
“And you heard nothing of this very important attempt at blackmail, Mr. Fred?” And then he was no longer frowning, for Friederich’s misery became even more evident. His finger was still on one paragraph. He spoke again: “It was a long time. Then I began to be uneasy. I wondered what—what was happening, and if—if Karl needed me. And I wanted to know what had been happening. So—” and he bent his head even lower, “so I went back to Karl’s office. The door was still shut. I wondered if Jochen had gone. So I put my ear—my ear—up against the door. And”—now he looked up desperately at Oliver—“I—heard that.”
Charles sat up. But Friederich refused to look at him. Oliver read the paragraph:
“‘So, though readily admitting that he, himself, Jochen Wittmann, had no real or serious grounds for his false accusation, and that his fabricated story would be used only against me, Charles Wittmann, in the event I did not submit to his blackmail—’”
“But, he never said—” said Charles.
Oliver read louder: “‘—he, Jochen Wittmann, then said, quote: It’ll be you who’ll be getting out of the company, not I. I’m giving you two months, Charlie.’” Oliver looked at Charles: “He said that, didn’t he? It’s in your statement.”
“That part, yes,” admitted Charles angrily. “But not—”
Friederich said: “I heard that whole—that whole paragraph. Yes. Jochen admitted it was all lies, but said his word was as good as Karl’s, in any court.” He paused. “There was something else, which isn’t in here. Jochen said, and I overheard him, that he’d get Brinkwell to help him with—with stories about Karl, too, because Brinkwell wanted the Wittmann Machine Tool Company.”
Charles was aghast. His mouth fell open. Then he shouted: “Fred! That’s not true, and you know it!”
Friederich turned to him, fiercely. “Don’t try to protect Jochen, Karl, from any scandal. You always played it safe and cautiously, didn’t you? But this time I’ll tell the truth, myself.”
Charles was dumfounded. Oliver said: “You wish to sign a statement as to what you heard, Mr. Fred?”
“Yes!” cried Friederich, with a zealot’s fervor.
Oliver smiled broadly. “With two such statements to show to Jochen, nothing will come of all this. He’ll be so afraid of prosecution that he’ll never open his mouth again. What’s that, Charlie? You don’t want the truth to come out about him, even at the risk of the destruction of your company, and your own ruin? You’d defend Jochen even against Mr. Fred?”
Charles shouted again: “I won’t have—”
Friederich exclaimed: “And you promised me you’d trust me, and that I could trust you, Karl! Is this your trust? How can I go on trusting you, under these circumstances?”
“You know damn well, Fred—”
“I know what I heard, Karl.” The poor man’s eyes were shining fanatically. “You’ve forgotten about me, haven’t you? I have a stake in this company. And—and you’re my brother. The only one I ever trusted.”
“I just don’t want you to perjure yourself,” said Charles, with a savage glance at Oliver. “You don’t know what these lawyers are in court. They’d crucify you, Fred.”
“It’ll never come to court. No one will need to see these papers, Charlie, but Jochen. Then he’ll run like mad. I promise you that. No perjury. Are you accusing Mr. Fred of deliberately intending to perjure himself?”
“I told you the truth, in that statement, Oliver!” said Charles furiously. “And nothing else. Fred didn’t overhear anything. Joe didn’t say what Fred said.”
Oliver lifted the telephone, and asked his secretary to request Mr. Scott to come into the office. In the meantime, while Charles sat impotently glaring at him, Oliver wrote out Friederich’s statement by hand, very swiftly. He’s afraid to leave me alone with old Fred, thought Charles. He tried to catch Friederich’s eye, but his brother had half-turned his back upon him, a stiff back full of resolution and denial. Mr. Scott entered, and greeted Friederich, whom he knew slightly, with calm interest and kindness. Oliver finally finished his writing, held out the sheet to Friederich, and presented him with his pen. Friederich rapidly read what had been written. Then he lifted the pen.
“Wait,” said Charles. “Fred, I can fight my own battles. I don’t want you to do this to yourself.”
Friederich signed the paper with a defiant flourish, pushed it towards Oliver. Oliver, then, with the utmost gravity, presented Mr. Scott with the two papers. It’s no use, thought Charles. Then he began to smile, in spite of himself. Fred, who less than a year ago would have believed anything of him, who would not have said or done a single thing to help him!
Mr. Scott read both papers serenely, murmuring once or twice, and nodding his head. Then he carefully folded the papers and held them. “I think it would be in order, Oliver, to request Mr. Jochen Wittmann to see me, personally, and immediately, in my own office. I shall ask my secretary to call him for me at once. In the meantime, may I suggest that Charles and Friederich remain here with you until the conclusion of this unfortunate affair? I expect it won’t take very long.”
“I don’t want to see Jochen,” said Friederich, excitedly.
“Certainly not. He is not even to know you are here.” Then Mr. Scott did a rare thing. He went to Friederich, and held out his hand. “Friederich,” he said, “it is seldom a lawyer meets a man of integrity, and principle.”
Friederich was confused, his ears reddening again. He took Mr. Scott’s hand. His eyes wrinkled as he watched the old man leave the room. Charles looked at him, and he was suddenly and intensely moved. He forgot Oliver, and said to his brother: “Fred, Mr. Scott is right. I’ve been a fool all my life.” He looked more closely at Friederich, and said, without thinking: “I’ve always been told you resemble me. But all at once I see you resemble our father more than anyone else in the family.”
Friederich’s profile softened, smiled. He turned to Charles, and said, eagerly: “Thank you, Karl, thank you!”
“I’ll never forget this, Friederich,” said Charles, and he spoke in German. “It was a noble thing to do.”
Friederich smiled at him fully. “I always prefer the truth,” he said. “But you are so careful, Karl. If the truth will not serve, one must use equivocation.”
“This,” said Oliver, “definitely calls for a toast.” And he took out three glasses. “Fred doesn’t drink,” said Charles. Friederich hesitated only a moment, then he held his glass to his mouth, and remarked: “Karl knows so many things about me which are not true.” And he drank, and to Charles’ astonishment did not even cough, though he poured the liquor quickly down his throat and struggled unsuccessfully with a grimace. He put the glass on Oliver’s desk with a fine gesture of triumph. No one smiled.
Oliver came around his desk and solemnly shook hands with Friederich. Then Charles shook hands with him. The two men slapped Friederich upon the back with great vigor. Charles felt quite heady, and loved both his brother and his friend. He was almost exhilarated. He decided he loved the whole world, except, of course, for a few people.
Nearly an hour went by, and no one noticed it. It was half-past six when the door opened and Mr. Scott returned. He was smiling quite genially. He glanced at each suddenly sober face, and said at once: “It is perfectly all right, gentlemen. I have talked to Mr. Jochen. He has just left. And he tells me that you will have his resignation tomorrow, Charles.”
Charles said: “What did he say?”
With something close to airiness, Mr. Scott replied: “Very little. Quite a reasonable man, after all. I did not expect it of him, to be frank. He merely read the papers, then put them down. I then explained to him the penalties for attempted blackmail. A realist. I believe he said something about a man knowing when he was beaten. And, if he was a little bitte
r, at moments, that is understandable.”
Friederich, in his innocence, accepted this, and nodded seriously. Oliver smiled. But Charles, without knowing the reason, felt a great and heavy sickness.
Oliver took Charles home first in his automobile, and then drove off with Friederich. Charles went into the warm dim house, and as he did so the weight of the hot and uproarious day fell on him, and all his wretchedness and flatness and fear. Jimmy greeted him with reserve, then, seeing his father’s face, came close to him. Charles shut his eyes. “It’s all over, Jim,” he said. “Joe’s out. Everything’s finished. It turned out well, after all. No need to worry.”
He sat down, and Jim took his hat. There was a heavy scent of roses in the room, too pressing. Mrs. Meyers, who was a sentimental woman, had taken to putting a bowl of fresh flowers every day under Wilhelm’s Picasso. “I wish she’d stop that,” said Charles, glancing at the fiery red blooms. “Willie wouldn’t like it.”
“Oh, yes,” said Jimmy, trying to hide his concern for his father. “It’s exactly what he’d like. You didn’t know much about Uncle Willie, Dad.”
Charles reflected on this. He said, at last: “That’s true. I’m afraid I never knew much about anything, and still don’t know very much.”
Three days later the Clarion published a very flattering photograph of Jochen Wittmann on its front page, and announced that Mr. Wittman had resigned from the Wittmann Machine Tool Company to become assistant superintendent of the Connington Steel Company, under Mr. Roger Brinkwell. “My father’s company remains in the able hands of my two brothers, Charles and Friederich,” said Mr. Wittmann, when interviewed. Andersburg was extremely excited over this news.