He observed that it was 1 A.M.
“The next order of business,” Nolan Wainwright announced, “is a written statement. In your own handwriting and with everything in it that you’ve told me.”
“No! I won’t do that!” Eastin was wary now.
Wainwright shrugged. “In that case there’s no point in my staying longer.” He reached for the six thousand dollars and began stowing it in his pockets.
“You can’t do that!”
“Can’t I? Try stopping me. I’m taking it back to the bank—the night depository.”
“Listen!—you can’t prove …” The younger man hesitated. He was thinking now, remembering too late that the serial numbers of the bills had never been recorded.
“Maybe I can prove it’s the same money that was taken Wednesday; maybe not. If not, you can always try suing the bank to get it back.”
Eastin pleaded, “I need it now! Today!”
“Oh, sure, some for the bookie and some for the loan shark. Or the strong-arm guys they’ll send. Well, you can try explaining how you lost it, though I doubt if they’ll listen.” The security chief eyed Eastin for the first time with sardonic amusement. “You really are in trouble. Maybe they’ll both come together, then they’ll break one of your arms and one leg each. They’re apt to do that sort of thing. Or didn’t you know?”
Fear, real fear, showed in Eastin’s eyes. “Yes, I do know. You’ve got to help me! Please!”
From the apartment doorway Wainwright said coldly, “I’ll consider it. After you’ve written that statement.”
The bank security chief dictated while Eastin wrote the words down obediently.
I, Miles Broderick Eastin, make this statement voluntarily. I have been offered no inducement to make it. No violence or threat of violence has been used …
I confess to stealing from First Mercantile American Bank the sum of six thousand dollars in cash at approximately 1:30 P.M. on Wednesday, October …
I obtained and concealed this money by the following means …
A quarter of an hour ago, after Wainwright’s threat to walk out, Miles Eastin had collapsed entirely, co-operative and cowed.
Now, while Eastin continued writing his confession, Wainwright telephoned Innes, the FBI man, at his home.
15
During the first week of November, Ben Rosselli’s physical condition worsened. Since the bank president’s disclosure of his terminal illness four weeks earlier, his strength had ebbed, his body wasted as proliferating and invading cancerous cells tightened their stranglehold on his remaining life.
Those who visited old Ben at home—including Roscoe Heyward, Alex Vandervoort, Edwina D’Orsey, Nolan Wainwright, and various directors of the bank—were shocked at the extent and speed of his deterioration. It was obvious he had very little time to live.
Then, in mid-November, while a savage storm with gale force winds beset the city, Ben Rosselli was moved by ambulance to the private pavilion of Mount Adams Hospital, a short journey which was to be his last alive. By then he was under almost continuous sedation, so that his moments of awareness and coherence became fewer day by day.
The last vestiges of any control of First Mercantile American Bank had now slipped from him, and a group of the bank’s senior directors, meeting privately, agreed the full board must be summoned, a successor to the presidency named.
The decisive board meeting was set for December 4.
Directors began arriving shortly before 10 A.M. They greeted one another cordially, each with an easy confidence—the patina of a successful businessman in the company of his peers.
The cordiality was slightly more restrained than usual in deference to the dying Ben Rosselli, still clutching feebly to life a mile or so away. Yet the directors now assembling were admirals and field marshals of commerce, as Ben had been himself, who knew that whatever else obtruded, business, which kept civilization lubricated, must go on. Their mood appeared to say: The reason behind decisions we must make today is regrettable, but our solemn duty to the system shall be done.
Thus they moved resolutely into the walnut paneled boardroom, hung with paintings and photographs of selected predecessors, once important themselves, now long departed.
A board of directors of any major corporation resembles an exclusive club. Apart from three or four top management executives who are employed full time, the board comprises a score or so of outstanding businessmen—often board chairmen or presidents themselves—from other, diverse fields.
Usually such outside directors are invited to join the board for one or more of several reasons—their own achievements elsewhere, the prestige of the institution they represent, or a strong connection—usually financial—with the company on whose board they sit.
Among businessmen it is considered a high honor to be a company director, and the more prestigious the company the greater the glory. This is why some individuals collect directorships the way some Indians once collected scalps. Another reason is that directors are treated with ego-satisfying reverence and also generously—major companies pay each director between one and two thousand dollars for every meeting attended, normally ten a year.
Particularly high in prestige is a directorship of any major bank. For a businessman to be invited to serve on a topflight bank board is roughly equivalent to being knighted by the British Queen; therefore the accolade is widely sought. First Mercantile American, as befitting a bank among the nation’s top twenty, possessed a board of directors appropriately impressive.
Or so they thought.
Alex Vandervoort, surveying the other directors as they took seats around the long, elliptical boardroom table, decided there was a high percentage of deadwood. There were also conflicts of interest since some directors, or their companies, were major borrowers of bank money. Among his long-term objectives if he became president would be to make the FMA board more representative and less like a cozy club.
But would he be president? Or would Heyward?
Both of them were candidates today. Both, in a short time, like any seeker after office, would expound their views. Jerome Patterton, vice-chairman of the board, who would preside at today’s meeting, had approached Alex two days earlier. “You know as well as the rest of us, our decision’s between you and Roscoe. You’re both good men; making a choice isn’t easy. So help us. Tell us your feelings about FMA, in any way you like; the what and how, I leave to you.”
Roscoe Heyward, Alex was aware, had been similarly briefed.
Heyward, typically, had armed himself with a prepared text. Seated directly across from Alex, he was studying it now, his aquiline face set seriously, the gray eyes behind rimless glasses unwaveringly focused on the typewritten words. Among Heyward’s abilities was intense concentration of his scalpel-sharp mind, especially on figures. A colleague once observed, “Roscoe can read a profit and loss statement the way a symphony conductor reads a score—sensing nuances, awkward notes, incomplete passages, crescendos, and potentialities which others miss.” Without doubt, figures would be included in whatever Heyward had to say today.
Alex was unsure whether he would use numbers in his own remarks or not. If they were used, they would have to be from memory since he had brought no materials. He had deliberated far into last night and decided eventually to wait until the moment came, then speak instinctively, as seemed appropriate, letting thoughts and words fall into place themselves.
He reminded himself that in this same room, so short a time ago, Ben had announced, “I’m dying. My doctors tell me I don’t have long.” The words had been, still were, an affirmation that all in life was finite. They mocked ambition—his own, Roscoe Heyward’s, others’.
Yet whether ambition was futile in the end or not, he wanted very much the presidency of this bank. He longed for an opportunity—just as Ben in his time had—to determine directions, decide philosophy, allot priorities and, through the sum of all decisions, leave behind a worthwhile contribution. And whether, vi
ewed across a larger span of years, whatever was accomplished mattered much or little, the zest itself would be rewarding—the doing, leading, striving, and competing, here and now.
Across the boardroom table to the right, the Honorable Harold Austin slipped into his accustomed seat. He wore a windowpane check Cerruti suit, with a classic button-down shirt and houndstooth pattern tie, and looked like a pacesetting model from the pages of Playboy. He held a fat cigar, ready to be lighted. Alex saw Austin and nodded. The nod was returned, but with noticeable coolness.
A week ago the Honorable Harold had dropped by to protest Alex’s veto of Keycharge credit-card advertising prepared by the Austin agency. “Keycharge marketing expansion was approved by the board of directors,” the Honorable Harold had objected. “What’s more, the department heads at Keycharge had already okayed that particular ad campaign before it got to you. I’m of two minds whether to bring your high-handed action to the attention of the board or not.”
Alex was blunt, “To begin with, I know exactly what the directors decided about Keycharge because I was there. What they did not agree to was that marketing expansion would include advertising which is sleazy, misleading, half-truthful and discreditable to the bank. Your creative people can do better than that, Harold. In fact, they already have—I’ve seen and approved the revised versions. As for being high-handed, I made an executive management decision well within my authority, and any time necessary I’ll do the same again. So if you choose to bring the subject before the board, you can. If you want my opinion, they won’t thank you for it—they’re more likely to thank me.”
Harold Austin had glowered, but apparently decided to drop the subject, perhaps wisely because Austin Advertising was going to do just as well financially with the revised Keycharge campaign. But Alex knew he had created an antagonist. He doubted, though, if it would make any difference today since the Honorable Harold obviously preferred Roscoe Heyward and was likely to support him anyway.
One of his own strong supporters, Alex knew, was Leonard L. Kings-wood, outspoken, energetic chairman of Northam Steel, now seated near the head of the table, conversing intently with his neighbor. It was Len Kingswood who had telephoned Alex several weeks ago to advise him that Roscoe Heyward was actively canvassing directors for support as president. “I’m not saying you should do the same, Alex. That’s for you to decide. But I’m warning you that what Roscoe’s doing can be effective. He doesn’t fool me. He’s not a leader and I’ve told him so. But he has a persuasive way which is a hook that some may swallow.”
Alex had thanked Len Kingswood for the information but made no attempt to copy Heyward’s tactics. Solicitation might help in some cases but could antagonize others who objected to personal pressure in such matters. Besides, Alex had an aversion to campaigning actively for Ben’s job while the old man remained alive.
But Alex accepted the necessity for today’s meeting and decisions to be made here.
A hum of conversation in the boardroom quietened. Two late arrivals who had just come in were settling down. Jerome Patterton, at the table’s head, tapped lightly with a gavel and announced, “Gentlemen, the board will come to order.”
Patterton, projected into prominence today, was normally self-effacing and, in the management echelon of the bank, something of a timeserver. Now in his sixties and near retirement, he had been acquired as part of a merger with another, smaller bank several years ago; since then his responsibilities had quietly, and by mutual agreement, diminished. Currently he concerned himself almost equally with trust department matters and playing golf with clients. The golf took priority, to the extent that on any working day Jerome Patterton was seldom in his office after 2:30 P.M. His title of vice-chairman of the board was largely honorary.
In appearance he resembled a gentleman farmer. Mostly bald, except for a white, halo-fringe of hair, he had a pointed pink head uncannily like the narrow end of an egg. Paradoxically, his eyebrows were matted and fiercely sprouting; the eyes beneath were gray, bulbous, and becoming rheumy. Adding to the farmer image, he dressed tweedily. Alex Vandervoort’s assessment of Patterton was that the vice-chairman had an excellent brain which in recent years he had used minimally, like an idling motor.
Predictably, Jerome Patterton began by paying tribute to Ben Rosselli, after which he read aloud the latest hospital bulletin which reported “diminishing strength and eroding consciousness.” Among the directors, lips were pursed, heads shaken. “But the life of our community goes on.” The vice-chairman enumerated reasons for the present meeting, principally the need to name, speedily, a new chief executive for First Mercantile American Bank.
“Most of you gentlemen are aware of procedures which have been agreed on.” He then announced what everyone knew—that Roscoe Heyward and Alex Vandervoort would address the board, after which both would leave the meeting while their candidacies were discussed.
“As to the order of speaking, we’ll employ that ancient chance which all of us were born under—alphabetical precedence.” Jerome Patter-ton’s eyes twinkled toward Alex. “I’ve paid a penalty sometimes for being a ‘P.’ I hope that ‘V’ of yours hasn’t been too burdensome.”
“Not often, Mr. Chairman,” Alex said. “On some occasions it gives me the last word.”
A ripple of laughter, the first today, ran around the table. Roscoe Heyward shared in it, though his smile seemed forced.
“Roscoe,” Jerome Patterton instructed, “at your convenience, please begin.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chairman.” Heyward rose to his feet, moved his chair well back and calmly surveyed the nineteen other men around the table. He took a sip of water from a glass in front of him, cleared his throat perfunctorily, and began speaking in a precise and even voice.
“Members of the board, since this is a closed and private meeting, not to be reported in the press or even to other shareholders, I shall be forthright today in emphasizing what I conceive to be my first responsibility, and this board’s—the profitability of First Mercantile American Bank.” He repeated with emphasis, “Profitability, gentlemen—our priority number one.”
Heyward glanced briefly at his text. “Allow me to elaborate on that.
“In my view, too many decisions in banking, and in business generally, are being excessively influenced nowadays by social issues and other controversies of our times. As a banker I believe this to be wrong. Let me emphasize that I do not in any way diminish the importance of an individual’s social conscience; my own, I hope, is well developed. I accept, too, that each of us must re-examine his personal values from time to time, making adjustments in the light of new ideas and offering such private contributions as he can. But corporate policies are something else. They should not be subject to every changing social wind or whim. If they were, if that kind of thinking is allowed to rule our business actions, it would be dangerous for American free enterprise and disastrous for this bank by lessening our strength, retarding growth, and reducing profits. In short, like other institutions, we should once again stay aloof from the socio-political scene which is none of our concern other than how that scene affects our clients’ financial affairs.”
The speaker intruded a thin smile into his seriousness. “I concede that if these words were spoken publicly they would be undiplomatic and unpopular. I will go further and say that I would never utter them in any public place. But between us here, where real decisions and policy are made, I conceive them to be wholly realistic.”
Several of the directors gave approving nods. One enthusiastically thumped his fist upon the tabletop. Others, including the steelman Leonard Kingswood, remained expressionless.
Alex Vandervoort reflected: So Roscoe Heyward had decided on a direct confrontation, a total clash of views. As Heyward was undoubtedly aware, everything he had just said ran contrary to Alex’s own convictions, as well as Ben Rosselli’s, as demonstrated by Ben’s increasing liberalization of the bank in recent years. It was Ben who had involved FMA in civic affairs
, both city and statewide, including projects like Forum East. But Alex had no delusions. A substantial segment of the board had been uneasy, at times unhappy, about Ben’s policies and would welcome Heyward’s hard, all-business line. The question was: How strong was the hard line segment?
With one statement made by Roscoe Heyward, Alex was in full agreement. Heyward had said: This is a closed and private meeting … where real decisions and policy are made.
The operative word was “real.”
While shareholders and public might later be fed a soporific, sugar-coated version of bank policy through elaborately printed annual reports and other means, here, behind closed boardroom doors, was where true objectives were decided in uncompromising terms. It was a reason why discretion and a certain silence were requirements of any company director.
“There is a close-to-home parallel,” Heyward was explaining, “between what I have spoken of and what has happened in the church which I attend, through which I make some social contributions of my own.
“In the 1960s our church diverted money, time, and effort to social causes, notably those of black advancement. Partly this was because of outside pressures; also certain members of our congregation saw it as ‘the thing to do.’ In sundry ways our church became a social agency. More recently, however, some of us have regained control, and decided such activism is inappropriate, and we should return to the basics of religious worship. Therefore we have increased religious ceremonies—our church’s primary function as we see it—and are leaving active social involvement to government and other agencies where, in our opinion, it belongs.”
Alex wondered if other directors found it hard, as he did, to think of social causes as “inappropriate” to a church.
“I spoke of profit as our principal objective,” Roscoe Heyward was continuing. “There are some, I am aware, who will object to that. They will argue that the predominant pursuit of profit is a crass endeavor, shortsighted, selfish, ugly, and without redeeming social value.” The speaker smiled tolerantly. “You gentlemen are familiar with arguments along those lines.