Harold Austin intercepted him. “Alex, when will you move on the savings plan?”
“Immediately.” Not wishing to seem ungracious, he added, “Thank you for your support.”
Austin nodded. “What I’d like to do now is come in with two or three of my agency people to discuss the campaign.”
“Very well. Next week.”
So Austin had confirmed—without delay or embarrassment—what Alex had deduced. Though to be fair, Alex thought, the Austin Advertising Agency did good work and could be selected to handle the savings campaign on merit.
But he was rationalizing and knew it. By keeping silent a few minutes ago he had sacrificed principle to achieve an end. He wondered what Margot would think of his defection.
The Honorable Harold said affably, ‘Then I’ll be seeing you.”
Boscoe Heyward, leaving the boardroom just ahead of Alex, was accosted by a uniformed bank messenger who handed him a sealed envelope. Heyward ripped it open and took out a folded message slip. Reading it, he brightened visibly, glanced at his watch, and smiled. Alex wondered why.
13
The note was a simple one. Typed by Roscoe’s trusted senior secretary, Dora Callaghan, it informed him that Miss Deveraux had telephoned, leaving word she was in town and would like him to call as soon as possible. The note supplied a phone number and extension.
Heyward recognized the number: the Columbia Hilton Hotel. Miss Deveraux was Avril.
They had met twice since the trip to the Bahamas a month and a half ago. Both times it had been at the Columbia Hilton. And on each occasion, as well as during that night in Nassau when he had pressed button number seven to bring Avril to his room, she had taken him to a kind of paradise, a place of sexual ecstasy such as he had never dreamed existed. Avril knew incredible things to do to a man which—during that original night—had at first shocked and then delighted him. Later, her skill aroused wave after wave of sensual pleasure until he had cried out in sheer joy, using words which he did not know he knew. Afterward Avril had been gentle, caressing, loving, and patient, until, to his surprise and exultation, he was aroused once more.
It was then he began to realize, with an awareness which had heightened since, how much of life’s passion and glory—the mutual exploring, uplifting, sharing, giving, and receiving—he and Beatrice had never known.
For Roscoe and Beatrice his discovery had come too late, though perhaps for Beatrice it was a discovery she never would have wanted. But there was time still for Roscoe and Avril; on the occasions since Nassau they had proved it. He glanced at his watch, smiling—the smile which Vandervoort had seen.
He’d go to Avril as soon as possible, of course. It would mean rearranging his schedule for this afternoon and evening, but no matter. Even now, the thought of seeing her once more excited him, so that his body was stirring and reacting like a youth’s.
On a few occasions since the affair with Avril began, conscience had troubled him. During recent Sundays in church, the text he had read aloud before going to the Bahamas came back to haunt him: Righteousness exalteth a nation: but sin is a reproach to any people. At such moments he consoled himself with the words of Christ in the Gospel of St. John: He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone … And: Ye judge after the flesh; I judge no man. Heyward even permitted himself to reflect—with a levity which not long ago would have appalled him—that the Bible, like statistics, could be used to prove anything.
In any case, debate was immaterial. The intoxication with Avril was stronger than any stab of conscience.
Walking from the boardroom to his office suite on the same floor, he reflected, glowing: A session with Avril would consummate a triumphal day, with his Supranational proposals approved and his professional prestige at a zenith with the board. He had, of course, been disappointed at this afternoon’s outcome and downright angry at what he saw as Harold Austin’s betrayal, though he had deduced at once the selfish reasoning behind it. However, Heyward had little fear that Vandervoort’s ideas would produce much real success. The plus-effect on bank profits this year of his own Supranational arrangements would be far, far greater.
Which reminded him—he must make a decision about the additional half million dollars requested by Big George Quartermain as a further loan to Q-Investments.
Roscoe Heyward frowned slightly. He supposed in the whole matter of Q-Investments there was some mild irregularity, though in view of the bank’s commitment to Supranational, and vice versa, it didn’t seem too serious.
He had raised the matter in a confidential memo to Jerome Patterton a month or so ago.
G. G. Quartermain of Supranational phoned me twice yesterday from New York about a personal project of his called Q-Investments. This is a small private group of which Quartermain (Big George) is the principal, and our own director, Harold Austin, is a member. The group has already bought large blocks of common stock of various Supranational enterprises at advantageous terms. More purchases are planned.
What Big George wants from us is a loan to Q-Investments of $1½ million—at the same low rate as the Supranational loan, though without any requirement of a compensating balance. He points out that the SuNatCo compensating balance will be ample to offset this personal loan—which is true, though of course there is no cross guarantee.
I might mention that Harold Austin also telephoned me to urge that the loan be made.
The Honorable Harold, in fact, had bluntly reminded Heyward of a quid pro quo—a debt for Austin’s strong support at the time of Ben Rosselli’s death. It was a support which Heyward would continue to need when Patterton—the interim Pope—retired in eight months’ time.
The memo to Patterton continued:
Frankly, the interest rate on this proposed loan is too low, and waiving a compensating balance would be a large concession. But in view of the Supranational business which Big George has given us, I think we would be wise to go along.
I recommend the loan. Do you agree?
Jerome Patterton had sent the memo back with a laconic penciled Yes against the final question. Knowing Patterton, Heyward doubted if he had given the whole thing more than a cursory glance.
Heyward had seen no reason why Alex Vandervoort need be involved, nor was the loan large enough to require approval by the money policy committee. Therefore, a few days later, Roscoe Heyward had initialed approval himself, which he had authority to do.
What he did not have authority for—and had reported to no one-was a personal transaction between himself and G. G. Quartermain.
During their second telephone conversation about Q-Investments, Big George—calling from a SuNatCo offshoot in Chicago—had said, “Been talking to Harold Austin about you, Roscoe. We both think it’s time you got involved in our investment group. Like to have you with us. So what I’ve done is allot two thousand shares which we’ll regard as fully paid for. They’re nominee certificates endorsed in blank—more discreet that way. I’ll have ’em put in the mail.”
Heyward had demurred. “Thank you, George, but I don’t believe I should accept.”
“For Chrissakes, why not?”
“It would be unethical.”
Big George had guffawed. “This is the real world, Roscoe. Same kind of thing happens between clients and bankers all the time. You know it. I know it.”
Yes, Heyward knew, it did happen, though not “all the time,” as Big George claimed, and Heyward had never let it happen to himself.
Before he could answer, Quartermain persisted, “Listen, fella, don’t be a damn fool. If it makes you feel better we’ll say the shares are in return for your investment advice.”
But Heyward knew he had given no investment advice, either then or subsequently.
A day or two later, the Q-Investments share certificates arrived by registered airmail, in an envelope with elaborate seals, and marked STBICTLY PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL. Even Dora Callaghan hadn’t opened that one.
At home that evening, stud
ying the Q-Investments financial statement which Big George had also supplied, Heyward realized his two thousand shares had a net asset value of twenty thousand dollars. Later, if Q-Investments prospered or went public, their worth would be much greater.
At that point he had every intention of returning the shares to G. G. Quartermain; then, reassessing his own precarious finances—no better than they had been several months ago—he hesitated. Finally he yielded to temptation and later that week put the certificates in his safe deposit box at FMA’s main downtown branch. It was not, Heyward rationalized, as if he had deprived the bank of money. He hadn’t. In fact, because of Supranational, the reverse was true. So if Big George chose to make a friendly gift, why be churlish and refuse it?
But his acceptance still worried him a little, especially since Big George had telephoned at the end of last week—this time from Amsterdam—seeking an additional half million dollars for Q-Investments.
“There’s a unique chance for our Q group to pick up a block of stock over here in Guilderland that’s certain to be high flying. Can’t say too much on an open line, Roscoe, so trust me.”
“I do, of course, George,” Heyward had said, “but the bank will need details.”
“You’ll get ’em—by courier tomorrow.” To which Big George had added pointedly, “Don’t forget you’re one of us now.”
Briefly, Heyward had a second uneasy feeling: G. G. Quartermain might be paying more attention to his private investments than to management of Supranational. But the next day’s news had reassured him. The Wall Street Journal and other papers carried prominent stories about a major, Quartennain-engineered industrial takeover by SuNatCo in Europe. It was a commercial coup d’etat which sent Supranational shares soaring on the New York and London markets and made FMA’s loan to the corporate giant seem even sounder.
As Heyward entered his outer office, Mrs. Callaghan offered him her usual matronly smile. “The other messages are on your desk, sir.”
He nodded, but inside pushed the pile aside. He hesitated over papers which had been prepared, but were not yet approved, concerning the additional Q-Investments loan. Then he dismissed that too, and, using a phone which was a direct outside line, dialed the number of paradise.
“Rossie, sweetie,” Avril whispered as the tip of her tongue explored his ear, “you’re hurrying too much. Wait! Lie still! Still! Hold back!” She stroked his naked shoulder, then his spine, her fingernails hovering, sharp but gossamer light.
Heyward moaned—a mixture of savored, sweetest pleasure, pain, and postponed fulfillment—as he obeyed. She whispered again, “It’ll be worth waiting, I promise.” He knew it would be. It always was. He wondered again how someone so young and beautiful could have learned so much, be so emancipated … uninhibited … gloriously wise.
“Not yet, Rossie! Darling, not yet! There! That’s good. Be patient!”
Her hands, skilled and knowing, went on exploring. He let his mind and body float, knowing from experience it was best to do everything … exactly as … she said.
“Oh, that’s good, Rossie. Isn’t it lovely?”
He breathed, “Yes. Yes!”
“Soon, Rossie. Very soon.”
Beside him, over the bed’s two pillows, close together, Avril’s red hair tumbled. Her kisses had devoured him. The ambrosial, heady fragrance of her filled his nostrils. Her marvelous, willowy, willing body was beneath him. This, his senses shouted, was the best of life, of earth and heaven, here and now.
The only bittersweet sadness was that he had waited so many years to find it
Again Avril’s lips searched for his and found them.
She urged him, “Now, Rossie! Now;, sweetie! Now!”
The bedroom, as Heyward had observed when he arrived, was standard Hilton—clean, efficiently comfortable, and a characterless box. A compact sitting room of the same genre was outside; on this occasion, as on the others, Avril had taken a suite.
They had been here since late afternoon. After the lovemaking they had dozed, awakened, made love again—though not with entire success—then slept for an hour more. Now both were dressing. Heyward’s watch showed eight o’clock.
He was exhausted, physically drained. More than anything else he wanted to go home and go to bed—alone. He wondered how soon he could decently slip away.
Avril had been outside in the sitting room, telephoning. When she returned, she said: “I ordered dinner for us, sweetie. It’ll be up soon.”
“That’s wonderful, my dear.”
Avril had put on a filmy slip and pantyhose. No bra. She began brushing her long hair which had become disordered. He sat on the bed watching her, despite his tiredness aware that every movement she made was lithe and sensuous. Compared with Beatrice, whom he was used to seeing daily, Avril was so young. Suddenly he felt depressingly old.
They went into the sitting room where Avril said, “Let’s open the champagne.”
It was on a sideboard in an ice bucket. Heyward had noticed it earlier. By this time most of the ice had melted but the bottle was still cold. He fumbled inexpertly with wire and cork.
“Don’t try to move the cork,” Avril told him. “Tilt the bottle to forty-five degrees, then hold the cork and twist the bottle.”
It worked easily. She knew so much.
Taking the bottle from him, Avril poured into two glasses. He shook his head. “You know I don’t drink, my dear.”
“It’ll make you feel younger.” She held out a glass. As he surrendered and took it, he wondered if she had read his mind.
Two refills later, when their room service meal arrived, he did feel younger.
When the waiter had gone, Heyward said, “You should have let me pay for that.” A few minutes earlier he had brought out his wallet but Avril waved it away and signed the check.
“Why, Rossie?”
“Because you must allow me to give you back some of your expenses—the hotel bills, the cost of flying here from New York.” He had learned that Avril had an apartment in Greenwich Village. “It’s too much for you to spend yourself.”
She looked at him curiously, then gave a silvery laugh. “You didn’t think I was paying for all this?” She gestured around the suite. “Using my money? Rossie, baby, you have to be crazy!”
“Then who is paying?”
“Supranational of course, you old silly! Everything’s charged to them—this suite, the meal, my air fare, my time.” She crossed to his chair and kissed him; her lips were full and moist. “Just don’t worry about it!”
He sat still, crushed and silent, absorbing the impact of what had just been said. The mellowing potency of the champagne still coursed through his body, yet his mind was sharp.
“My time.” That hurt most of all. Until now he had assumed the reason Avril telephoned him after the Bahamas, suggesting that they meet, was because she liked him and had enjoyed—as much as he did—what happened between them.
How could he have been so naive? Of course the entire exercise had been arranged by Quartermain and was at Supranational’s expense. Shouldn’t commonsense have told him? Or had he shielded himself by not inquiring sooner because he hadn’t wanted to know? Something else: If Avril were being paid for “my time,” what did that make her? A whore? If so, what then was Roscoe Heyward? He closed his eyes. St. Luke 18:13, he thought: God be merciful to me a sinner.
There was one thing he could do, of course. Immediately. That was find out how much had been expended until now, and afterwards send his personal check for that amount to Supranational. He began calculating, then realized he had no idea of the cost of Avril. Instinct told him it would not be small.
In any case he doubted the wisdom of such a move. His comptroller’s mind reasoned: How would Supranational show the payment on its books? Even more to the point, he didn’t have that much money to spare. And besides, what would happen when he wanted Avril again? He knew, already, that he would.
The telephone rang, filling the small sitting room w
ith sound. Avril answered it, spoke briefly, then announced, “It’s for you.”
“For me?”
As he took the receiver, the voice boomed, “Hi there, Roscoe!”
Heyward asked sharply, “Where are you, George?”
“Washington. What’s the difference? Got some real good news about SuNatCo. Quarterly earnings statement. You’ll read about it in tomorrow’s papers.”
“You called me here to tell me that?”
“Interrupted you, did I?”
“No.”
Big George chuckled. “Just a friendly phone call, fella. Checking that all arrangements were okay.”
If he wanted to protest, Heyward realized, this was the moment. But protest what? The generous availability of Avril? Or his own acute embarrassment?
The booming telephone voice cut through his dilemma. “That Q-Investments credit okayed yet?”
“Not quite.”
“Taking your time, aren’t you?”
“Not really. There are formalities.”
“Let’s move ’em, or I’ll have to give some other bank that business, and maybe shift some of Supranational’s over, too.”
The threat was clear. It did not surprise Heyward because pressures and concessions were a normal part of banking.
“I’ll do my best, George.”
A grunt. “Avril still there?”
“Yes.”
“Lemme talk to her.”
Heyward passed the phone to Avril. She listened briefly, said, “Yes, I will,” smiled, and hung up.
She went into the bedroom where he heard a suitcase snap open and a moment later she emerged with a large manila envelope. “Georgie said I was to give you this.”
It was the same kind of envelope, and with similar seals, as the one which had contained the Q-Investments share certificates.
“Georgie told me to say it’s a reminder of our good time in Nassau.”
More share certificates? He doubted it. He considered refusing to accept, but curiosity was strong.