“I’ll call Quartermain at once,” Heyward said. “May I take that report?”
Patterton glanced at Alex.
“I’ve no objection,” Alex said, “but I’d suggest we don’t make copies. And the fewer people who know of this, the better.”
Heyward nodded agreement. He seemed restless, anxious to get away.
11
Alex Vandervoort had been partly right in supposing Roscoe Heyward to have some information of his own. Rumors had reached Heyward that Supranational was having problems and he had learned, in the past few days, that some of SuNatCo’s commercial paper was meeting resistance from investors. Heyward had also attended a Supranational board meeting—his first—and sensed that information supplied to directors was less than complete and frank. But, as a “new boy,” he had withheld questions, intending to begin probing later. Subsequent to the meeting he had observed a decline in Supranational’s share price and decided, only yesterday, to advise the bank’s trust department to ‘lighten up” its holdings as a precaution. Unfortunately—when Patterton summoned him this morning—he had still not put the intention into effect. Yet nothing Heyward had heard or guessed suggested the situation was as urgent or as bad as the report, produced by Vandervoort, portrayed it.
Yet having heard the gist of the report, Heyward did not dispute it. Grim and jolting as it was, instinct told him that—as Vandervoort put it—everything hung together.
It was the reason Heyward had stayed mostly silent while with the other two, knowing—at this stage—there was little to be said. But his mind had been active, with alarm signals flashing while he weighed ideas, eventualities, and possible escape routes for himself. There were several actions which needed to be taken quickly, though first he would complete his personal knowledge by studying the Jax report. Back in his office, Heyward hurried through some remaining business with a visitor, then settled down to read.
He soon realized that Alex Vandervoort had been accurate in summarizing the report’s highlights and the documentary evidence. What Vandervoort had not mentioned were some details of Big George Quartermain’s lobbying in Washington for a government-guaranteed loan to keep Supranational solvent. Appeals for such a loan had been made to members of Congress, and at the Department of Commerce and the White House. At one point, it was stated, Quartermain took Vice-President Byron Stonebridge on a trip to the Bahamas with the objective of enlisting the Vice-President’s support for the loan idea. Later, Stonebridge discussed the possibility at Cabinet level, but the consensus was against it.
Heyward thought bitterly: Now he knew what Big George and the Vice-President were discussing the night they had walked, deep in conversation, in the garden of the Bahamas house. And while, in the end, the Washington political machine made one of its wiser decisions in rejecting a loan to Supranational, First Mercantile American Bank—on Roscoe’s urging—had bestowed one eagerly. Big George had proved himself the maestro of the soft sell. Heyward could hear him saying, even now: If fifty million is bigger than you people can handle, let’s forget the whole thing. I’ll give it to Chase. It was an ancient, con man’s ploy and Heyward—the shrewd, experienced banker—had fallen for it.
One thing, at least, was to the good. In the reference to the Vice-President’s journey to the Bahamas, details were sketchy and obviously little was known about the trip. Nor, to Heyward’s great relief, did the report refer to Q-Investments.
Heyward wondered if Jerome Patterton had remembered the additional loan, totaling two million dollars, committed by FMA to Q-Investments, the private speculators’ group headed by Big George. Probably not. Nor did Alex Vandervoort have any knowledge of it, though he was bound to find out soon. What was more important, though, was to ensure that Heyward’s own acceptance of “bonus” Q-Investments shares should never be discovered. He wished fervently he had returned them to G. G. Quartermain, as he had at first intended. Well, it was too late for that now, but what he could do was remove the share certificates from his safe deposit box and shred them. That would be safest. Fortunately, they were nominee certificates, not registered in his name.
For the moment, Heyward realized, he was ignoring the competitiveness between himself and Alex Vandervoort, concentrating instead on survival. He had no illusions about what the collapse of Supranational would do to his own standing in the bank and with the board. He would be a pariah—the focus of everybody’s blame. But perhaps, even now, with quick action and some luck, it was not too late for a recovery. If the loan money was regained, he might become a hero.
The first order of business was to get in touch with Supranational. He instructed his secretary, Mrs. Callaghan, to get G. G. Quartermain on the telephone.
Several minutes later she reported, “Mr. Quartermain is out of the country. His office is vague about where he is. They won’t give any other information.”
It was an inauspicious start and Heyward snapped, “Then get Inch-beck.” He had had several conversations with Stanley Inchbeck, Supranational’s comptroller, since they first met in the Bahamas.
Inchbeck’s voice, with its nasal New York accent, came briskly on the line. “Roscoe, what can I do?”
“I’ve been trying to locate George. Your people don’t seem to …”
“He’s in Costa Rica.”
“I’d like to speak to him. Is there a number I can call?”
“No. He left instructions he doesn’t want calls.”
“This is urgent.”
“Then tell me.”
“Very well. We’re calling our loan. I’m advising you now, and formal written notice will follow in tonight’s mail.”
There was a silence. Inchbeck said, “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m entirely serious.”
“But why?”
“I think you can guess. I also believe you wouldn’t want me to go into reasons on the telephone.”
Inchbeck was silent—in itself significant. Then he protested, “Your bank is being ridiculous and unreasonable. Only last week Big George told me he was willing to let you people increase the loan by fifty percent.”
The audacity astounded Heyward, until he realized audacity had paid off—for Supranational—once before. It wouldn’t now.
“If the loan were repaid promptly,” Heyward said, “any information that we have here would remain confidential. I’d guarantee that.”
What it came down to, he thought, was whether Big George, Inch-beck, and any others who knew the truth about SuNatCo, were willing to buy time. If so, FMA might steal an advantage over other creditors.
“Fifty million dollars!” Inchbeck said. “We don’t keep that much cash on hand.”
“Our bank would agree to a series of payments, providing they followed each other quickly.” The real question was, of course: Where would SuNatCo find fifty million in its present cash-starved condition? Heyward found himself sweating—a combination of nervousness, suspense, and hope.
“I’ll talk to Big George,” Inchbeck said. “But he isn’t going to like this.”
“When you talk to him, tell him I’d like to discuss, also, our loan to Q-Investments.”
Heyward wasn’t sure but, as he hung up, he thought he heard Inchbeck groan.
In the silence of his office, Roscoe Heyward leaned backward in the upholstered swivel chair, letting the tenseness drain out of him. What had occurred in the past hour had come as a stunning shock. Now, as reaction set in, he felt dejected and alone. He wished he could get away from everything for a while. If he had the choice, he knew whose company he would welcome. Avril’s. But he had not heard from her since their last meeting, which was over a month ago. In the past, she had always called him. He had never called her.
On impulse, he opened a pocket address book he always carried and looked for a telephone number he remembered penciling in. It was Avril’s in New York. Using a direct outside line, he dialed it.
He heard ringing, then Avril’s soft and pleasing voice. “Hello.” His
heart leaped at the sound of her.
“Hi, Rossie,” she said when he identified himself.
“It’s been a while since you and I met, my dear. I’ve been wondering when I’d hear from you.”
He was aware of hesitation. “But Rossie, sweetie, you aren’t on the list any more.”
“What list?”
Once more, uncertainty. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, please tell me. This is between the two of us.”
“Well, it’s a very confidential list which Supranational puts out, about who can be entertained at their expense.”
He had the sudden sense of a cord around him being tightened. “Who gets the list?”
“I don’t know. I know us girls do. I’m not sure who else.”
He stopped, thinking nervously, and reasoned: What was done, was done. He supposed he should be glad he was not on any such list now, though found himself wondering—with a twinge of jealousy—who was. In any case, he hoped that back copies were carefully destroyed. Aloud he asked, “Does that mean you can’t come here to meet me any more?”
“Not exactly. But if I did, you’d have to pay yourself, Rossie.”
“How much would that be?” As he asked, he wondered if it were really himself speaking.
“There’d be my air fare from New York,” Avril said matter-of-factly. “Then the cost at the hotel. And for me—two hundred dollars.”
Heyward remembered wondering once before how much Supranational had paid out on his behalf. Now he knew. Holding the telephone away, he wrestled within his mind: Commonsense against desire; conscience against the knowledge of what it was like to be alone with Avril. The money was also more than he could afford. But he wanted her. Very much indeed.
He moved the telephone back. “How soon could you be here?”
“Tuesday of next week.”
“Not before?”
“Afraid not, sweetie.”
He knew he was being a fool; that between now and Tuesday he would be standing in line behind other men whose priorities, for whatever reason, were greater than his own. But he couldn’t help himself, and told her, “Very well. Tuesday.”
They arranged that she would go to the Columbia Hilton and phone him from there.
Heyward began savoring the sweetness to come.
He reminded himself of one other thing he had to do—destroy his Q-Investments share certificates.
From the 36th floor he used the express elevator to descend to the main foyer, then walked through the tunnel to the adjoining downtown branch. It took minutes only to gain access to his personal safe deposit box and remove the four certificates, each for five hundred shares. He carried them back upstairs, where he would feed them into a shredding machine personally.
But back in his office he had second thoughts. Last time he checked, the shares were worth twenty thousand dollars. Was he being hasty? After all, if necessary he could destroy the certificates at a moment’s notice.
Changing his mind, he locked them in a desk drawer with other private papers.
12
The big break came when Miles Eastin was least expecting it.
Only two days earlier, frustrated and depressed, convinced that his servitude at the Double-Seven Health Club would produce no results other than enmeshing him deeper in criminality, the renewed shadow of prison loomed terrifyingly over him. Miles had communicated his depression to Juanita and, though tempered briefly by their lovemaking, the basic mood remained.
On Saturday he had met Juanita. Late Monday evening at the Double-Seven, Nate Nathanson, the club manager, sent for Miles who had been helping out as usual by carrying drinks and sandwiches to the card and dice players on the third floor.
When Miles entered the manager’s office, two others were there with Nathanson. One was the loan shark, Russian Ominsky. The second was a husky, thick-featured man whom Miles had seen at the club several times before and had heard referred to as Tony Bear Marino. The “Bear” seemed appropriate. Marino had a heavy, powerful body, loose movements and a suggestion of underlying savagery. That Tony Bear carried authority was evident, and he was deferred to by others. Each time he arrived at the Double-Seven it was in a Cadillac limousine, accompanied by a driver and a companion, both clearly bodyguards.
Nathanson seemed nervous when he spoke. “Miles, I’ve been telling Mr. Marino and Mr. Ominsky how useful you’ve been here. They want you to do a service for …”
Ominsky said curtly to the manager, “Wait outside.”
“Yes, sir.” Nathanson left quickly.
“There’s an old guy in a car outside,” Ominsky said to Miles. “Get help from Mr. Marino’s men. Carry him in, but keep him out of sight. Take him up to one of the rooms near yours and make sure he stays there. Don’t leave him longer than you have to, and when you do go away, lock him in. I’m holding you responsible he doesn’t leave here.”
Miles asked uneasily, “Am I supposed to keep him here by force?”
“You won’t need force.”
“The old man knows the score. He won’t make trouble,” Tony Bear said. For someone of his bulk, his voice was surprisingly falsetto. “Just remember he’s important to us, so treat him okay. But don’t let him have booze. He’ll ask for it. Don’t give him any. Understand?”
“I think so,” Miles said. “Do you mean he’s unconscious now?”
“He’s dead drunk,” Ominsky answered. “He’s been on a bender for a week. Your job is to take care of him and dry him out. While he’s here—for three, four days—your other work can wait.” He added, “Do it right, you get another credit.”
“I’ll do my best,” Miles told him. “Does the old man have a name? I’ll have to call him something.”
The other two glanced at each other. Ominsky said, “Danny. That’s all you need to know.”
A few minutes later, outside the Double-Seven, Tony Bear Marino’s driver-bodyguard spat in disgust on the sidewalk and complained, “For Chrissakes! The old fart stinks like a shithouse.”
He, the second bodyguard, and Miles Eastin were looking at an inert figure on the rear seat of a Dodge sedan, parked at the curb. The car’s nearside rear door was open.
“I’ll try to clean him up,” Miles said. His own face wrinkled at the overpowering stench of vomit. “But we’ll need to get him inside first.”
The second bodyguard urged, “Goddam! Let’s get it over with.”
Together they reached in and lifted. In the poorly lighted street, all that could be distinguished of their burden was a tangle of gray hair, pasty hollow cheeks stubbled with beard, closed eyes and an open, slack mouth revealing toothless gums. The clothes the unconscious man was wearing were stained and torn.
“You reckon he’s dead?” the second bodyguard asked as they lifted the figure from the car.
Precisely at that moment, probably induced by movement, a stream of vomit emerged from the open mouth and cascaded over Miles.
The driver-bodyguard, who had been untouched, chuckled. “He ain’t dead. Not yet.” Then, as Miles retched, “Better you ‘n me, kid.”
They carried the recumbent figure into the club, then, using a rear stairway, up to the fourth floor. Miles had brought a room key and unlocked a door. It was to a cubicule like his own in which the sole furnishings were a single bed, a chest of drawers, two chairs, a washbasin and some shelving. Paneling around the cubicle stopped a foot short of the ceiling, leaving the top open. Miles glanced inside, then told the other two, “Hold it.” While they waited he ran downstairs and got a rubber sheet from the gymnasium. Returning, he spread it on the bed. They dumped the old man on it.
“He’s all yours, Milesy,” the driver-bodyguard said. “Let’s get outta here before I puke.”
Stifling his distaste, Miles undressed the old man, then, while he was still on the rubber sheet, still comatose, washed and sponged him. When that was done, and with some lifting and shoving, Miles removed the rubber sheet and got the now cleaner, less
evil-smelling figure into bed. During the process the old man moaned, and once his stomach heaved, though this time producing only a trickle of spittle which Miles wiped away. When Miles had covered him with a sheet and blanket the old man seemed to rest more easily.
Earlier, as he removed the clothing, Miles had allowed it to fall to the cubicle floor. Now he gathered it up and began putting it in two plastic bags for cleaning and laundering tomorrow. While doing so, he emptied all the pockets. One coat pocket yielded a set of false teeth. Others held miscellaneous items—a comb, a pair of thick-lensed glasses, a gold pen and pencil set, several keys on a ring and—in an inside pocket—three Keycharge credit cards and a billfold tightly packed with money.
Miles took the false teeth, rinsed them, and placed them beside the bed in a glass of water. The spectacles he also put close by. Then he examined the bank credit cards and billfold.
The credit cards were made out to Fred W. Riordan, R. K. Bennett, Alfred Shaw. Each card was signed on the back but, despite the name differences, the handwriting in each case was the same. Miles turned the cards over again, checking the commencement and expiration dates which showed that all three were current. As far as he could tell, they were genuine.
He turned his attention to the billfold. Under a plastic window was a state driver’s license. The plastic was yellowed and hard to see through, so Miles took the license out, discovered that beneath it was a second license, beneath that a third. The names on the licenses corresponded to those on the credit cards, but the head and shoulders photographs on all three licenses were identical. He peered closer. Allowing for differences when the photograph was taken, it was undoubtedly of the old man on the bed.
Miles removed the money from the billfold to count it. He would ask Nate Nathanson to put the credit cards and billfold in the club safe, but should know how much he was handing over. The sum was unexpectedly large—five hundred and twelve dollars, about half in new twenty-dollar bills. The twenties stopped him. Miles looked at several of them carefully, feeling the texture of the paper with his fingertips. Then he glanced at the man on the bed who appeared to be sleeping deeply. Quietly, Miles left the room and crossed the fourth-floor corridor to his own. He returned moments later with a pocket magnifier through which he viewed the twenty-dollar bills again. His intuition was right. They were counterfeit, though of the same high quality as those he had bought, here in the Double-Seven, a week ago.