Sincerely, Willis Wayde (19 page)

Willis could not understand why he had been selected for this job. It did not occur to him until later that Mr. McKitterick had examined him as closely as the mill.

“If you're ready, let's go,” Mr. McKitterick said, and they walked through the hallway of the office building, with its handsome antique furniture. They did not speak until Mr. McKitterick stopped in front of the tall clock.

“That's a nice piece,” he said. “Made by Godfrey in London, I take it.”

“Yes, sir,” Willis answered. “It's a Godfrey.”

“How did you know?” Mr. McKitterick asked.

Willis had learned it from the office inventory of the English furniture and he explained that Mr. Harcourt took a personal interest in the antique furniture of the office building.

“How much did he pay for it?” Mr. McKitterick asked.

“A hundred and seventy-five pounds, sir,” Willis said. “Mr. Harcourt says that antiques don't depreciate like new furniture.”

“That's so,” Mr. McKitterick said. “If they're good. How much did those chairs cost, I wonder?”

“Two hundred and seventy-five pounds,” Willis said.

“Say,” Mr. McKitterick said, “you've got a pretty good memory, haven't you?”

“Yes, sir,” Willis answered. “I can remember figures pretty well.”

“This whole plant is quite a period piece, when you come to think of it,” Mr. McKitterick said. “Do you know its history?”

Until Willis had begun to answer those questions, he had not realized how thoroughly he knew the Harcourt Mill, because it was the sort of knowledge that had come to him gradually, and because for years the Harcourts and the mill had been the center of his interest.

“Who's the man over there by that compressor?” Mr. McKitterick asked. They were in Building 3 and he had to speak loudly. “He looks like a pretty good man.”

“Yes, sir,” Willis told him, “he's good. He's Wesley Bryan. He's been here for twenty-five years.”

“Do you know all these other people?” Mr. McKitterick asked.

“Yes, sir,” Willis said, “of course I do.”

“How do you get on with them?” Mr. McKitterick asked.

“Why, I get on all right,” Willis said. “You see, I've known most of them ever since I was a kid.”

“Well,” Mr. McKitterick said, “you certainly know this place. How much do you get paid a week?”

“Thirty-five dollars, sir,” Willis answered.

“You ought to get more,” Mr. McKitterick said, “but it's not a bad place to start. What do you think of Mr. Harcourt?”

Willis was not sure whether or not he ought to answer until he remembered Mr. Harcourt's orders.

“I think he's twice as good as anyone else here,” Willis said.

“What do you think's wrong with him?” Mr. McKitterick asked. “There's something wrong with everybody.”

“There isn't much wrong with him that I know of,” Willis said, “except that he never lets anything go.”

“Well,” Mr. McKitterick said, “if he ever lets you go, I wish you'd let me know.”

“Thanks,” Willis told him, “but I don't want another job as long as Mr. Harcourt wants me.”

“All right,” Mr. McKitterick said, “let's get out of here now. I haven't finished with you yet.”

Mr. McKitterick had finished by four in the afternoon, and Mr. Harcourt called for Willis about half an hour later.

“Well,” Mr. Harcourt asked, “did you show him everything?”

“I showed him everything I could,” Willis said. “He certainly asked a lot of questions.”

Mr. Harcourt was silent for a moment, and then he looked at the two portraits on the wall, and then his glance moved to Willis. He could not tell whether Mr. Harcourt was thinking of him or of something else, until his glance grew sharper.

“It's his business to ask questions,” Mr. Harcourt said. “What did you think of him, Willis?”

“I never saw anyone just like him,” Willis said, “but I guess he knows what he's doing. Anyway he knew who made the tall clock in the hall.”

Mr. Harcourt's lower lip twitched and he touched it lightly with his forefinger.

“Showing off,” he said. “I wouldn't say it was necessary. When he was on the subject of antiques, did he ask about me, Willis?”

“Yes, sir, he did,” Willis said, “and I didn't like it much.”

“Never mind what you like,” Mr. Harcourt said. “Just tell me what he asked.”

Willis was standing in front of Mr. Harcourt's desk because Mr. Harcourt had not asked him to sit down, and he shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other.

“He wanted to know how good I thought you were.”

“Well, well,” Mr. Harcourt said. “Those people are always showing off. I'm better than he is, Willis—at least I think I am. I wonder if he offered you a job.”

“He spoke about it, sir,” Willis said.

“Well, I'd have done the same thing myself,” Mr. Harcourt said, “and I suppose he knows how much I'm paying you?”

“Yes, sir,” Willis said. “You told me to tell him everything.”

Mr. Harcourt leaned back in his swivel chair.

“I know I did,” he said. “You see, Mr. McKitterick and I understand each other, Willis. He's here on a consulting fee of a thousand dollars a week, and I think he's going to be worth it. The next time you see him I wish you'd let him know I told you how much I'm paying him.”

“Why, sir?” Willis asked.

Mr. Harcourt smiled.

“Because I'd like him to know where you stand with me,” Mr. Harcourt said. “I'd like him to know I don't have to buy you, Willis.” His chair creaked as he leaned forward and he looked younger than he had all day. “I'm glad you've had a chance to see Mr. McKitterick. You made quite an impression on him.”

That last remark of Mr. Harcourt's made Willis realize that Mr. McKitterick had been asked to make a report on him among his other reports.

“I thought you knew me well enough yourself, sir,” he said, “not to need anything like that.”

Mr. Harcourt raised his eyebrows slightly.

“Anything like what?” he asked.

Willis looked straight back at him. He was glad to remember that he respected but that he had never been afraid of Mr. Harcourt.

“I mean you didn't need to have anyone check on me,” he said.

Mr. Harcourt nodded slowly.

“I guess you're right,” he said. “I didn't know you were learning so fast. I hadn't thought the idea would occur to you.”

Mr. Harcourt paused, but Willis did not speak, because it seemed to him that it was better not to say too much.

“I'm making no apology. Do you understand?” Mr. Harcourt said.

“Yes,” Willis said. “I wouldn't have expected you to apologize.”

He felt a strange elation when he spoke. Just then he was on equal terms with Mr. Harcourt, and all sorts of inhibitions evaporated. It would not have been like that a year ago. Mr. Harcourt picked up a pencil and tapped it gently on his desk.

“Some day when you have people working for you,” he said, “you'll find they're quite an investment, in time and money and trouble. It's always wise to have a confirmation of your personal judgments, if you can get one. For instance, I always have an expert check my securities, although I think I'm a rather good investor. Of course I had Mr. McKitterick check on you. It's what he's here for.”

Mr. Harcourt paused and tapped again on his desk with his pencil, but this sound was lost in the noise of the mill outside. They were both a part of that machinery, and you could never be wholly yourself when you were working for a company. You had to share some of the relentlessness of the machinery.

“I don't believe in flattery,” Mr. Harcourt said. “I will say, though, that I think you have quality, and I like quality, even if I don't know exactly what it means. You're going to amount to something. I don't know exactly what, because everyone has defects.”

Mr. Harcourt looked at the two portraits on the wall. Perhaps he was thinking that he too would be hanging on that wall some day beside his father and his grandfather.

“That's right,” he said, “don't interrupt me, Willis. Perhaps I'm growing garrulous, but I won't keep you standing there much longer. Most people who work for you are commodities, up to a certain point. Mr. McKitterick is a very able man, but I can buy everything he has to offer because brains are always for sale. Mr. Decker is a commodity. He charges me a legal fee. But there are other people in a different category, and you can't buy them with money. I'll tell you something, Willis, but don't let it spoil you.”

Mr. Harcourt stood up abruptly and walked slowly around the desk.

“You and I aren't in the same age group,” he said, “but we're head and shoulders above anyone else around here, Willis—at least in a business way. I can't buy you with money.”

Willis cleared his throat. It was curious that he had felt no surprise. “You've bought me already,” he said. “I guess you know it, sir.”

“I got you rather cheap,” Mr. Harcourt said. “I wouldn't like to have to buy you later on.”

IX

In April of his last year in the Harvard Business School, Willis had felt older than most of his contemporaries. Only a very few of them knew as much as he about the practical side of manufacturing and not many of them had his head for figures or his ability to visualize tables of organization. Yet you could not grow up all at once and be mature in every department. He was still absurdly young and Bess Harcourt was too, when he called her up in April, 1929.

He called her from a pay telephone in a Harvard Square drugstore and he remembered standing in the constricted booth in the back of the store and looking out on a display of soaps and cosmetics as he gave the number.

“Hello,” he said to the maid who answered. “Is Miss Harcourt at home? This is Mr. Willis Wayde.”

He waited, rehearsing exactly what he was going to say, until he heard Bess Harcourt's voice.

“Hello, Bess,” he said. “How are you? It's been a long while since I've seen you.”

“I know,” she answered. “It's been simply ages, Willis. Why haven't you been around?”

“Well,” he said, “I wasn't sure whether you'd have time to see me.”

“Oh, don't be silly, Willis.” Her voice sounded light and warm. “You know I'd love to see you.”

“Bill says you're pretty busy,” he told her, and then he heard her laugh.

“I'm never as busy as Bill,” she said.

“Well, what are you doing Friday night?” he asked her.

There was a pause, and pauses always meant more over the telephone than anywhere else.

“Let's see. Why, I'm not doing anything Friday night.”

Willis drew a deep breath, but he did his best to sound casual.

“I hear there's a good musical show at the Colonial,” he said. “I don't know whether you've seen it or not.”

“Why, no,” she said, “I haven't seen it.”

“Well then we might go to it,” Willis said, “and have dinner somewhere first—say at the Ritz.”

“Why, Willis. At the Ritz?” she said.

“Why not?” he asked. “What's the matter with the Ritz?”

There was another slight pause.

“Why, Willis,” she said, “I think it's awfully sweet of you. I think it would be lovely. What time?”

“I'll call for you at a quarter before seven,” he said. “Now don't forget.”

“Why, Willis,” she said, “of course I won't forget.”

Often when he thought of that Friday evening he also thought of the vast succession of later times when he had entertained socially in business, either on an expense account or as a deductible item from his income tax. Willis was at home now with the headwaiters and the captains. He knew just when to bestow a firm glance and the exact psychological moment to hand out a bill accompanied by a friendly handclasp, and he could say without any effort whatsoever, “Good evening, Louis. It's a long time since I've seen you,” or else he could say if he did not know the place, “Captain, can't you put us somewhere else where it's not so noisy?” As the years went on his voice carried increased authority. You were judged by the way you handled yourself at the Stork or Twenty-one. It was business entertainment. As time went on you learned how to be at home in hotel suites and how to handle room-service waiters and bellboys and clerks and managers. Each individual required a slightly different technique, but it was not difficult, when they knew you required good service and were willing to pay for it generously. You had to realize that all these people had their problems and you had to know how to make allowances up to a certain limit, because in a great democracy all men were brothers. It cost money and time to learn to do these things in the right way, but most of it was business expense.

He often thought how much his world had changed, since he had asked Bess Harcourt out. There was no office in those days to attend to the arrangements. He made them all himself, late on Wednesday afternoon, riding on the subway to Boylston Street and buying the tickets at the Colonial Theater and thence walking to the Ritz to reserve a table. He could not decide on Friday whether or not to wear evening clothes and he finally compromised on his best blue suit. He did not look as badly as he might have. Though he was still thin, his weight was catching up to his height. He had twenty-five dollars in his wallet, and the theater tickets in his inside pocket.

Willis had already learned promptness by the spring of 1929. He changed from the Harvard Square subway at Park Street to a car which took him to Copley Square. Then he walked to the Bryson Harcourts' house on Beacon Street, not hurriedly, because he wanted to arrive there at exactly a quarter before seven, and he did so, to the minute. When the maid opened the door—it was Tillie, the Bryson Harcourts' waitress—he saw that the dining-room doors were open and that the table was not set, which meant that Mr. and Mrs. Bryson Harcourt were dining out, and their absence made the house seem large and lonely.