Sincerely, Willis Wayde (22 page)

“Henry,” Mrs. Harcourt said, “I simply had to talk to someone.”

“I suppose everyone has to know eventually,” Mr. Harcourt said. “What was Roger talking to you about, Willis?”

“He wanted to know how your health was, sir,” Willis said. “I said you were feeling fine.”

“Do you think he believed it?” Mr. Harcourt asked.

“No,” Willis said, “I don't think so.”

Mr. Harcourt smiled his thinnest smile.

“Well,” he said, “I guess he understood that bit about the deluge. What else did Roger ask you?”

Willis hesitated for a second.

“Whether I'd heard that Simcoe Rubber Hose and Belting is going to buy us out,” he said.

“I thought he might ask that,” Mr. Harcourt said. “I hope you looked surprised.”

“Why, Henry,” Mrs. Harcourt said. “You never told me about that.”

“There wasn't any need to bother you about it, Harriet,” Mr. Harcourt said. “Roger's always hoping I'll sell out. What did you think of Roger, Willis?”

“I think he's pretty clever, sir,” Willis said.

“He's clever but he's timid,” Mr. Harcourt said. “I don't like clever, timid people. I shouldn't have pleased Bryson by putting Roger on the board.”

“Henry,” Mrs. Harcourt said, “don't you think you ought to take a rest after the meeting and the lunch and everything?”

“No, no,” Mr. Harcourt said, “and we've been out here too long. Willis, you'd better come with me. There's brandy in the library.”

Then Mr. Harcourt smiled at him.

“Willis,” he said, “do you remember when I told you I didn't think that you were dumb?”

The realization that Mr. Harcourt's health was failing made Willis feel for the first time in his career that solid ground was slipping from beneath his feet. He was still too young to realize that no ground is ever solid. He had possessed a youthful belief in permanence and an illusion that one's elders would live forever, but now everything about the Harcourt place seemed as unsubstantial as a cloud in the sunset. He had never been obliged to deal with setting suns.

By sheer accident no one was in the library when he and Mr. Harcourt got there.

“Well, well,” Mr. Harcourt said. “I guess everyone's gone outside, but they'll be back to say good-by. Would you like some brandy, Willis? It's my father's brandy.”

“No, thank you, sir,” Willis said.

“Are you sure?” Mr. Harcourt asked him. “I think I'll try a little. What's the matter, Willis?”

“You're not going to sell the mill, are you, sir?” Willis asked him.

It was an indication of his own distress that he had ever ventured to put such a question to Mr. Harcourt, and as soon as he spoke he knew that he should not have asked. Mr. Harcourt had poured out a sip or two of brandy and he revolved it slowly in his glass.

“Well,” Mr. Harcourt said, “do you think we ought to sell out, Willis? Prices are high right now.”

“I guess I've said too much already,” Willis said.

“That's quite all right,” Mr. Harcourt answered. “I've always made it a practice to entertain any reasonable proposition, and I'd do the same thing if I were you.”

Willis could think of no reply to make, and in fact there was nothing much he could have said. Mr. Harcourt took another sip of brandy.

“You're familiar with my investment list,” Mr. Harcourt said. “The mill here has been only a plaything for me for quite a while.”

His head turned suddenly and his words trailed off into silence. There was a discreet knock on the panel of the open door, and Willis saw that Selwyn was standing there.

“Sir,” Selwyn said, “the gentleman has come.”

“What?” Mr. Harcourt asked. “What gentleman?”

“The gentleman who you said was coming for dinner and for the night,” Selwyn said. “Mr. Nagel, sir.”

“Good God Almighty!” Mr. Harcourt said. “It's only half past three.”

“Yes, sir,” Selwyn said.

“Good God Almighty!” Mr. Harcourt said again. “Get him in here as quick as you can, Selwyn, and send his car away and don't take out his luggage.”

It was almost the first time that Willis had heard Mr. Harcourt swear.

“Good God Almighty!” Mr. Harcourt said. “Couldn't he come when he's invited? You'd better go.… No, stay here with me, Willis.”

Selwyn was back a second later with a heavy, thickset man in his middle forties who looked like a football player, except for his immaculately pressed brown double-breasted suit.

“Well, hello, Henry,” he said. “Have I barged into a garden party or something?”

“Hello, Percy,” Mr. Harcourt said. “Selwyn, wait outside and say I'm busy.”

“What the hell's wrong?” the stranger asked. “I just drove out in a rented Cadillac. I thought we might have time to see the works.”

“Damn it,” Mr. Harcourt said. “It's the stockholders' annual luncheon.”

“Oh my God,” the stranger said.

“Willis,” Mr. Harcourt said, “this is my old friend and competitor Mr. Nagel, of the Simcoe Rubber Hose and Belting Company. Take him into the study and lock the door and don't come out till I knock. I'm dreadfully sorry, Percy.”

“Call me a son of a bitch,” Mr. Nagel said—“a lot of people do—but not Percy.”

“Take Mr. Nagel into the study, Willis,” Mr. Harcourt said, “and you'd better take the brandy with you.”

It was like being thrown suddenly into a prison cell with Mr. Nagel, once they were in Mr. Harcourt's small study. Mr. Nagel moved restively around the shadowy room, glancing out of the narrow lead-paned windows, examining the glass-enclosed shelves that contained Mr. Harcourt's collection of antique firearms and the old-fashioned safe that had Mr. Harcourt's father's name painted on it. His eyes had a watchful glint and his florid face wore the puzzled expression that Willis had observed on the features of some other customers who had visited the Harcourt place. Finally he drew an immaculate white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his double-breasted suit and passed it gently over his forehead.

“I picked up a cold on the Century,” he said. “I thought I could sweat it out in a Turkish bath in New York but it only opened up all my pores.” Mr. Nagel blew his nose. He smelled strongly of bath salts and nose drops.

“Maybe you would like a little brandy, sir,” Willis said.

“Say,” Mr. Nagel said, “pour me out a slug, will you?” He sat down in the chair behind Mr. Harcourt's table and tossed off the drink in a single gulp. “Oh, boy,” he said, “I'd like to contact the bootlegger who sells this stuff.”

“It's been in the family,” Willis said. “It's Mr. Harcourt's father's brandy.”

Mr. Nagel laughed in an affable, reminiscent way.

“My old man didn't pass me on any heirlooms,” he said. “I assume you're Mr. Harcourt's grandson, aren't you?”

“No, sir,” Willis said. “I work in the mill office.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Nagel said. “What did you say your name was, son?”

“Wayde,” Willis said, “Willis Wayde.”

“Then you'll be old Alf Wayde's boy, won't you?” Mr. Nagel said. “Old Alf is the best damned engineer in the belting business. I want to see Alf before I get out of here.”

“I didn't know you knew him,” Willis said.

“Hell,” Mr. Nagel said, “everybody in belting knows Alf. Say, if you're ever in Chicago, look me up. I'm still young enough to know what young fellows like, and I've got a lot of good addresses.”

“Thanks very much, sir,” Willis said.

He did not know anything about traveling then, but he was flattered that Mr. Nagel thought he knew.

“We've got a fine crowd of young fellows in the office,” Mr. Nagel said, “and I'll see personally they show you the town. This is quite a setup they've got here, isn't it?”

“I guess it is,” Willis said. “It's the only one I know. We came here when I was fifteen.”

“Well,” Mr. Nagel said, “I've seen some of these family setups in my time. I know Mr. Henry Harcourt and I say this from the bottom of my heart. He's a very lovely gentleman.”

“Yes, sir,” Willis said, “I guess he is.”

“It's a lovely home,” Mr. Nagel said, “and Mr. Harcourt is a lovely old sweetheart. He ought not to have to monkey with any old mill.”

“Would you like some more brandy, sir?” Willis asked.

“No, but thank you very kindly, son,” Mr. Nagel said. “I have a way of dreaming dreams. They call me P.L. in the office. They say, ‘Old P.L. is dreaming out loud.'”

Willis did not answer, and Mr. Nagel sighed.

“I guess you've got a mother that you think the world of. Well, I had a mother myself. Mother taught me to dream dreams.” Mr. Nagel blew his nose again. “Always be good to your mother.”

But Mr. Nagel did not have a chance to continue, because there was a knock on the study door.

“I guess that's Mr. Harcourt, sir,” Willis said, and when he opened the door he was surprised to see that Mr. Harcourt was not alone. Mr. Bryson Harcourt and Mr. Roger Harcourt were with him.

“You can come out now,” Mr. Harcourt said. “I'm sorry to have kept you so long, Percy, but the guests were leaving. This is my son Bryson and this is my nephew Roger, but I understand you've met them already.”

“Hello, fellas,” Mr. Nagel said.

“Let's all sit down,” Mr. Harcourt said. “I don't think we'll be disturbed in here,” and he waved toward the library chairs and sat down on the sofa. “It occurred to me that we might have our conference now, Percy, and I thought it might be a good idea for Bryson and Roger to sit in on our talk.”

If one had not known Mr. Harcourt well, it would have been impossible to detect any difference in his manner, but Willis felt a rising excitement.

“You won't want me any longer, will you, sir?” Willis asked.

He spoke because he thought that Mr. Harcourt had forgotten him. He should have known that Mr. Harcourt never forgot.

“I think I'd like to have you stay, Willis,” Mr. Harcourt said. “It might not be a bad idea to have someone outside the family hear this conversation. Willis, pass the cigars.”

There was a heavy silence and no one but Mr. Harcourt took a cigar.

“We all know why Mr. Nagel is here,” Mr. Harcourt said. “Percy, stop me if I say anything wrong or inaccurate.”

Mr. Harcourt lighted his cigar carefully.

“I suppose there have been rumors,” he said, “and that is why I've asked you here, Roger. I want you to know that Mr. Nagel has made an offer for the Harcourt Mill, and he's given me some excellent reasons why it might be well to take it. I think it's a startlingly generous offer.”

Mr. Harcourt drew on his cigar and watched the smoke rise slowly toward the ceiling.

“The transaction would be an exchange of stock—one share of ours for two of Simcoe's. The cash value at the present time would amount roughly to five million dollars.”

He mentioned the sum in an offhand way, still watching the smoke from his cigar.

“What's that?” Roger Harcourt asked. “Five million?”

Mr. Harcourt nodded.

“It does seem high, doesn't it, Roger?” he said. “But then it isn't the mill that Mr. Nagel wants so much as the Klaus patents and some of our other processes.”

Willis sat rigidly, fascinated by the evenness of Mr. Harcourt's voice.

“I've been over this in some detail with Bryson. What do you think of the offer, Roger?”

Roger Harcourt's thin, high voice held everyone's attention.

“I imagine you know what I think already, Uncle Henry,” he said. “It will be a great relief for you not to bother any longer with a difficult business and a credit to you if you can sell at such a price. I think we ought to take it before Mr. Nagel changes his mind.”

“I'm not changing my mind,” Mr. Nagel said. “It's been one of my dreams to get this settled, personally.”

Mr. Harcourt nodded and gazed at the end of his cigar.

“Perhaps you're right, Roger,” he said. “I've given this serious thought and I dare say you are right. Incidentally I want to thank Mr. Nagel for his thoughtfulness and for coming here prepared to make final negotiations. Furthermore he's been generous in other ways. He will undertake to manage the mill as it stands for three years and to do what he can for our key personnel after that, thus avoiding any sudden change. I think logically we ought to take the offer. It's hard to see how we can ever do better.”

Mr. Harcourt's expression had not changed and it seemed to Willis that Bryson Harcourt looked startled, but anyone could see that Roger Harcourt and Mr. Nagel were relieved.

“If it's that way, Henry,” Mr. Nagel said, “maybe I'd better get on the phone and let them know in Chicago.”

“Just a minute,” Mr. Harcourt said, and his voice was sharper. “I'm afraid you misunderstand me, Percy. I've been thanking you, but we're not selling.”

Mr. Harcourt pushed himself up from his seat on the leather-covered sofa.

“I've made enough speeches today. I know I ought to sell but I'm not going to. This mill has made money for a long time and it's supported a lot of people here. I have an obligation to them, and I'm proud to say my son feels as I do. You agree with me, don't you, Bryson?”

“Yes,” Bryson Harcourt said. “I'm right with you, Father.”

“It's old-fashioned, I know,” Mr. Harcourt said, “but I'm glad my son's old-fashioned too. It would be easier to take our money and run, but you see, we've always belonged here. You don't understand me, do you, Percy?”

“That's right, I don't,” Mr. Nagel said. “I think you're crazy, Henry.”

Mr. Harcourt tapped his lower lip gently.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I think perhaps I am.”