Sincerely, Willis Wayde (57 page)

“Well, well, Willis,” Bing said. “I've been looking for you ever since I saw your name down on the list.”

“Well, well, Bing,” Willis said. “It's been a long time no see, hasn't it? By the way, I don't know whether you remember my associate, Jerry Bascomb. He was down at Swanee on a little problem a year or two ago.”

Evidently Bing did not remember Jerry Bascomb, but then, as Willis was beginning to learn himself, no one could ever remember everything.

“So you were down at Swanee, were you, Mr. Bascomb?” Bing said. “I certainly hope the bunch treated you all right. Well, well, Willis. It's quite a while since we fought the war down in Washington, isn't it? Say, Bascomb, did the chief ever tell you what went on in Washington?”

Jerry was not such a bad mixer, considering he was a graduate of Tech.

“Not much,” Jerry said. “I gathered most of it was top secret down in Washington.”

It was not a bad line and both Willis and Alec Bingkrampf indulged in a moment of reminiscent laughter.

“That's one way of putting it,” Bing said. “We really did have some high old top-secret times down there—and don't you give me that vague look, Willis.”

There was nothing like a little good-natured kidding at the end of a long day.

“Well, now, Bing,” Willis said, “I wasn't like you. I was generally pretty tired at night.”

“You old rascal,” Bing said, and he slapped Willis's back affectionately. “Say, I wonder what's happened to the old crowd. Do you remember—who was it—the fellow who kept playing the guitar? I've got it—Red Flyrood.”

“Oh, yes,” Willis said. “He's still down there on the National Labor Relations Board.”

“And what about General Pottle?” Alec Bingkrampf asked. “Do you remember the bourbon he used to keep in his desk? I wonder where old Gus is now.”

“We exchange Christmas cards each year,” Willis said. “And I'll tell you whom I do correspond with sometimes, and that's old Charlie Spoonholm.”

“By God, the admiral,” Alec Bingkrampf said. “I'm glad you brought him up. Now there was someone who could really put away the bourbon. I wonder what ever happened to old Charlie when he retired.”

“I can answer that one for you, Bing,” Willis said. “He's down in Florida and he owns a small alligator farm.”

“Well, well,” Bing said. He was showing signs of restlessness, and it was kind of him to have stayed chatting so long. “Think of old Charlie wrestling with an alligator. Well, I've got to be thinking up some remarks for my speech tonight. Well, so long fellows, and bellyache to me if there's anything wrong with your room or anything.” Then just as he was leaving he stopped, and his voice became mellow and vibrant. “Well, well, look who's here. If it isn't the old horse thief himself! If it isn't old P.L.!”

Alec Bingkrampf was referring, of course, to P. L. Nagel, and Willis had just been wondering what had happened to P.L. and whether P.L. remembered that they had made a cocktail date.

“Is everything all right, P.L.?” Alec Bingkrampf asked. “Did you get the suite you wanted?”

“Yes, thanks, young fellow,” P.L. said. “I hope to welcome you to the suite and return your hospitality some time with a small libation.”

“That will be swell, P.L.,” Alec Bingkrampf said, “and you got your locker at the club and everything?”

“Never mind my locker,” P.L. said. “I don't think I'll enter in the Tombstone tomorrow. I'm just going to sit and bend my elbow and let the young fellows do the work.”

That was the moment when Willis was reminded of the story of the Chinese Ambassador in Washington.

“You know that reminds me of a story,” Willis said. “Stop me if you've heard it. It's the one about the Chinese Ambassador in Washington.”

It was always hard to tell whether someone was being polite or whether he really had not heard the story.

“Well, it's just a quickie,” Willis said, “but it might help Bing here at the banquet. It seems that this Chinese Ambassador was at a party in Washington, and when his hostess asked him if he would not like to dance, he said, Why should I when I can pay someone else to do it for me? That's like P.L., isn't it? Letting young fellows win the Tombstone for him.”

It was gratifying that the story made a real hit, because P.L. and Alec Bingkrampf were by way of being connoisseurs of stories. Their laughter, Willis was sure, was genuine, and as he listened to it Willis thought that telling a story was an art in itself. Once he had been too quick and nervous with the Chinese Ambassador story, but now he had the timing right. Then he remembered the first time he had heard it. Roger Harcourt had told it to him eight years ago, before the stockholders' luncheon at the Harcourt place. It did not seem possible that it was eight years ago, but it was.

“Well,” Willis said, “I suppose we've all got to prepare to foregather for cocktails.”

“As long as we foregather,” P.L. said, “let's go easy on the preparing. Will you come to the suite, Willis?”

“Come on over to my place, P.L.,” Willis said, “and try some of my stuff. It's all pure, because it comes from the Alcoholic Beverage Control store.”

Eight years ago, when Willis had first heard the ambassador story, he might have been hesitant about asking someone of P. L. Nagel's stature around to the room to have a drink, but things were different now. Willis knew that people like P. L. Nagel liked to be treated by younger men in a spirit of equality. After all, Willis was forty-one, although he didn't look it. At least Sylvia, and some of the boys at the office too, said he didn't look it. Even though there was a touch of gray in his hair, Sylvia had pointed out that people who started out blond were apt to turn gray earlier. This indication of age, at any rate, did not look badly on the president of Harcourt Associates. Frankly, Willis was getting a little tired of youth.

“All right,” P.L. said, “but don't ask in a crowd.”

It was a little sad to hear him, Willis thought, because once there was nothing P.L. had liked as much as a crowd. It never occurred to Willis for a moment, that afternoon at the Carolina, that P.L. could want a quiet conversation with him. He never realized until later that P.L. might very well have come to the Production Liners Convocation at Pinehurst exclusively for that purpose.

They weren't building monumental hotels like the old Carolina any more, and Willis was sorry. The enormous hallway stretching the length of the building afforded perpetual interest in leisure moments. Walking over the springy carpet of that corridor was like drifting down a Venetian canal—a fanciful simile, because Willis had not had time to get abroad as yet. On either side of the corridor was a shifting series of attractions. Shops full of sporting clothes for men and varicolored gowns for women were blossoming out like the late Carolina spring, and there were all sorts of unexpected consumer gadgets, now that the war was over. Then there were gift shops with novel souvenirs suitable for carrying home to wives, children, and sweethearts, and besides these attractions there were lounging alcoves and card and cocktail rooms, not to mention the ballroom. This vast caravansary, beautifully run despite the constant turnover of guests, reminded him of Chieftain Manor because, though somewhat smaller, The Old Chief had been a part of American hotel tradition, as practiced at the turn of the century—and what a tradition it had been, exemplifying the spaciousness and breadth of American belief, in the first flush of America's industrial youth. It spoke of plenty and of a boundless opportunity inconceivable today, when one was hemmed in by socialistic restrictions. There would never again be a time similar to the era when the Carolina was brand new, but the Carolina was still far from being a mausoleum. Thousands of people who loved it were making it right now the background of a new America.

There was no hotel, in Willis's opinion, as suitable for housing a large-scale and active business convention. There was room to turn around at the Carolina and space to get away from the crowd if you wanted to discuss facts and figures. Then of course there was the country club and those great Pinehurst golf courses that siphoned off junior executives and their wives and left lots of opportunity for quiet, orderly discussion, if you wanted round-table or committee talks. The Carolina could handle a big crowd comfortably, and the Production Liners Convocation needed a lot of space.

It had started as a casual group of Midwest industrialists with a common interest in promoting industrial efficiency. Once it had been an informal discussion group with a humorous angle which it had never quite lost, as was illustrated by the somewhat irreligious name “Convocation,” but then this was a word that distinguished the Production Liners from the ordinary convention. Now few people on the list could afford to miss the annual meeting, which the press itself rated as important as that of the National Association of Manufacturers. Now on the afternoon of the opening day tardy Production Liners were still streaming in with gigantic leather golf bags and other suitable pieces of luggage. Tables were still set up near the desk with a large banner emblazoned, “Welcome, Production Liners,” and smaller signs saying, “Get Your Badges Here.” As Willis saw the sign, he reached guiltily into the pocket of his windbreaker, pulled out his gold-framed badge and pinned it on his chest. “Willis Wayde,” it read, “Harcourt Associates, Pres.”

“It's funny,” he said to Jerry Bascomb, “how I keep forgetting to put on this thing.”

“Oh hell,” Jerry said, “why don't you forget it? Everybody here knows you anyway.”

All Jerry's reactions made Willis very glad that he had brought him along to the Convocation. It showed that you failed to notice people sometimes in the daily routine of a plant or office. Jerry had a fine appearance and a very easy, congenial manner, not to mention brains and ability. Given the proper driving force, he might very well be high-executive material.

“I hope you enjoy being here as much as I enjoy having you, Jerry,” Willis said.

“Why, thanks a lot, Chief,” Jerry answered. “I'm having a swell time. The impact of all this is terrific.”

Although Willis knew the assistant manager of the Carolina personally, having been careful to keep up the contact he had made during his first stop there in 1945, the bedroom and sitting room that he and Jerry shared were smaller than he preferred, but then you couldn't expect everything at a Production Liners Convocation, and it was all a whale of a lot better than what he had been able to secure for Will Freeman, Harcourt's assistant sales manager, and his cute little wife, and for Mr. and Mrs. Fred Seagurt from the Rahway plant. Still, the Freemans and the Seagurts, though promising, were only kids who deserved the outing.

“Personally, I showered at the country club, Jerry,” Willis said, “so the bathroom is yours.”

It only took a short time to change into a fresh linen suit and white buckskin shoes, but still time was limited, because Willis wanted to have things right when P. L. Nagel got there, and suddenly Willis was worried about how Jerry would fit in. Willis was still considering the matter when he picked up the telephone.

“Head bellman, please,” he said. “Jerry, when you get out of that tub, would you mind getting the liquor and setting it out here on the writing table?—all the bottles. P.L. likes to see lots of bottles.”

“Hello, Mr. Wayde, sir,” the bell captain said.

It was an amazing achievement, when you stopped to think of it, that the switchboard operator should have known his name and passed it on to the bell captain. It was something new in service.

“Hello there, Archie,” Willis said. He always made a point of knowing bell captains. “Could you rush up some ice to my room and about four Martini and four old-fashioned and four highball glasses, and about six bottles of soda?”

“Would you like some crackers and cheese and a few appetizers with it, Mr. Wayde?” Archie asked.

“As long as you can get it all up in ten minutes,” Willis said, “and I won't forget your cooperation, Archie.”

It was impossible not to have a sense of well-being on that waning sunny day of a Southern spring. Outside the windows of the sitting room were the fine glistening leaves of a large magnolia and from its branches came the liquid notes of a mockingbird. The room looked homelike, with the bottles and ice and glasses and a few random copies of periodicals including his company house organ,
Harcourters Only
. The Wayde family photographs stood upon a long console table. The bottles and ice and glasses probably should have been put there, but the photographs in their leather frames would have looked crowded elsewhere. One was of Willis's mother, and then of equal size was a fine study of Sylvia seated in the library reading. Sylvia had said facetiously that it represented the first chance offered her to read in weeks. Then, in smaller frames, appeared the children. Al was in his Scout outfit, indicating that Willis believed strongly that the family should be an integrated part of the community. Paul, in the ridiculous long trousers that little boys now wore, was playing with their new retriever, whom Paul had named Hugo. Louise was simply standing out on the lawn with Miss Farquahr, and Willis was glad to have Miss Farquahr included, because she was getting to be quite an old retainer now. Finally there was an enlarged snapshot of Waydeholm as seen from the garden and the swimming pool. Combined, those pictures made a good sound gallery.

“Say, Jerry,” Willis said, “I particularly want you to observe P. L. Nagel. Although a competitor, Jerry, I really have a warm spot in my heart for him and a deep admiration. He's a fine type executive, who keeps a youthful outlook. He gives the air of being a playboy, but don't let that deceive you.”

“I hear Simcoe is going into foam rubber in a pretty big way,” Jerry said.

“Yes,” Willis said, but he did not want to be talking about foam rubber when P.L. came in, so he changed the subject.