Sincerely, Willis Wayde (59 page)

“No,” P.L. said, “there's nothing like kids to make a home, and it's sort of tragic that Myrtle thinks so too, now it's too late. There we are in Lake Forest in a house just made for kids and grandchildren and everything, and no kids. Pour me out another tetch, will you? On the rocks. I wish you lived next door, boy, so I could see your kids running around our lawn. Those are their pictures over there, aren't they?”

“That's right,” Willis said. “There they all are, to keep Daddy on the straight and narrow.”

“It's quite a display, isn't it?” P.L. said. “I'd like to take a look, if it isn't too impertinent, son.”

P.L. pushed himself up and put on a pair of massive horn-rimmed spectacles of the type used by Hollywood producers.

“I always feel better about anyone,” P.L. said, “when I see him traveling with a picture of his mother, and your mother's a lovely little lady, Willis. Old Alf introduced her to me once while he was working for Harrod Cash. Where are your parents now, Willis?”

“They're pretty much retired now,” Willis said. “They're living in a very attractive ranch-type house in a development near San Bernardino—or San Budoo, as they call it in California.”

“That's a lovely part of the world,” P.L. said. “Do you know old Ralph Schultz in Hocking Aircraft?”

“I surely do know old Ralph,” Willis said. “I look upon him as one of my sweetest West Coast contacts. The last time I was out there he was kind enough to lend me a car and a driver to take me out to San Budoo.”

“It is, I repeat, a lovely part of the world,” P.L. said. “It's too bad you're not living nearer to it, Willis. As I always say to Myrtle, a man can have a lot of wives, and a great many do—” P.L. chuckled but sobered up immediately—“but, boy, you only have one mother.”

“That's right, P.L.,” Willis said. “I've never heard it said in quite that way.” But P.L. had turned to continue his inspection of the photographs.

“That's a sweet shot of Sylvia,” he said. “Remember back at The Old Chief? Been fond of Sylvia ever since.”

“Sylvia will love to hear that, P.L.,” Willis said, “because frankly she feels just that way about you.”

“And look at those kids,” P.L. said. “Sylvia's looks and your brains, boy—not that Sylvia isn't a pretty brainy gal herself. It does make me wish they were all running around using my pool and facilities at Lake Forest. What is it the poet said—about the phrase ‘it might have been' being the saddest in the world? Willis, you don't know it but you're a lucky damn horse thief.”

“Yes, P.L.,” Willis said, “I guess I am pretty lucky.”

“And that's a nice shot of your home, too,” P.L. said. “But, say, come across clean now. Isn't it a little cramped now that the kids are growing up?”

“Well, now you mention it,” Willis said, “I do wish we had another ell or something.”

Willis could not avoid a feeling of suspense, knowing there was something behind every one of old P.L.'s verbal maneuvers, but at the same time it was a pleasure to watch P.L. at work. P.L. was looking in a surprised way at his empty old-fashioned tumbler.

“Hell,” he said, “my tongue's hanging out. Say, rush me over some more bourbon, and what about you, son? You've been nursing that drink ever since I've come in here. You act as though you're suspicious.”

“Why, I was just thinking we might be going down to Green Gauge or somewhere, P.L.,” Willis said, “and I was merely saving a little space.”

“Well, you just start in filling it, son,” P.L. said, “because I like it here. I like to hear that God-damn bird outside. Take a real shot of bourbon, son, and here's to our not being too smart with each other. Get me?”

“Why, no, P.L.,” Willis said. “I don't exactly get you at the moment.”

P.L. took out a handkerchief and patted the bald spot on his head.

“Well, I rather think,” he said, and shook his finger slowly at Willis—“I rather think before we're through here you'll get my meaning, eventually, and now let's you and me stop horsing around.”

Willis had to laugh, although it was a time when he should watch himself.

“Why, P.L.,” he said, “I didn't know we had been.”

“Now stop,” P.L. said. “You know damned well you and I have both been horsing. Finish that drink and take another and sit down.”

“If we're stopping horsing,” Willis answered, “and if you have something you want to tell me, maybe I'd better not have another drink until I get the news.”

Willis laughed as he said it. Even though he felt annoyed at P.L.'s tactics with the bourbon, Willis was relieved that the horsing around was over. The whole texture of P.L.'s expression changed. He was like an actor off-stage in his dressing room at the end of a performance.

“Son,” P.L. said, “when you get to be my age, maybe you'll find yourself dreaming dreams like I do. Right now I would like for you to dream back with me to the time when you and I first met. At that period I was suffering from a head cold, and my sinuses haven't improved any since. I made, you may recall—in fact I know you do—an offer to Mr. Henry Harcourt of five million dollars for that mill of his. I was not interested in the physical plant, since I am a believer in concentration, and Simcoe is situated in the Middle West. I wanted the Klaus patents and other parts of the Harcourt process, and Mr. Henry Harcourt knew it. Well, he turned me down for sentimental reasons, which surprised me, because I know, and you know too, that nothing runs long on sentiment—businesswise.”

P. L. Nagel seemed to be in no hurry, and Willis began to wish that he would make his point. It was growing increasingly difficult to stop himself from leaping ahead to conclusions.

“I hope you're dreaming right along with me,” P. L. Nagel said. “When old H.H. turned down that offer, I wasn't worried any. Time solves most things, and I could foresee what would happen under Bryson Harcourt's management. It was my idea they'd be glad to sell me that property, and they would have—if it hadn't been for you, son. You're the nigger in the woodpile—you fooled me.”

Willis could not help but feel flattered, not so much by what P.L. said as by his utter seriousness.

“Oh, now, P.L.,” he said, “you know I couldn't fool you.”

Willis watched P.L. carefully, but P.L.'s features did not relax.

“Maybe you wouldn't have fooled me,” P.L. said, “if I had got my facts straight. I didn't know at the time you had some of the best organizing ability I've ever met—and guts.”

It was dangerous to be moved by flattery, but no one familiar with P. L. Nagel could have helped feeling a secret sort of pleasure.

“Oh, come now, P.L.,” Willis said. “Seriously, I'm not as good as that.”

“I wouldn't be sitting here if I didn't know you were, son,” P.L. said, “but just you let me make my point. When you combined Harcourt with Rahway I thought it would be a bust. I didn't envisage how the Planeroid and the Klaus patents were going to fit. I never thought you'd be giving Simcoe competition and that you and I would be talking serious business.”

P.L. paused again and Willis waited for him to go on until he saw that P.L. was also waiting. It was one of those tense moments that demanded care.

“Are we really talking serious business, P.L.?” Willis asked.

“You're damned well right we are,” P.L. said, “and to prove it I'd like you to kindly get up and turn the night latch on the door.”

Willis was glad of the opportunity to move across the room and the click of the latch made a satisfactory decisive sound.

“All right, P.L.,” he said, “go ahead and tell me what you want.”

Willis was in the better position, of course. One always was when someone else wanted something. He walked across the room and stood in front of P.L. waiting, and he hardly needed to tell himself to be relaxed.

“Sit down,” P.L. said. “It hurts my neck looking up at you. All right, I want you in the first place, son, to come in as first vice president and in three years to be president of Simcoe. That's one thing I want and I'm not kidding.”

Willis crossed his right knee carefully over his left. It was important to show no surprise or excitement, and this was very difficult because he had never given any serious thought to being president of one of the biggest belting and industrial-rubber concerns in the country.

“Of course I'm very flattered, P.L.,” he said. “But obviously this is something that requires a lot of considering and I should have to familiarize myself with the whole Simcoe picture.”

P. L. Nagel waved his hand carelessly.

“Of course it needs thought,” he said. “With this God-damn punitive income tax there's no use saying much about salary, but I'm confident we can do something interesting with stock. I don't want to name a figure now but I want to leave one thought. You're about as far as you can get where you are, son. On the other hand, the sky will be the limit at Simcoe.”

Willis smiled courteously. There was no use in giving any indication of anything until there was a definite offer.

“That's right, P.L.,” he said, “I'm about as far as I can go in the Associates, I suppose, but I'm happy where I am and I know my way around.”

Willis's words fell into a void of silence.

“You won't be happy there eventually,” P.L. said. “Anyway, I want you to be running Simcoe in my place. I want the very best, and that means you, son, and that isn't all I want.”

Apparently P.L. wanted to be asked what else he wanted, but Willis's instinct told him it was a time to wait, and it was amusing to outwait someone like P.L.

“I also want Harcourt Associates,” P.L. said. “I regret it's going to cost more than five million. The figure I'm thinking of is in the neighborhood of twenty-five, and now that you know what I want I wish you would sweeten up my glass.”

Willis took the old-fashioned glass from P. L. Nagel. It was not a time to be superficial and he spoke very gravely.

“Frankly,” he said, “I need a minute to catch my breath, P.L.”

Willis had received several offers to leave Harcourt Associates, and the Nagel offer, though more flattering, could be considered as another of the lot, but the idea of the sale of Harcourt Associates was new. He balanced it quickly as he poured the bourbon into P.L.'s glass, and that vague offer of twenty-five million was skillful. It had been dangled out like bait, obviously after P.L. had made a careful study of the Associates, and was conceivably not a top offer. Willis saw that the picture had the unsavory implications of a package deal; but he also knew that he was facing a moment in his life that was fraught with possibilities that might never come again.

“Well, P.L.,” he said, “I'm somewhat curious as to why you want to absorb Harcourt Associates, but then I suppose it's more your business than it's mine.”

While P.L. took a sip of his bourbon, Willis tried to recollect how many drinks P.L. had taken, but the number made no difference in P.L.'s mental processes or control.

“I think you know the answer, son,” he said. “I like your conveyor belting, and there are certain parts of your process that I would like to combine with Simcoe. It's a high price but part of it would be an exchange in stock.” P.L. paused and looked thoughtfully at Willis. “I think, son, if this went through you could buy Rolls-Royces instead of Cadillacs.”

Willis cleared his throat.

“I suppose,” he said, “you wouldn't keep using the Harcourt Mill or Rahway.”

He could see already that this was the most disturbing problem in the picture and the one which he least wanted to face, and he was relieved that P. L. Nagel did not wish to face it either.

“We would have to make some experiments regarding integration,” P.L. said, “but this seems a small detail.”

“I'm not sure whether it is or not,” Willis answered. “Very frankly the prospect of closing the Harcourt Mill disturbs me. You remember, don't you, what Mr. Harcourt said about the family feeling for the mill?”

“I'd like it,” P.L. said, and his voice had an imperious sound, “if we laid aside this angle for the moment. If you want my guess a lot of the Harcourt family would like to take that offer. Why don't you face it? With those two little factories of yours, one in New Jersey and one in Massachusetts, you're swimming against the tide. I'm throwing you a life raft, son, because I want you up at Simcoe and I want those processes.”

Willis glanced at his wrist watch. It was almost seven, and the discussion could not continue much longer, and that glance at his watch at least showed that he was not too impressed by the conversation to forget the time.

“Well, I must admit that this is all most interesting,” he said, “but there's one thing about your general approach that leaves a rather bad taste in my mouth. I may as well be frank, P.L.”

“Why, yes,” P.L. said gently, “what is it, son?”

Willis stood up and squared his shoulders. He deliberately took a few moments to set his thoughts in order. It did no harm to keep P.L. waiting. When he did speak he was carried away by his sentiments, and each of his words gave strength to the others.

“P.L.,” he said, “I believe that sincerity and integrity are the cornerstones of any relationship. I am sure you will understand that in my position as the head of my company I am not a free agent because I am the servant of my stockholders. I can recommend but in the end I must follow their wishes. Also I must add that I believe in loyalty, P.L., and my loyalty to the Harcourt family ranks as high as what I owe my own, especially with Mr. Bryson Harcourt incapacitated. I have to think of these things very carefully, P.L. I want to do what's best for everyone, and what is best for myself comes last.”

Willis stopped. He was moved by what he had said. He had clarified his own thoughts.