Executive Suite (23 page)

“Don't worry, Mrs. Alderson, I'm certain that everything will be all right. I'm only one of the directors, but—”

The door opened. Fred Alderson stepped out on the porch. He stood waiting and then, as Don Walling took the two steps that separated them, he said quietly. “I'm glad you've come.” He said it, not as if he were expressing gratitude but as if he were acknowledging something that he had expected.

Behind them, Edith Alderson slipped soundlessly into the house.

Their handshake, under other circumstances, would have been an incongruous gesture but now it had meaning and Alderson's grip was reassuringly hard and firm.

“I'll need your help, Don,” he said solemnly. His eyes rose to a break in the trees through which, as Don Walling's glance followed his, the white shaft of the Tredway Tower rose distantly against the still more distant blue mist of the river hills.

Their hands were still clasped and the sudden gripping flinch of Alderson's fingers was inseparably timed with his own reaction. They had both seen the same thing at the same instant. A light had flashed on in the office at the northeast corner of the twenty-third floor. That was Shaw's office.

There was an instant of hesitation, but only an instant, and then Alderson said curtly, “Let's roll.”

The two words, said as one, reverberated in Don Walling's mind. It was the Bullard battle cry. He had heard it a thousand times. It was said more softly now but they were still the same words and there was a faint but still clear echo of the same tone.

Hurriedly, getting a step ahead, he opened the car door for Frederick W. Alderson.

7.59 P.M. EDT

Luigi Cassoni, operator of the special elevator to the Executive Suite, had two precious possessions. One was the gold watch which had been given to him by Mr. Avery Bullard. The other was the framed certificate which proved that he was a citizen of the United States of America.

He was very proud of being an American citizen but there were times when he was not certain that he was worthy of the honor. Even after twenty-eight years he still could not make himself act, in all ways, as an American man should act. One of his unfortunate tendencies—the habit of using his arms too freely as he talked—had been conquered by learning to keep his hands firmly on the controls of the elevator cab. Unfortunately, he had found no comparable way of guarding himself against the display of tears which his observation had taught him was not an American thing to do.

In the little Italian village where Luigi had been raised, no one had considered it an unnatural thing for a man to cry. His father had cried often—when he was very angry because Pietro had stolen the burro—when he was very happy because he had heard Lucia sing “Regnava nel silenzio”—when he was very sad as he had been sad when the Duke had died. On the night of the Duke's death, every man in the village had cried, the men even more than the women. The only man who did not show his tears had been the priest and he, of course, was someone a little different from a man.

The American men were like the priest. Tonight, they had come into the elevator and said words about Mr. Bullard that were like the chanting of the mass, and their faces were like the priest's face, and they did not have tears in their eyes. It was not, Luigi was certain, because they did not mourn the death of Avery Bullard but only because they were Americans.

On the night when the Duke had died a signal fire of cedar branches had been built on the hilltop and everyone had seen it and come to share their mourning in the square of Via Torrenzo. The great bass bell of the cathedral had been tolled, once for each year of the Duke's age and the Duke had been seventy-two.

Luigi lifted his head. From far aloft came the sound of bells, but it was only the carillon and the bass bell tolled only eight times. It was eight o'clock.

The buzzer sounded and he opened the door. It was Erica Martin. For the first time that night, he saw tears. But she was a woman. It was all right in America for a woman to cry. But it was very strange that she should be there. On the night that the Duke had died, the Duchess had been seen by no one in the square of Via Torrenzo.

7

WEST COVE, LONG ISLAND

8.02 P.M. EDT

George Caswell had reached the age when the death of a contemporary was not unusual and, had it not been for the events of the day, he would probably not have carried the news of Avery Bullard's death back to the dinner table. He made it a rule not to discuss business with Kitty. He had married her—partially, at least—because she took his mind off stock brokerage. Since she had been admirably successful in the accomplishment of that purpose he had never seen any reason to vary her role. Now, however, walking back to the table after taking the telephone call, his face reflected a concern that he was aware his wife had not missed.

“Will you have dessert, dear, or just coffee?” she asked watching him carefully.

“Only coffee.”

“Bad news, dear?”

“I'm afraid so. Avery Bullard is dead.”

“Bullard? Oh, he's that man from Pennsylvania, isn't he—the furniture one?”

“Yes, the Tredway Corporation,” he said, surprised that she had recognized Bullard's name.

“Isn't that one of your companies, George? Aren't you a director or something?”

“Yes.”

“We had Mr. Bullard out to dinner once.”

“Did we? I can't recall that.”

“When we were in New Rochelle. We had that dinner for all of your important clients.”

“Oh, long time ago—perhaps he was.” He remembered the dinner well enough but he wanted to side-step the necessity of again explaining why he had never repeated the affair.

“Of course it was Mr. Bullard,” she said triumphantly. “He was fascinated by the Baked Alaska and perfectly charming about it … and we had Chicken Supreme that night, too.”

He glanced up from his plate, surprised again at Kitty's astounding ability to recall the guests and menus of almost every dinner party they had ever had, a feat of memory that always seemed strangely mismatched with her equally astounding ability immediately to forget what she paid for anything she bought.

“He was sort of a shaggy-bear type,” she went on. “Growly but sweet—nice. And he's dead? How awful. Does it mean something very bad for your business, George?”

“No, I don't think so,” he said uncertainly. “He was a fine man, that's all—one of the finest men I've ever known.”

“But darling, I'd never realized that he was a friend of yours! Why haven't we had him out? I'd have loved to—”

“That was Mr. Lindeman who called,” he said in a pointedly abrupt change of subject, made so quickly that he didn't realize he was committing himself to going on with the discussion.

“Oh, are they friends of Mr. Bullard's too? Goodness, there was no reason why we couldn't have had the Lindemans with him. They're awfully good at a party, both of them.”

“No, Mr. Lindeman was not a friend of Avery Bullard's,” he explained patiently. “Mr. Lindeman is the head of an investment fund that holds a rather large block of Tredway stock and he was concerned about what effect Bullard's death might have on its market value.”

“How horrible,” she said distastefully.

“What?”

“He might have waited until the poor man was decently dead. Goodness, don't you men ever think about anything but what effect something is going to have on the market?”

“Frequently.”

“I can't believe it.”

“Every time I come home to you, my dear.” He made it a nice thing to say, nicely said.

She laughed, pleased, and he hoped that the subject had been changed. It hadn't. “You're very sweet, darling, but what did you say to him?”

“To whom?”

“Mr. Lindeman.”

“About what?”

She was not to be diverted by diversion. “About what you said, dear—about what would happen to Mr. Bullard's company now that he's dead.”

“It's not Mr. Bullard's company, my dear. It's the stockholders' company. Mr. Bullard was an employee. They had hired him to be president, just as they had hired other men to be—well, truck drivers, or bookkeepers.”

“You don't want to talk to me, do you?” she asked innocently.

“Of course I do. I only—”

“Then what did you say to Mr. Lindeman?”

“Darling, why this sudden interest in my business affairs?”

“I just want to know what you said.”

Her hidden smile had broken through now, making a joke out of it, and he played along. “Well, I told Mr. Lindeman that he had no reason whatsoever to worry—that any modern business organization that had been as successful as the Tredway Corporation couldn't possibly be a one-man concern—that there were a group of able vice-presidents, any one of whom could succeed Mr. Bullard—that I would be at the board meeting myself next Tuesday and would personally see to it that the very best man was elected—and, as final evidence of my own faith in the Tredway Corporation I had purchased two thousand shares of its common stock this afternoon.”

She clapped her hands like a delighted child. “George, you're wonderful! You should tell me things you say more often. It makes you sound so distinguished. Tuesday? Did you say you'd be gone Tuesday?”

“You have it on your calendar. I put it there myself when—” He stopped. “Oh—the funeral. Hadn't thought of that.”

“Must you go? They're always so gruesome.”

“Yes. Be on Monday, I suppose.”

“Down at—wherever it is that he lived?”

“Millburgh.”

“Oh, darling, you can't possibly!”

“What?”

“Monday is the yacht club affair and you're the vice-commodore.”

It struck him as a particularly silly remark and his mind, rebounding, swung to the opposite extreme. “I'd go to Avery Bullard's funeral,” he said solemnly, “if it were halfway around the world and it took the next month to get there.”

“Of course you would, dear,” she said placatingly. “Would you like to have dinner on the terrace after this?”

“What?”

“The terrace. It's almost July. Don't you remember how nice it was having dinner on the terrace last summer?”

“Yes, very nice,” he said, only half hearing, noticing that a subconscious hand had traced “2000” on the tablecloth with the tip of his coffee spoon. He was not surprised. His mind was always full of figures.

“All right, dear?” It was her way of suggesting that dinner was over.

He stood. “I think I'll take a look at the roses, Kitty. Nothing you'd planned for tonight is there?”

“The men were here about them again today. I don't know what they did, but they were here.”

“Good.” He made it a word without meaning, tossed back as he crossed the terrace and walked out on the lawn. Roses weren't worth what they cost … if it wasn't cankers it was black spot, if it wasn't black spot it was beetles … you could buy roses cheaper from a florist.

Neil Finch was standing near the low yew hedge that separated their gardens and a greeting was unavoidable. Neither was there any way to avoid telling him about Avery Bullard.

“I knew damned well Pilcher had picked up something!” Finch said triumphantly. “Remember what I told you in the car coming home?”

“But how could Pilcher have known? The news just—Lindeman's son has some kind of a job on the
Wall Street Journal
and he picked the news off the ticker only a few minutes ago.” The conviction drained out of his voice as he heard his own words, for he had already told Finch as much detail as Lindeman had given him and now, suddenly, everything had fallen into place.

“You say Bullard collapsed this afternoon about two-thirty?” Finch asked. “Well, Pilcher's selling order came in about two-forty. I remember Wingate saying he'd had only twenty minutes before the bell. Don't you see what that means? Pilcher must have known at the time that Bullard was dead. Where did you say he collapsed?”

“On the street in front of the Chippendale Building.”

“That's where Pilcher has his office, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“And Bullard had lunch there with Pilcher?”

George Caswell felt physically ill, as if his swallowed words had become an emetic. “But why wasn't the body identified until tonight?” he managed to ask, knowing that there was no point to the question, that the answer was obvious.

“Because Pilcher didn't want him identified. I never did have a very high regard for Bruce Pilcher but I hadn't realized he was quite that bad!” He flashed a sudden taunting smile. “Nice friends you have, Mr. Caswell.”

“No friend of mine!”

“I thought you'd suggested him to Bullard as an executive vice-president?”

“I did no such thing,” Caswell snapped. “He had him on a list of names—possibilities—that's all.”

Finch laughed. “Don't take it so hard, George. You aren't the first person that Pilcher has fooled.”

“He hasn't fooled me,” Caswell said, “—and he won't!”

“He'll pick up a fast buck on that short sale. Bullard's death is sure to break the stock.”

“That stock won't break,” Caswell said, grimly determined.

Finch's jaw dropped. “Well, I'll be damned! George, you're a clever fox—and I never caught on. With the block you already have—the two thousand shares you got today—pick up any more that might be jarred loose on Monday—hell's bells, boy, I wasn't giving you credit! You'll practically have control of that company, won't you?”

George Caswell's thumbnail clipped a green yew branch. The possibilities of the situation had not occurred to him before. His only thought had been to clear his conscience of anything that he might have said to Avery Bullard in Pilcher's favor but now, rising from an unseen source, as bubbles rise in champagne, the heady vapor of a new ambition rose within his mind.