The Americans (65 page)

"Lord above! What a surprise." Marcus circled a paper-strewn desk placed in front of windows overlooking Nassau Street. The room could have accommodated a dinner table seating thirty people. It was decorated with expensive walnut wainscoting and furnished with dark, heavy pieces with claw feet. In one corner, two stock market tickers on marble pedestals clattered softly, spewing paper tapes into collection baskets on the floor. Marcus' damp shirt was open at the collar and his sleeves were rolled up. He pumped Will's hand. "I'm forced to stay in the city all this month, but I didn't think anyone came here by choice. Are you in town on business?" Will twisted the brim of his hat in his hands. On the wall to his left, he noticed a multi-colored map. The map was framed in half-inch mahogany molding and measured about twelve feet by six. It depicted the southern end of Manhattan Island, with north at the right hand margin. The lower East Side was studded with numerous pins with bright red or blue heads. "Not business in the conventional sense," he said. "I'm helping a colleague from the medical school. He practices down in the Mulberry Bend." "Good God. That's a frightful area. Is this something you're required to do to earn your diploma?" "It's something I'm doing because I want to." "I see." Marcus cleared his throat; the edge in Will's voice was unmistakable. "You never mentioned it in Newport, that I recall." "I didn't think anyone in Newport would be interested." The blunt reply made Marcus frown, though he still tried to be cordial: "Well, I'm happy to see you, whatever the reason. Sit down, sit down." With a gesture at one of the chairs, he returned to his own, which was high-backed, throne-like, and finished in leather. Just as Marcus was about to sit, Will said: "I'd prefer to stand. I have only one or two questions to ask you." "Questions?" Marcus was starting to sweat heavily. He plucked a cigarette from an ivory box half buried amid ledgers and memoranda. His hand looked less than steady as he put the cigarette in his mouth. His eyes kept moving between Will's face and the map Will was studying. Marcus fumbled with a match. It burned out before he got the cigarette lit. Finally he was successful. He flipped the burnt match into a cuspidor, and said: "What kind of questions? About the protocol of engagements? I'm the last one to ask about such things." "I haven't come to discuss a wedding." "Didn't you and Laura reach an understanding before that telegram took you away?" Marcus squinted at him through curling smoke, wary now. "Of course, I know neither of you said anything about it, but after you left, she was absolutely buoyant." A cynical smile returned. "No one ever leaped to the defense of her honor the way you did, old boy." Will's cheeks grew warm. "I suppose everyone in Newport's laughing about that." "No, no! I didn't mean-was "Never mind. It isn't important-I'm not here to discuss Laura, either." "But there is to be an engagement, isn't there? An engagement and a wedding?" "I don't know. It may depend on the answers I get from you." What a pathetic lie, he thought. No matter what corruption he found in this eminently respectable office, the discovery wouldn't cancel his obligation to Laura. Then why was he doing this? He knew, of course. For the past year or so, he'd lived comfortably with distortions. The opulence of Fennel House and Maison du Soleil were the norm; poverty had been abnormal-even nonexistent- in the world as he saw it. He'd deluded himself because he wanted Laura and all she stood for. Or so he thought. Now the Bend was removing the distortions; restoring perspective and a dear, true vision of things. He was learn710 ing what Laura and her family actually represented. Wealth and position built on human suffering, if those colored pins meant what he guessed they meant. He was still obliged to marry Thurman Fennel's daughter. But if he did, by God he'd understand the full meaning of the bargain. Marcus flung his half-smoked cigarette into the cuspidor. "You haven't exactly been cordial since you came in here, old chap. I'm growing rather tired of your truculence. Perhaps you'd better be explicit about what you want." "Does the Fennel family control a company called the Pen-York Property Trust?" Marcus turned pale. But he hesitated only a second: "Of course. There's no secret there. See here-what's gotten you onto such a tedious subject as-?" "And does the Pen-York Trust own a five-story tenement down in the Bend, in a cul-de-sac that goes by the name Robber's Row?" Hostile now, Marcus sneered: "Do we have another do- gooder on our hands? Another Jacob Riis?" "I should imagine his work does bother your conscience," Will said with a nod. Marcus laughed curtly. "Nothing bothers my conscience, old boy, except failure to earn a maximum return on every dollar the Fennel family controls." "What do you consider a maximum return, Marcus? Twenty percent? Thirty? I know one section of town where you can make at least that." "What the hell are you ranting about?" Will stalked toward the map. "About the kind of return you get when you put a building in the hands of a rental agent who subdivides it into tiny, filthy cubicles that rent for twice what it costs for a decent flat in a good section. I'm talking about the return from slum tenements." He struck the map with his fist. Marcus had bolted from behind the desk. He rushed to within a yard of Will before stopping abruptly, unsure of what to do. Will's angry eyes raked across the clusters of pins inserted in the wards of the lower East Side. He located the intersection of Mulberry and Bayard. For several blocks around it, pins crowded one another. He pointed: "I guess you can't tell me whether you own that particular tenement. It appears you've got a dozen in the area. You must have trouble keeping them all straight. The profits from each, I mean. You don't seem to worry about all the misery and death you may be causing." He snatched four or five of the pins and flung them on the carpet. Baffled and angry, Marcus stared at him a moment. . "That was cheap and showy." "I know. But it made me feel damn good." "What's happened to you, old fellow?" "I swallowed a dose of reality. It got all the delusions out of my system. For years, I admired the kind of life your family leads. Because I thought I wanted the same kind of life, I never asked myself whether it had a price. Now I've started asking." "Who the devil's been filling your head with this socialist nonsense?" A weary smile showed on Marcus' face. "How fdo you suppose great fortunes are made in this country? Out of thin air and Christian piety? Of course the Fennels comcaret have some dirt on their hands. I expect the Kents do, too. m You'll have to accept that if you intend to be part of the fam-was ch""Shut up, Marcus," Will broke in. "All I want is the answer to one question. Do the Fennels own a tenement on Robber's Row?" "Jesus," Marcus breathed, pivoting away and retreating behind his desk. He braced his hands on some ledgers, leaning toward his visitor. "You've turned into a regular roughneck. What comes next? Do you throw me out a window the way your father knocked down McAllister?" "Don't tempt me. Answer my-was "Nor Marcus" voice broke as he said it. Recovering, he went on, "That answer will have to come from my father. I won't take the responsibility." Will stepped forward, then checked himself. Marcus was pale and sweating hard; his forced nonchalance had completely crumbled. Suddenly Will felt he'd been bullying a child, "All right," he said. "Where can I find your father?" "You might try his club. The Apollo. Uptown, at-was "I know where it is." He jammed his hat on his head as he stalked toward the door. Marcus groped for another cigarette and called: "Hurry and you may catch him while he's still sober." The door slammed. f . Ill Marcus sank into his chair, his sullen face shiny with sweat. He struck a match and burned himself before he got the cigarette going. He took several puffs. His breathing slowed. Then suddenly he jumped up and hurried to a door so artfully designed, it was all but invisible in the wainscoting. He jerked the door open, stepped into a dark cubicle and began cranking a wall telephone. When the operator made the connection and the call was answered at the other end, he said: "This is Marcus Fennel speaking. I must talk with my father. Get him to the telephone as fast as you can. Tell him it's an emergency." CHAPTER XII n What Fennel Said A MASSIVE GRANDFATHER clock rang ten-thirty. Thurman Fennel said, "Robber's Row? I'm not familiar with the name. But I probably own the building. Been buying tenements all over the lower East Side for years. Splendid investments. Splendid. That tell you what you wanted to know?" He covered his lips with a wrinkled hand, and belched. Then he reached toward a filigreed silver tray bearing five champagne glasses. Two were empty. He picked up a full one and sipped. Standing in front of the older man, Will was momentarily at a loss for a response. He'd expected hostility from Laura's father, not an immediate, if bleary, admission of the truth. Of course Laura had said that her father was

5*1, drinking heavily these days. And when he drank, he lost all caution. Once, Thurman Fennel had impressed Will with his commanding presence. Now the bald and paunchy man looked sadly ordinary. His shirt and summer suit were stained and wrinkled. He smelled as if he hadn't bathed for days. He slumped in a velvet chair in front of tall windows hung with lace curtains so heavy, only a glimmer of morning light penetrated. The curtains muffled noise and effectively hid the squalor of the world outside. Except for the two of them, the book-lined clubroom was empty. In a vague voice, the older man went on. "Impossible to be positive about one building. The family's holdings are pretty extensive. I'd bet we own it, though." He sipped again. "Otherwise Marcus wouldn't have been so agitated when he told me you were asking questions." Will was startled. "When did you speak to Marcus?" "Right before you got here. He called me on the club's telephone. He was damn near hysterical. I'm afraid my son will never make a businessman. He's short on nerve. He isn't a bad administrator if he's told exactly what to do. But he can't deal with emergencies, and he has no mind for the creative posh-possibilities of real estate. Fact is-to be absolutely candid-was He drank. "You have it all over Marcus. Even if you do come from a family of damn radicals." He consumed the rest of the glass at a gulp, Jieedless of the way some of the liquid ran down his chin to his shirt. Another belch, and he went on: "Hate to admit it, but my son's no good with anything except polo ponies or a tennis racket. An ineffectual Harvard-educated fart, is what it comes down to-was Fennel replaced the glass on the tray and reached for another. Then, peering at the young man begrimed from his trolley ride, he said:" I "Oh. Not minding my manners, am I? Care for a champagne cocktail? I can ring for more. I probably will before the day's much older."less-than Softly, Will said, "No, thank you." There was no point in badgering a drunkard. The sooner he left, the better. "Mustn't have any secrets from you, my boy." Once more Fennel took a sip. "You're to be a member of the family soon. Snaring you has been their design, Laura's and my wife's, ever since Marcus fetched you home that Christmastime." "Snaring? That's a pretty hard word, Mr. Fennel." A sloppy shrug. "Fits, though." "But I'm the one who's been doing the courting." The older man gave him a pitying look. "You only think so. They played you like a violin, my boy. Fact is-was Another large drink. "Even though I abom-abomin-hate your father's newspaper, I have felt increasingly sorry for you. You may think marrying Laura is an attractive proposition. You'd get a fine dowry to add to your own inheritance, plus the social standing your father can never hope to acquire-was The words disturbed Will, and not merely because they were true. Something poisonous was gathering within the drunken man, and slowly working its way out of a deep, concealed place. "But I'll tell you this, Kent. You needn't ask my permission to marry Laura. She and her mother decided the question months ago. I have nothing to stay about it." He reached out to put his empty glass on the tray, but he wasn't watching. As he put the glass down, he bumped another. It fell, striking the raised edge of the tray. A half moon of crystal broke from the rim of the overturned glass. "Glad it wasn't a full one," Fennel said with a snuffling laugh. The library was utterly still save for the heavy tocktock of the clock pendulum. Fennel's face grew twisted and sour; the poison was near the surface. "Another thing," Fennel resumed after he drank. "Those two harpies need you more than you need the Fennels. Don't ever make the mistake of thinking otherwise. My sweet daughter can't get a regular suitor from her own social group." "Oh, sir, I can't believe-was Fennel didn't seem to hear: "There's no shortage of ordinary suitors, y'understand. Penniless attorneys. Merchants mortgaged to the hilt. But the ladies don't want someone like that. They want a man with money and some sort of pedigree. That rules out most of those European dukes and earls. They've got the titles but nothing else. So it comes down to an American. Trouble is, mothers in the best families won't let their sons near my daughter. They've heard too many stories. It's been that way ever since Laura- matured." He shook his head. "My fault, I reckon. But I don't know how it happened-was His voice strengthened. "I do know I had to move out. I couldn't stand those damn women one day longer. Seems to be the familiar complaint of Newport husbands," he added. He drained the glass, rose, and lurched across the * ,room to jerk a satin bell pull. Will was in such turmoil, he didn't know what to say. Fennel came lurching back, stumbled against his chair and almost fell. He seized the back of the chair and held himself up. He smiled at Will again, half in contempt, half in pity: "Guess you're surprised to hear me speak of my wife and daughter the way I do. I'll tell you the reason. I hate both of 'em. My wife's a pretentious, domineering bitch. All she cares about are things comoh, and maybe the approval of a bunch of dry-titted, half-crazy old hags she fancies to be her betters. You've no idea how frantic she is to keep from being ostracized because of Laura. You've no idea how many backsides she must kiss so it won't happen. That social stuff is shit, my boy. Pure shit. I like feeling important as well as the next man, but by God I know I came from nothing and will go right back there when I'm all through. My daughter-she's caught the taint in that house. It's ruined her. She's worse than her mother. At least my wife isn't a whore." A seventy-year-old man wearing club livery entered with another tray bearing five more champagne cocktails. He set it down, then removed the first tray without so much as a lifted eyebrow-as if finishing five drinks before a quarter of eleven in the morning wasn't at all unusual. When the waiter had gone, Fennel helped himself. He stood sipping his fresh cocktail with an owlish look. At last Will spoke: "That's a terrible thing to say about your own daughter." 'Terrible? I 'spose. Trouble is, I don't know a better word than whore. I tell you again, my boy-you don't need my permission to marry Laura. You've no competition. No one in her own set will have her. Here-was In the process of placing his cocktail on a book shelf, he nearly fell again. He rummaged for something in his pockets; finally pulled out a wrinkled piece of newsprint about seven inches wide. One edge was ragged, as if the papei had been torn from a longer galley. "Here's her latest escapade. I was one of Colonel Mann's supplicants at Delmonico's earlier this week. He arranges to let you know when he's written an item for Saunterings that he thinks you should see-the fucking robber. I paid eight thousand dollars to keep this out of the next issue