The Moneychangers (53 page)

"I was uneasy; suspicious, maybe. But I had no idea SuNatCo was in the mess it is."

Patterton picked up the telephone he had used earlier. "Ask Mr. Heyward to come in." A pause, then Patterton snapped, "I don't care if God is with him. I need him now." He slammed down the instrument and mopped his face again.

The office door opened softly and Heyward came in. He said, "Good morning, Jerome," and nodded to Alex coolly. Patterton growled, "Close the door."

Looking surprised, Heyward did. "They said it was urgent. If it isn't, I'd like to…" "Tell him about Supranational, Alex," Patterton said. Heyward's face froze.

Quietly, matter-of-factly, Alex repeated the substance of the fax report. His anger of last night and this morning anger at shortsighted foolishness and greed which had brought the bank to the edge of disaster had left him now. He felt only sorrow that so much was about to be lost, and so much effort wasted. He remembered with regret how other worthwhile projects had been cut back so that money could be channeled to the Supranational loan. At least, he thought, Ben Rosselli, by death, had been spared this moment.

Roscoe Heyward surprised him. Alex had expected antagonism, perhaps bluster. There was none. Instead, Heyward listened quietly, interjecting a question here and there, but made no other comments. Alex suspected that what he was saying amplified other information Heyward had received himself, or guessed at. There was a silence when Alex was done.

Patterton, who had recovered some of his aplomb, said, "We'll have a meeting of the money policy committee this afternoon to discuss liquidity. Meanwhile, Roscoe, get in touch with Supranational to see what, if anything, we can salvage of our loan."

"It's a demand loan," Heyward said. "We can call it any time."

'Then do it now. Do it verbally today and follow up in writing. There isn't much hope SuNatCo will have fifty
million dollars cash on hand; not even a sound company keeps that kind of money in the till. But they may have something, though I'm not hopeful. Either way, we'll go through the motions."

"I'll call Quartermain at once," Heyward said. "May I take that report?" Patterton glanced at Alex.

"I've no objection," Alex said, "but I'd suggest we don't make copies. And the fewer people who know of this, the better."

Heyward nodded agreement. He seemed restless, anxious to get away.

11

Alex Vandervoort had been partly right in supposing Roscoe Heyward to have some information of his own. Rumors had reached Heyward that Supranational was having problems and he had learned, in the past few days, that some of SuNatCo's commercial paper was meeting resistance from investors. Heyward had also attended a Supranational board meeting his first and sensed that information supplied to directors was less than complete and frank. But, as a "new boy," he had withheld questions, intending to begin probing later. Subsequent to the meeting he had observed a decline in Supranational's share price and decided, only yesterday, to advise the bank's trust department to "lighten up" its holdings as a precaution. Unfortunately when Patterton summoned him this morning he had still not put the intention into effect. Yet nothing Heyward had heard or guessed suggested the
situation was as urgent or as bad as the report, produced by Vandervoort, portrayed it.

Yet having heard the gist of the report, Heyward did not dispute it. Grim and jolting as it was, instinct told him that as Vandervoort put it everything hung together.

It was the reason Heyward had stayed mostly silent while with the other two, knowing at this stage there was little to be said. But his mind had been active, with alarm signals flashing while he weighed ideas, eventualities, and possible escape routes for himself. There were several actions which needed to be taken quickly, though first he would complete his personal knowledge by studying the
J
ax report. Back in his office, Heyward hurried through some remaining business with a visitor, then settled down to read.

He soon realized that Alex Vandervoort had been accurate in summarizing the report's highlights and the documentary evidence. What Vandervoort had not mentioned were some details of Big George Quartermain's lobbying in Washington for a government-guaranteed loan to keep Supranational solvent. Appeals for such a loan had been made to members of Congress, and at the Department of Commerce and the White House. At one point, it was stated, Quartermain took Vice-President Byron Stonebridge on a trip to the Bahamas with the objective of enlisting the Vice-President's support for the loan idea. Later, Stonebridge discussed the possibility at Cabinet level, but the consensus was against it.

Heyward thought bitterly: Now he knew what Big George and the Vice-President were discussing the night they had walked, deep in conversation, in the garden of the Bahamas house. And while, in the end, the Washington political machine made one of its wiser decisions in rejecting a loan to Supranational, First Mercantile American Bank on Roscoe's urging had bestowed one eagerly. Big George had proved himself the maestro of the soft sell. Heyward could he
ar him saying, even now: If fif
ty million is bigger than you people can handle, let's forget the whole thing. I'll give it to Chase. It was an an
ancient, con
man's ploy and Heyward the shrewd, experienced banker had fallen for it.

One thing, at least, was to the good. In the reference to the Vice-President's journey to the Bahamas, details were sketchy and obviously little was known about the trip. Nor, to Heyward's great reli
ef, did the report refer to Q-In
vestments.

Heyward wondered if Jerome Patterton had remembered the additional loan, totaling two million dollars, committed by FMA to Q-Investments, the private speculators' group headed by Big George. Probably not. Nor did Alex Vandervoort have any knowledge of it, though he was bound to find out soon. What was more important, though, was to ensure that Heyward's own acceptance of "bonus" Q-lnvestments shares should never be discovered. He wished fervently he had returned them to G. G. Quartermain, as he had at first intended. Well, it was too late for that now, but what he could do was remove the share certificates from his safe deposit box and shred them. That would be safest. Fortunately, they were nominee certificates, not registered in his name.

For the moment, Heyward realized, he was ignoring the competitiveness between himself and Alex Vandervoort, concentrating instea
d on survival. He had no illusio
ns about what the collapse of Supranational would do to his own standing in the bank and with the board. He would be a pariah the focus of everybody's blame. But perhaps, even now, with quick action and some luck, it was not too late for a recovery. If the loan money was regained, he might become a hero.

The first order of business was to get in touch with Supranational. He instructed his secretary, Mrs. Callaghan, to get G. G. Quartermain on the telephone.

Several minutes later she reported, "Mr. Quartermain is out of the country. His office is vague about where he is. They won't give any other information."

It was an inauspicious start and Heyward snapped, "Then get Inchbeck." He had had several conversations with Stanley Inchbeck, Supranational's comptroller, since they first met in the Bahamas.

Inchbeck's voice, with its nasal New York accent, came briskly on the line. "Roscoe, what can I do?"

"I've been trying to locate George. Your people don't seem to…" "He's in Costa Rica." "I'd like to speak to him. Is there a number I can call?" "No. He left instructions he doesn't want calls." "This is urgent." "Then tell me."

"Very well. We're calling our loan. I'm advising you now, and formal written n
otice will follow in tonight's
mail."

There was a silence. Inchbeck said, "You can't be serious." "I'm entirely serious." "But why?"

"I think' you can guess. I also believe you wouldn't want me to go into reasons on the telephone."

Inchbeck was silent in itself significant. Then he protested, "Your bank is being ridiculous and unreasonable. Only last week Big George told me he was willing to let you people increase the loan by fifty percent."

The audacity astounded Heyward, until he realized audacity had paid off for Supranational once before. It wouldn't now.

"If the loan were repaid promptly," Heyward said, "any information that we have here would remain confidential. I'd guarantee that."

What it came down to, he thought, was whether Big George, Inchbeck, and any others who knew the truth about SuNatCo, were willing to buy time. If so, FMA might steal an advantage over other creditors.

"Fifty million dollars!" Inchbeck said. "We don't keep that much cash on hand."

"Our bank would agree to a series of payments, providing they followed each other quickly." The real question was, of course: Where would SuNatCo find fifty million in its present cash-starved condition? Heyward found himself sweating a combination of nervousness, suspense, and hope.

"I'll talk to Big George," Inchbeck said. "But he isn't going to like this."

"When you talk to him, tell him I'd like to discuss, also, our loan to Q-lnvestments."

Heyward wasn't sure but, as he hung up, he thought he heard Inchbeck groan.

In the silence of his office, Roscoe Heyward leaned backward in the upholstered swivel chair, letting the tenseness drain out of him. What had occurred in the past hour had come as a stunning shock. Now, as reaction set in, he felt dejected and alone. He wished he could get away from everything for a while. If he had the choice, he knew whose company he would welcome. Avril's. But he had not heard from her since their last meeting, which was over a month ago. In the past, she had always called him. He had never called her.

On impulse, he opened a pocket address book he always carried and looked for a telephone number he remembered penciling in. It was Avril's in New York. Using a direct outside line, he dialed it.

He heard ringing, then Avril's soft and pleasing voice. "Hello." His heart leaped at the sound of her. "Hi, Rossie," she said when he identified himself.

"It's been a while since you and I met, my dear. I've been wondering when I'd hear from you."

He was aware of hesitation. "But Rossie, sweetie, you aren't on the list any more." "What list?"

Once more, uncertainty. "Maybe I
shouldn't have said that." "No, please tell me. This is between the two of us."

"Well, it's a very confidential list which Supranational puts out, about who can be entertained at their expense."

He had the sudden sense of a cord around him being tightened. "Who gets the list?"

"I don't know. I know us girls do. I'm not sure who else."

He stopped, thinking nervously, and reasoned: What was done, was done. He supposed he should be glad he was not on any such list now, though found himself wondering with a twinge of jealousy who was. In any case, he hoped that back copies were carefully destroyed. Aloud he asked, "Does that mean you can't come here to meet me any more?"

"Not exactly. But if 1 did, you'd have to pay yourself, Rossie."

"How much would that be?" As he asked, he wondered if it were really himself speaking.

"There'd be my air fare from New York," Avril said matter-of-factly. "Then the cost at the hotel. And-for me two hundred dollars."

Heyward remembered wondering once before how much Supranational had paid out on his behalf. Now he knew. Holding the telephone away, he wrestled within his mind: Commonsense against desire; conscience against the knowledge of what it was like to be alone with Avril. The money was also more than he could afford. But he wanted her. Very much indeed.

He moved the telephone back. "How soon could you be here?" "Tuesday of next week." "Not before?" "Afraid not, sweetie."

He knew he was being a fool; that between now and Tuesday he would be standing in line behind other men whose priorities, for whatever reason, were greater than his own. But he couldn't help himself, and told her, "Very well. Tuesday."

They arranged that she would go to the Columbia Hilton and phone him from there. Heyward began savoring the sweetness to come.

He reminded himself of one other thing he had to do destroy his Investments share certificates.

From the 36th floor he used the express elevator to descend to the main foyer, then walked through the tunnel to the adjoining downtown branch. It took minutes only to gain access to his personal safe deposit box and remove the four certificates, each for five hundred shares. He carried them back upstairs, where he would feed them into a shredding machine personally.

But back in his office he had second thoughts. Last time he checked, the shares were worth twenty thousand dollars. Was he being hasty? After all, if necessary he could destroy the certificates at a moment's notice.

Changing his mind, he locked them in a desk drawer with other private papers.

12

The big break came when Miles Eastin was least expecting it.

Only two days earlier, frustrated and depressed, convinced that his servitude at the Double-Seven Health Club would produce no results other than enmeshing him deeper in criminality, the renewed shadow of prison loomed terrifyingly over him. Miles had communicated his depression to Juanita and, though tempered briefly by their lovemaking, the basic mood remained.