Executive Suite (31 page)

Steve's young laughter greeted his startled exclamation.

“What kind of a way is that to—say, what are you doing up so early?”

“Fishing,” Steve said, and then all in one breath, “Mom said I couldn't go until after breakfast and no breakfast 'til you got up and you had to go to the office so I thought I'd just give you a little nudge.”

“Fine nudge,” he grumbled affectionately. “You're getting too big for those kid tricks, fellow.”

He got up, yawning, pommeling his expanded chest. “Looks like a nice day.”

Steve scowled. “Fishing's better when it's cloudy. Say, Pop, tough about Mr. Bullard dying, huh?”

Don Walling blinked, startled that he could have forgotten for even this first minute of his awakening.

“I guess you won't be going to Chicago this afternoon, huh, Pop?”

He was startled again, “No, that's right—I'd forgotten. Have to cancel my reservations.”

Steve sat jackknifed on the edge of the bed, his arms wrapping his knees. “Mom didn't think you'd be going. Shall I tell her you'll be ready to eat in about two minutes, huh, Pop?”

He nodded, walking into the bathroom, stripping his pajamas as he heard the outrushing clatter of Steve's dash down the hallway.

The sting of the shower sharpened his nervous response and he made a conscious effort to pick up the strands of thought that the night had broken. Avery Bullard's death seemed like something behind a closed door, near and yet shut away.

Mary had the morning newspaper spread on the table when he stepped out on the porch where they breakfasted in good weather. He saw the black headline from the doorway and then, standing beside her, let his eyes skim down the right-hand column. His name jumped out at him:

Confirmation of the news flash came from MacDonald Walling, Grayrock Road, vice-president of the company, who had received a call from a Tredway official in the New York office of the corporation. There was

“Where the devil did they get that?” he muttered, his finger indicating his first name.

“It's your name, darling,” Mary said lightly.

“It's not. I—” He let his voice fall off into silence. It was one of those unexplainable things that would sound silly if he tried to put it into words.

“I can't see why you object to it, dear. It really sounds quite distinguished—MacDonald Walling of Grayrock Road.” She had given her voice a comedy accent and he knew that she was teasing him into starting the day with a smile.

Steve repeated his mother, turning comedy into burlesque with a spoon for a lorgnette.

“That will be enough of that, young man!”

“Mom said it, too.”

“Your mother has very special privileges,” he said, and then he looked up, offering the smile that he knew she was waiting for.

Mary gave his shoulder a quick pat and started for the kitchen. “There's more on the inside, Don.”

He was turning the page when he heard the telephone ring.

Steve's spoon clattered down into his cereal bowl. “I bet that's for me, I bet. I told Kenny I'd be there at—”

He stopped his son's headlong plunge with an outstretched arm. “Your mother's answering in the kitchen.”

Mary came in. “For you, Don.” The tone of her voice showed concern. “It's Mr. Alderson.”

He started for the kitchen and then, catching himself in midstride, changed his mind and went to the hall extension.

The first sound of Alderson's voice justified Mary's concern. Alderson was obviously in a highly nervous state. “Things are bad, Don, bad. I've talked to Jesse—didn't call me last night—couldn't get through—but I just talked to him now and he won't take the presidency. He's going to retire the first of November.”

“Retire!”

“That's what he says.”

“But he isn't even—how old is he?”

“Sixty in October, but his mind's made up.”

“All right, Fred, I'll stop at your place on the way down.”

“Would you do that, Don? Well, that's fine. Then we can talk.”

He hung up, feeling guilty that he had seemed to offer hope where there was no hope. With Jesse Grimm out of the running, Shaw would be president.

WEST COVE, LONG ISLAND

7.35 A.M. EDT

Going to the Yacht Club on Saturday morning had, for all the summer months of the past five years, been a repetitious part of George Caswell's week. He had bought the thirty-eight-foot cutter,
Moonsweep
, as an escape from his habit-regulated life, only to find that she, too, had now become a habit. In the beginning he had secretly fancied the thought of himself as the swashbuckling skipper of a racing yacht. The first few months had brought the reluctant conclusion that he was not a swashbuckler by nature—which, of course, he had known all along—and he had also discovered that he did not have the sixth sense that made a racing skipper. He had hoped that ocean racing would at least give him a complete break from his weekday world of figure-filled papers but, as things had turned out, his most useful purpose on board was served when he was bent over the figure-filled charts and papers on the navigation table.

The sum of George Caswell's discoveries had not been too disappointing, however, since they had been subconsciously expected, and
Moonsweep
had unquestionably given him a certain amount of pleasure. The crew of sun-bleached youngsters that he had gathered together were admittedly the best in the club and they treated him with a pleasant disregard of the fact that he was a rich man and a Caswell. Ken Case, who was now the boat's real racing master, was particularly likable. There were times when George Caswell thought that winning as often as they did might be considered in questionable taste, but apparently there wasn't too much feeling around the club for he had been elected Vice-Commodore by acclamation. That meant that he would automatically become Commodore next year. His father and his grandfather had both been commodores. It was a pleasant family tradition.

Driving along the shore road this morning, however, George Caswell's thoughts had no association with the yacht club. He had awakened to the rather surprising discovery that what he had been thinking about when he went to sleep was still in his mind. That, in itself, was unusual enough to command his attention. He often had ideas that seemed intriguingly full-bodied at midnight, but they generally proved to be thin ghosts of themselves when examined in the cold light of the next morning. That was not true today. The possibility that he might become the president of the Tredway Corporation was still very much in his mind. The longer he considered it, the more desirable it seemed. His thinking had even gotten to the point where he had actually asked himself what Kitty's reaction might be. His guess was that she would welcome it, even if it did mean leaving New York and Long Island. Kitty wasn't above wanting a bit of excitement now and then, and this would be the most exciting thing that had ever happened to them.

Turning in at the Yacht Club entrance, George Caswell saw that the north end of the anchorage, where the bigger boats lay, was already alive with activity. Squinting against the sun, he could see that his crew had gotten on board ahead of him. They were ranged along the leeward rail now, tying the stops on the big spinnaker.

It was a scene that would, only a day ago, have moved George Caswell to mild excitement. Today there was no such response. Racing for the Whaler's Cup had become remote and inconsequential.

NEW YORK CITY

7.50 A.M. EDT

Bruce Pilcher was awake when the telephone rang and he answered it casually with the preconception that it was the telephone operator giving him his morning call.

But it was a young man's voice, “Mr. Pilcher?”

“Yes,” he said guardedly.

“Thank goodness I've finally reached you, sir. This is Bernard Steigel. Grandfather had a stroke last evening and I've been trying to—”

Bruce Pilcher's mind backlashed. No, this was wrong … it wasn't Julius Steigel who had suffered a stroke … Avery Bullard … it was Avery Bullard who was dead!

“—because he seemed rather worked up about something when he came home,” Bernard Steigel was going on. “Mother didn't think much of it until she went to call him for dinner. She found him in the—”

Pilcher shook his head drunkenly. Had he been wrong about its being Bullard? Had it been old Julius who had … no, this was all crazy … like a bad dream! No, he was awake … he wasn't dreaming!

Bernard Steigel's voice faded in again: “—too early to know for sure but the doctors aren't holding out much hope. I'm waiting here at the hospital until we know something definite.”

“What—what hospital?” Pilcher groped.

“Mount Sinai, sir.”

“I—I'll come up as soon as possible.”

“There really isn't much point, sir, unless you care to do it. He's completely unconscious, doesn't know any of us, but if you want to come—”

“Well, in that case,” Pilcher broke in, “perhaps you could call me if he becomes conscious. I'll be here at the hotel—or leave word where I can be reached.”

“All right, sir. I thought I ought to let you know as soon as possible. I tried to get you last evening but I wasn't able to reach you.”

“No—well, I'm glad you did, Bernard.”

“Oh, Mr. Pilcher,” Bernard said, as if what he was going to say was an afterthought. “When we first found grandfather he tried to tell us something about—well, we couldn't understand it clearly, but it sounded as if he were trying to say something about selling the stores—and he kept repeating someone's name. It sounded like Bullard—or something like that. Perhaps you know what he meant?”

A blue light flashed in Bruce Pilcher's mind, cold steel striking hard flint. “Yes, I know what he meant, Bernard.”

“Well, if there's any change, Mr. Pilcher, I'll call you.”

“Yes, please do that.” His voice was clear and controlled now. “My deepest sympathy to you, Bernard, and I hope you'll extend my feelings to the family. All any of us can do now is to hope for the best.”

“I guess that's right, sir,” Bernard's voice came back.

The receiver clicked and Bruce Pilcher hurried to the door, opened it, and snatched up the waiting newspaper. His fingers trembled as he fumbled open the tight roll and leafed the first pages. Then the trembling stopped. Avery Bullard's obituary was in the first column.

He opened his hands and let the paper drift to the floor, tramping over it as he walked to the window and looked down into the morning-shadowed gully of Madison Avenue. That blue flash had ignited a cold fire in his mind and the sound of the crackling flame was the sound of Bernard Steigel's voice saying, “—something about selling the stores—Bullard—”

With Avery Bullard dead and Julius Steigel dying, there would be only one person who knew what had happened yesterday afternoon in Julius Steigel's office. He was that person.

10

MILLBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA

8.12 A.M. EDT

Nelson Fowler, Jr., the fifth generation owner of Fowler's—“Millburgh's Leading Florist for Over a Century”—drained the dregs in the last of the paper containers of coffee that had helped keep him awake through the night. Rubbing his red eyes with his knuckles, he arranged the scraps of paper that littered his desk and began to list the orders that he had been able to place with the wholesale florists. The assortment wasn't as well-balanced as he would have liked because June weddings had stripped a lot of the greenhouses, but he'd be able to work things out … be a lot of open orders … no flowers specified … wouldn't be too hard to juggle things around.

The total dozens, when he finally added them up, made a staggering figure but he knew that he wouldn't have a flower too many. This would be the biggest thing in the history of Fowler's. After Monday, his father would have to quit bragging about that wedding back in 1929 when the Pathmore girl had married the governor's son. The Bullard funeral would knock that old record into a cocked hat … biggest gross day in a hundred years … but the hell of it was that it didn't mean anything, just a lot of profit for the government to take away. Still it was fun putting over a big one … gave a man a feeling of accomplishment … and anyway, it would shut up the old man about that damned Pathmore wedding!

8.18 A.M. EDT

The young priest stood listening in the doorway, impatiently remembering that his breakfast was already on the table and that his eggs were rapidly cooling to an inedible state.

“I understand perfectly,” he broke in. “There is no reason to tell me more, Luigi. It will be quite all right for you to attend the funeral services for Mr. Bullard.”

“You know it is the Episcopal Church and the mass is not—?”

“I am certain there will be many good Catholics at Mr. Bullard's funeral—perhaps even Father Steiger himself.”

“Then it is all right?”

“Quite all right.”

“I thank you, father, I thank you very much,” Luigi said, bowing to the door that was already closing.

At the bottom of the steps he looked at his watch. He was already late. The last time he had been late was when the first baby had been born and that was so long ago that the baby was now a man. That time he had explained why he was late to Mr. Bullard and Mr. Bullard had said it was all right … a man did not have a baby every day … but this time it was different. There was no one to whom he could explain.

Hurrying down the street, Luigi remembered with regret that he had not asked the young priest about buying a candle for Mr. Bullard. Maybe it was not necessary to ask—perhaps Father Steiger would say it in the mass tomorrow. Father Steiger was a very good priest and very kind in the confessional. In many ways he was like Mr. Avery Bullard.