The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (68 page)

 

 

Yale often thought about the long discussions with Mat. Lying on his
hotel bed, glad that had he refused to go out to Sam's house and spend
the evening drinking, he remembered Cynthia's mentioning that Mat
had written a book. He must get hold of the manuscript. He wondered
what Mat's reaction would be to his multiple marriage. Would he have
approved? Probably not . . . so far as Cynthia was concerned. Probably
not in any event. Mat would have attributed it to the same immaturity he
inveighed against. Or could Mat really disapprove? Wasn't he actually
living out the thesis Mat had implied in his "Seek the True Love"
ideas? By refusing to accede to social taboos, Cynthia, Anne, and he could
prove the essential humanity of man. The accepted solution . . . the
solution that society would condone . . . would be for him to divorce
either Anne or Cynthia. Perhaps, he thought, it was the accepted solution
because it was the easier one. It was simpler in the last analysis for
man to create unhappiness than to control his emotions in a search for
happiness. Divorce, war, murder, bigotry, and hatred of all kinds were the
easiest solutions for the immature. They simply required quick emotional
response, no weighing of alternatives. Yale fell asleep, fervently hoping
that Anne and Cynthia wouldn't want to take the simple way out.

 

 

 

 

Carrying his travelling bag filled with rupees, Yale was in Sam Higgins'
office at nine-thirty. The automatic elevator opened into an outer office
presided over by an efficient looking receptionist. Sitting behind an
expensive mahogany desk, she looked up at Yale, puzzled when he asked
for Sam Higgins. "Which Mr. Higgins do you wish to see, Senior or Junior?"

 

 

Yale explained that he had an appointment with the young Mr. Higgins.
The girl flipped a switch on her intercom. Yale heard Sam's voice.
"Send him in.

 

 

Following the receptionist's directions, Yale pushed open the plate glass
doors neatly lettered in gold with the wording "Samuel Higgins, Inc.,
Investments." Threading his way through the desks in the outer offices,
Yale noticed the bustling activity. He estimated that Higgins must employ
several hundred people. The place looked prosperous.

 

 

When Yale walked into Sam's private office, Sam was talking on the
telephone. He waved joyfully at Yale and indicated a chair near
his desk. He was the same Sam, Yale thought, in a slightly beefier
version. The deep red tan that Sam had acquired, probably on a Florida
vacation, couldn't hide the evidences of over indulgence in food and
alcohol.

 

 

"Jesus, fella, you're looking good! What have you been doing since H.B.S.?"
Sam asked. He hung up the phone and grabbed Yale's hand. Yale wondered
if Sam's patronizing way of referring to him as "fella" had started
in New York. Sam had the self-assured geniality of the rising young
executive. His manner irritated Yale a little, partially because Yale
knew that he was too intense ever to develop such suavity. He supposed
that Sam's mannerisms proclaimed his belonging to the brotherhood of
successful men who by their pre-eminence could afford this off-hand
manner with lesser men. Midhaven had its similar coterie; men like Jim
Latham and Bert Walsh. Could it be an Ivy League trademark?

 

 

Yale brought Sam up to date. The army, India, China, and back home.
He omitted any reference to Anne or Cynthia.

 

 

"You're lucky, fella," Sam said. "I wish I could have had a hiatus from
business for a few years. I couldn't get in the service. Punctured ear
drum. Of course, it had its compensations for a while. More stray stuff
around than one man could handle. How were those Oriental babes?" Sam
asked the old cliché about whether you had to do it sideways.

 

 

Yale humored him. For a month or two he was going to need Sam. He listened
as he discussed women in general -- laughed as he recalled his own sexual
escapades at Harvard.

 

 

"Dammit, Yale, those were the days. No problems except whether they
would flunk you out. You didn't even have that one, did you? Boy, I never
could figure you out. Well, I got myself married a couple of months after
graduation. A beautiful woman, my wife. Clara." Sam sighed. "I don't know
what it is, but after a few years of marriage you get a hankering for
new territory. Did you see that office out there full of young nineteen-
and twenty-year olds? They shake their pert little asses at you all
day. It's enough to drive you off your rocker. Clara does it with half
her mind. The other half is on some social function or dress fitting or
whether she is gaining too much weight. Never thought it would happen
but I've got a little dish uptown. An expensive arrangement but, fella,
the bedwork has a fascinating variety. Amazing the difference when a
girl does it for a living."

 

 

Yale finally brought Sam around to the purpose of his call. Sam watched
Yale open his travelling bag. He examined the package of rupees that Yale
tossed at him and whistled in surprise as he flicked them.

 

 

"Brand new money! What is it, stage stuff? Or did you rob a bank in India?"

 

 

Yale grinned. He told Sam briefly how he had speculated in foreign exchange.
"The problem now is conversion. I couldn't do it in India. It was too
ticklish. Army regulations governing finance offices are pretty strict.
I couldn't convert in Midhaven. No bank there would handle it without
a lot of commotion. The name Marratt is too well known. Actually, I
wouldn't care to walk into any bank with the problem. There's a question
of taxes. The transaction would be reported."

 

 

"Fella, you've changed from the Yale Marratt I knew," Sam said approvingly.
"You always used to be such a moralistic bastard. Never thought you would
soil your hands with a grimy business deal. Now, you are even considering
gypping Uncle Sam of his share. Brother, you have changed!"

 

 

Yale shrugged. There was no need to argue ends and means with Sam.
He had been over that sufficiently with himself. In the final analysis,
no matter how you made money, it was at someone's expense. It would be
a fine economic question to determine who had suffered by his fortunate
speculations.

 

 

Sam picked up a phone and dialed a number. "How much is the rupee selling
for today?" Yale heard him ask.

 

 

"Thirty-three and one third cents on the dollar," Yale said.

 

 

"Check," Sam said hanging up. "How many have you got?"

 

 

"One million," Yale said.

 

 

"Hmmm . . ." Sam sat behind his desk, twisting his ear, staring at Yale.

 

 

"That's three hundred and thirty-three thousand bucks. Nice going.
How much did you start with?"

 

 

"About twenty thousand. My own money. I speculated at Harvard a little."

 

 

"I remember. You and that loony Agatha Latham. She is still at it. No one
knows how many millions she's got." Sam looked at Yale carefully. Yale
could almost hear the wheels turning as Sam figured where he could cut
in. "You aren't going to convert it even, you know," Sam said.

 

 

"I suppose not. I want immediate dollars. No waiting."

 

 

"Would you settle for three hundred thousand?" Sam asked, unable to
conceal the cupidity in his expression.

 

 

Yale didn't answer immediately. "Look," Sam said hurriedly, "it's no
skin off my ass. Take it somewhere else if you want. We don't deal in
foreign exchange, anyway."

 

 

"What's your deal?" Yale asked. No matter whom he dealt with someone
would get a cut.

 

 

Sam smiled. It didn't pay to be too eager, he thought. "I figure I can
make a fast twenty thousand bucks. The other ten thousand will have
to be spread around. It won't be simple. I can't buy it personally. My
personal dough is tied up. I'll have to handle it through the company. We
have a correspondent in Bombay. It will take a week or longer."

 

 

"Okay," Yale said, "with a couple of conditions. I want two predated bank
checks. One for two hundred and fifty thousand made out to Challenge, Inc.
The other for fifty thousand made out to me. You can date them for ten days
from today. That'll give you a chance to clear the stuff before I deposit.
The other condition is that I want access to all your general files and
a private cubbyhole to work in. I plan to do some investing and I'm a
little rusty on current situations."

 

 

"On investments, fella, you've come to the right place." Sam beamed. "But
if you'll pardon my asking . . . what the hell is Challenge, Inc.?"

 

 

"I'll pardon your natural inquisitiveness, dear Samuel!" Yale mocked.
"All I can tell you is that it is a foundation which as yet doesn't
legally exist. You are going to give me the name of your best company
lawyer. When Challenge, Inc. becomes a legal entity I am going to work
for it as its financial advisor. That's all I want to say about it now."

 

 

"A tax dodge, huh," Sam said. He punched his intercom. "Harry," he said
into it, "Come in here." A serious, spectacled man in his late forties
walked into the office. "Harry Hawkes, meet Yale Marratt. Harry is
our controller and head accountant. Harry . . ." Sam said affably,
"with your cooperation . . . and a few weeks' time . . . you are going
to be a few thousand dollars richer. . . ."

 

 

Harry grasped the plan quickly. He examined the rupees. "They're not
counterfeit, are they?"

 

 

Sam locked the door of his office. "Don't worry, Harry, we'll check that.
Right now, you and I have got to count very accurately what looks like
ten thousand, one hundred rupee notes. Then you've got to juggle our
records a little to cover a couple of bank checks."

 

 

 

 

Yale waited until seven o'clock that night before he placed a call to
Midhaven. Despite the convincing argument he had given the telephone
company manager he was very doubtful whether they would have made any
real effort to put the phones in today. He was surprised when the long
distance operator gave him the number and then rang it for him.

 

 

Cynthia answered. Her voice was a cautious hello as if she were uncertain
as to the efficacy of the new-fangled instrument.

 

 

"What's the matter?" Yale demanded. "You sound as if the F.B.I. might
be after you."

 

 

"Oh, it's you, Yale," Cynthia breathed her relief into the phone. He heard
her call Anne and then heard Anne's "Hi" as she picked up the extension.

 

 

"Your mother was here today!" Cynthia said. "Next thing, I figured your
father would be on the telephone. I was scared to answer."

 

 

"What did you say to her?" Yale asked. He wondered why Liz had come back
from Florida so soon.

 

 

"We didn't see her," Anne said. "We were in Midhaven shopping. Listen,
you . . . I didn't realize how far out in the sticks we are. It took us
an hour by bus. You're going to have to get us a car."

 

 

"That's right," Cynthia agreed. "I don't know why you need your car
in New York, Yale. I'll bet it's in some garage right now. What about
money? The two hundred dollars you gave me isn't going to last forever."

 

 

Yale heard Anne laughing. "Buying clothes for two women is going to keep
you broke, darling. Cynthia and I have decided we're destitute."

 

 

"We're teasing you, Yale." Cynthia giggled. "Seriously, we could use
the car."

 

 

"What about Liz?" Yale asked. "If you weren't there, how did you know
she came out? I can't figure how she even knew where we were?"

 

 

"Barbara probably told her," Cynthia said. "Do you know what Ralph Weeks
asked her? He asked her which Mrs. Marratt did she want? How do you like
that?"

 

 

Yale groaned. "What did Liz say?"

 

 

"We don't know," Anne said. "But we've set Weeks straight. When we finished
he felt so unhappy he had to have a drink, so we had a few with him. Now
he's out in the barn plastered. Cindar and I are staggering. All I can
tell you, Yale Marratt, is that you better keep your father away from
here. If he shows up here we will take him apart. Won't we, Cindar?"

 

 

Yale heard Cindar say, "Yup." He could tell the way she said it that
she was feeling pretty high. "Listen, you two. Leave Weeks' corn liquor
alone! I'll call Pat now. Do you love me?"

 

 

"Which one of us?" Anne asked sweetly.

 

 

"Both of you."

 

 

"We'll think about it," Cynthia said. Yale heard her warm laughter. He hung
up the phone, smiling. Obviously, he was going to be the target in every
conversation with Anne and Cynthia. Two women against one man. They would
end up victorious every time. At least they sounded happy.

 

 

He called the operator again and put a call through to Pat's house.
It was seven-thirty. Pat would be just about through with dinner.
Why had Pat and Liz come back from Florida so soon? It could be any one
of three things -- himself, Barbara, or something wrong at the plant.
Liz answered. She recognized his voice.

 

 

"Yale, where are you? You get right over here! Pat is furious with you.
Why couldn't you have waited to get married until we got home? Sometimes,
I really don't know what you young people are thinking of. You . . .
bringing a strange woman in here . . . living with her right in this
house while your father and I are away. Barbara getting a divorce. Both
Pat and I have been worried to death where you are. Then, Pat finding
out yesterday that you bought that awful Langley place. You come over
here right now. Alone! You better not bring that girl until you've talked
with Pat."