The Scarlet Letters (19 page)

"You lunched with Harry the other day," Vinnie began in a tone that seemed intent on not betraying an agitation that might have been expected but that she did not really feel. "At the Plaza. I don't think it's a good idea for you to be seen alone with him that way."

"You're afraid people might talk? I hope you don't think, Vinnie, that I have any idea of having an affair with your husband." Here she looked up at the portrait of Mr. Vollard. What had they all come to?

"I don't."

"Or he with me, for that matter."

"I don't think that either, Jane. Unless it happened to be part of a plan of his."

"What in God's name do you mean by that?"

"Harry's attitude towards Rod has always struck me as vaguely sinister. He professes to like and admire Rod, but I suspect that the underpinning of all that is envy. I think he envies Rod's looks and brains and the admiration he inspires. Don't you know what I mean, Jane? I think you do."

"I
do
see what you mean." Jane felt her shoulder twitch with a little shudder. "Like Iago and Cassio? 'He has a daily beauty in his life that makes me ugly.' Is that it? But what do you suppose he wants to do to Rod?
Tromper
him? With me? Make a cuckold of him?"

"He did it once before."

"
Did
he?" Jane looked sharply at Vinnie as she recalled what Harry had once told her. "But would it be like him to do the same thing twice? Isn't Harry more original than that. Besides, he's smart enough to know he'd never succeed with me."

"But he might make Rod think he had!"

"It
is
like
Othello,
then!" Jane exclaimed, almost excited by the idea. "The business of making your victim believe your lie." But her thrill over the literary analogy had a quick death. "But that isn't his game either, is it?" Her spirits sank as she beheld the ashy truth. "It's something worse. He wants to take the beauty, as he sees it, out of Rod's life. He wants to make him as ugly as he is. He wants Rod to be just the kind of lawyer he is. Oh, how I see it now!"

"But Harry considers himself a great lawyer!" Vinnie protested.

"Rod doesn't consider him that. And Harry knows only too well that Rod doesn't." Jane rose now. She had learned everything she had to learn. "I must go, Vinnie. But don't worry. I shan't forget your warning. No more lunches at the Plaza."

There had been a kind of tacit agreement between Jane and her husband that they would embark on no further discussions of his specialty in law, but that night she broke it. She also broke her resolution never to intrude again on his study when he was working late. She strode into it now and boldly took a seat before his desk.

"Well!" he exclaimed, looking up in surprise. "Something must have happened to put that grim look on your lovely features."

"Something has. Vinnie thinks I shouldn't be seen lunching with Harry."

"Are you?"

"We lunched together at the Plaza last week."

"Did you?"

"You don't sound upset."

"Should I be?"

"No. I just wanted to see if you would be. And it's not really what I came in here to discuss. I want you to know just how Harry describes your business."

She watched him carefully as she carefully attempted to paraphrase everything that Harry had told her. He said nothing. But his face slowly congealed into a hardness that almost frightened her. When she had finished, he still said nothing.

"I feel like Elsa in the opera," she stammered nervously. "Have I asked Lohengrin to tell me his name?" She made a poor effort to laugh. "Will you call for a swan?"

For answer he simply stacked the papers before him in a neat pile and put them to one side. "Thanks for telling me, Jane. I guess it's time we went to bed."

But that night he didn't make love to her. She even wondered if he might not be jealous. She almost hoped so. Jealousy was something with which she thought she could cope.

R
OD SAT IN HIS OFFICE
the next morning, his door uncharacteristically closed, his secretary instructed that he would take no calls, unable or at least unwilling to face any part of the work suggested by the pile of memoranda prepared by his faithful and industrious clerks. It was as if the foggy bank of sleaze that had invaded every cubbyhole of his existence, and which his vainly shut portal could hardly keep away from his nostrils, had now soiled the last vestiges of his valiant efforts to achieve a new and freer life. Harry Hammersly was everywhere. He had taken Rod's wife, his daughters, his father-in-law; he had not only made over Rod's firm in his own hateful image, he had made Rod an integral part of the whole jerry-built new structure. And finally, by the most ironical of twists, he had married Rod to the beautiful, wonderful and adorable Jane. Oh yes, Jane was all those things and more, but she was still a gift from Harry. And her world was Harry's world, even when, as an essentially helpless woman, she had bravely condemned it.

He did not see how he could go on in that world. He certainly no longer wanted to. The picture that Jane had so vividly sketched for him, of Harry laughing and sneering at the very kind of law that he had acquired Rod to practice on a greater scale, seemed to show Harry as equating Rod with himself and himself with Rod, as if he were gleefully offering two damned souls to his devil of a boss who had at last overthrown God. It had to be the last version in the epic of Rod's self-delusion.

But maybe he could simply walk away from it all, resign his partnership and flee to some desert like an anchorite of old. Maybe he could escape, clutching some poor remnant of what he had liked to consider his old dignity. Would Jane go with him? Would she even renounce her fortune, as smacking of Harry's hell? Rod rubbed his eyes as he recognized the madness of such an idea. But
was
he mad? Not yet. He still knew that there was no "work of noble note" yet to be done "not unbecoming men that strove with gods." But if one let go the "noble note," mightn't there be a work, however less than noble, to leave at least a parting glow on Götterdämmerung?

And then his mind seemed to erupt into a tawny blast. There had to be a way, and perhaps there
was
a way, to kick Harry back into the dark abyss from which he had crawled! Was it madness or inspiration that put him suddenly in mind of old Mr. Tilley and his muttered hints.

Mr. Tilley, or "Tilley," as he was generally known in the office, even by messenger boys fifty years his junior (did he even have a first name?), was the longtime bursar and head of the accounting department; he seemed like an old servant of the Bourbons surviving faithfully but shaggily into the glaring and bewildering sunshine of Napoleonic life. But he was still accomplished at his trade, and he continued to hold his sway over a department of some half-dozen others, more than one of whom had had to recognize his inability to replace him. Tilley was in charge of keeping the books of all the estates and trusts of which Harry Hammersly was a fiduciary.

The old man's relationship with Rod was based on his devotion to the now inactive Ambrose Vollard and his treasured memory of how close Rod had been to the former managing partner. Tilley made little effort to hide his low opinion of the Hammersly regime—no open censure escaped his lips, but his puckered brow or shrug were plain enough—and though it must have troubled him to see Rod so closely associated with the new power, he seemed still to harbor the stubborn faith that the once bright knight of Mr. Vollard might yet be on the side of the angels.

As Rod had little to do with trusts and estates, Tilley had few opportunities to consult with him, but after Rod's marriage and the handing over to the firm's accountants some of Jane's financial matters, he had the occasion at times to intrude upon Rod's busy schedule in quest of certain decisions. Rod always took the time out after their business was concluded to ask about the old man's bachelor life, his dog and his cat and his passion for the Yankees. Tilley always lingered for a moment in the doorway before departing, as if there was something on his mind that he wasn't sure would be gratefully received.

"What is it, Tilley?" Rod had felt called upon to ask one day. "Is there something else on your mind?"

"Well, I was just wondering, sir..." Tilley now stepped timidly back into Rod's office. "I was just wondering if you mightn't take a little more interest in our trust accountings. You have such a natural flair for figures, sir, as I can see in the way you handle your wife's affairs."

"It's nice of you to say that, Tilley. But my wife's matters are enough for me. I can leave all the rest to Mr. Hammersly, can't I? That department is really his, isn't it?"

"Oh yes, it is, sir! And he's the fiduciary of some of our biggest trusts. Quite a little empire he has there, sir. Quite a little empire."

"And I suppose he's a benevolent despot?"

"A despot, sir?" Tilley's laugh was a dry cackle. "That's a good one. Yes, sir, that's a good one."

"I said a benevolent despot, Tilley."

"Oh yes, sir, benevolent." Again that laugh. "That's even better."

Rod had now frowned. "Tilley, are you trying to tell me something about Mr. Hammersly's trusts?"

The poor man paled at his tone. "No sir. I guess not, sir." And he fled.

Rod had not thought of this again, but now it lit up his whole mind. He picked up his telephone and summoned the bursar to his office. When the old man appeared, Rod closed the door behind him and stood like a prosecuting attorney, his back to the window.

"I want you, Tilley, to tell me all you know about Mr. Hammersly's performance as a trustee. I'll be perfectly frank with you. I have an idea that you know things I ought to know."

"Things?" Tilley looked almost sly.

"Maybe even bad things. Whatever they are, you have my word that I'll back you up and protect you against anyone who objects to your having spoken to me. Is that fair? Don't you think I ought to know, Tilley? Wouldn't Mr. Vollard have wanted to know?"

"Oh, he would, sir!"

"Then take a seat and relax and tell me all."

Tilley needed no further encouragement. Seated stiffly and facing his interlocutor he made what was probably the longest speech of his lifetime. Rod did not once interrupt him.

"Well, sir, you know Mr. Hammersly has a way with the ladies. Particularly old ladies. And particularly, I should add, wealthy old ladies. And if they happen to be a bit weak in the upper story, he has even more of a way. Take Mrs. Elkins, for example. She has been judicially declared incompetent and has only one child, a daughter who lives in Paris and is never heard from so long as she receives her huge monthly check from the guardian of Mama's property who is, of course, your noted partner. But it was Mrs. Elkins's habit, when she was possessed of what we politely referred to as her sound mind, to donate large annual sums to charities, some of which, highly dubious, were known for their flattering ways. Mr. Hammersly decided to change all that. He obtained an order from the surrogate allowing him to continue the incompetent's former generosity, but instead of the dubious charities he substituted the highly reputable ones of the Andrews Settlement House and World Missions. Very fine, wasn't it? Only the House and the Missions happened to have as their chairman one Harry Hammersly and as their counsel his firm. They added to the luster of his public image and to his client-attractive reputation. And that, sir, is indeed the motive behind every action Mr. Hammersly takes as fiduciary. In his other trusts he invested heavily in capital ventures of considerable risk and ones in which he, too, was personally involved. As executor of the Lamb estate he took it upon himself to forgive the outstanding notes of the Lincolnville Country Club of which he is president, and in settling the suit of the Clyde Baker trust against a patently fraudulent and easily defeated plaintiff, he charged the huge fee of..."

And so it went, on and on. When Tilley had at last finished his diatribe, Rod grimly made him repeat it all, this time taking careful notes and making sharp inquiries.

He gave himself overnight to study these revelations, and early the next morning he marched down the long corridor to Harry's office and took a threatening stance before the latter's desk. Harry was purring into the telephone, presumably to one of his rich female clients.

"But, sweetie, there's no law that requires you to give all that nice stock to your children. Which of your daughters asked you to? Was it Goneril or Regan? Yes, of course they're from
King Lear.
A tragedy every parent ought to read, mark and inwardly digest. Now don't give me figures. I know all the figures; that's my trade. And I can also tell you, at no extra charge, that if you spend all your money on yourself, there won't be any estate tax, either. Oh, of course, I don't mean that literally. I agree you should do something for the little darlings, if that's what they really are. All I'm telling you, my dear, is that you should look after yours truly first and foremost. After you have decided that you really have enough to ensure your complete comfort for what we trust will be a very protracted lifetime, then we'll see what we can do for your posterity. And now, love, I must ring off, as my partner Rod Jessup—you remember handsome Rod, don't you? Oh yes, I
thought
you would—is glaring at me as if he were going to break our luncheon engagement. Who will share my noontime martini? Goodbye!" He hung up and winked at Rod. "The one sure way to gain the love of the rich, my boy, is to tell them they're not spending enough money on themselves."

Rod turned abruptly to Harry's secretary, who appeared in the doorway as he finished his call. "Please leave us alone, Miss Peltz, close the door and don't put through any calls while I'm here."

"You can't do that, Rod!" Harry exclaimed. "I'm expecting a call from Nicky at Morgan Stanley."

"He can wait."

Harry reluctantly nodded to his secretary to do as Rod told her, and they were left alone.

"It had better be important, Rod."

"It
is
important."

Rod, still standing, recited the table that he had learned by heart, in short, brusque, matter-of-fact sentences. Harry did not once interrupt, though he did gaze twice out the window, as if he were faintly bored. Was it possible that he wasn't even very much surprised?