Tapestry Page 14

Of course. A report would have come from Leah, to whom Meg had stayed close. Marian, although she liked to criticize Leah’s taste, still shopped at her place.

  “No, it’s an old story, nothing serious. Just New York’s damp winters. Fortunately, she can always escape to Florida.”

  The words were barely out of his mouth before they echoed back to Paul’s ears: they were words of discontent, revealing too much. Annoyed with himself, he raised the pitch of his voice to inquire cheerfully about Meg and the children.

  “Oh, fine. Fine. All well. Kids keep Meg busy.”

  “Must be nice to have two girls after two boys.”

  Paul wondered how long one could keep a dialogue rolling along like this, with neither one really caring about what was being said. A long time, probably.

  “They’re nice babies, but I’m hoping for another boy or two.”

  More thoughts swirled in Paul’s head. Flashes like the perilous lights of a migraine: the waxen, white, dead boy he had never seen and who had been his; the enormous dark eyes—had they been troubled or only serious?—in the small face of a strange little girl whom he knew only from a photograph, and who was his.

  He collected himself, making an inane remark. “Well, boys are nice too.”

  Donal extended his cigarette case to Paul. It was solid gold and monogrammed, but otherwise quite plain. Good taste.

  “No, thanks. I’ve taken to pipes lately.”

  Donal leaned back. “Speaking of boys, that fellow Hank is growing some, isn’t he? Tall for his age. I forget how old he is.”

  “Thirteen in the spring.”

  “He certainly thinks the world of you.”

  We are leading into something, Paul thought. “I’m glad of that,” he answered simply.

  “He comes out to our place now and then with Ben. Saturdays mostly. So I’ve gotten to know him, know how he feels about you. And you about him, of course.”

  Paul waited, not helping.

  “I understand you take care of his financial affairs.”

  Ah, here it was! But why?

  Paul replied evenly. “I’m a co-trustee, along with the bank that has the trust, until he reaches twenty-one. That’s all I am.”

  “I take that to mean that any change in the investments, buying or selling securities, has to be agreed upon by the bank’s trust department and by you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s what they told me.”

  Paul sat forward. “Who told you?”

  “The people at the trust department at the bank. Ben had happened to mention the name of the bank, and then one day when I ran across an interesting proposition, it occurred to me that I might be doing young Hank a big favor to bring him into the deal.”

  Ben didn’t just happen to mention anything. You asked him. A hot little spark of anger flashed in Paul’s chest and was prudently quenched.

  “You have no objections, I hope?”

  “You haven’t explained what it’s all about.”

  “Of course. Here it is. I invest in a variety of enterprises, oil, rubber, real estate … I diversify. I’ve got a fairly big piece of National Electronics. And they’ve been buying companies like Richmont Dynamo, for instance, and a couple of others that you’re probably familiar with.”

  Paul nodded. Now they were approaching the heart of the matter.

  “Well, Richmont’s interested in taking over an outfit called Finn Weber.”

  Now they were almost touching the heart of the matter.

  “Finn Weber has an interesting history. One of their biggest money-makers, I learned, was Dan Roth’s invention years ago. Got them their first War Department contract. Of course, I’m telling you what you already know.”

  “Of course,” Paul said.

  “They’re a lively outfit. They’ve brought younger blood in since the war, really outgrown themselves. Even reached out overseas with some important connections. The fact is, I see such a future there that I’ve just got hold of a large piece of their stock—this is highly confidential—with the idea of buying Richmont away.”

  They had touched the heart of the matter: Hank’s vote.

  “Why?” asked Paul.

  “Because I see Richmont holding them back. They’ll do better on their own, and you’ll see why in a minute when I tell you about their foreign connections. Not that I’m giving up National either; they’ve got too many other things going for them, you understand.”

  Paul understood. It was playing it both ways.

  “Now I’ll get to the point. You’re probably there ahead of me, though.”

  “I’m there. The stockholders’ meeting is next week and you want Hank’s shares voted your way. You need Hank’s shares.”

  “I do. Of course, I could get my people to run around and buy up all the odd lots, but that would take time, and this way we could vote the thing through with a lot less trouble.”

  “So you went to the bank,” Paul said, swallowing his indignation. Gall! What gall! “Why didn’t you come to me, since you knew I was a trustee too?”

  “You were out of town all last week, weren’t you? And time, as you can see, is of the essence.” Donal’s look was unfazed. “So I talked to Mr. Walcott in the trust department.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “Oh, that they had faith in Finn Weber’s present management. That they had certainly proven themselves. They’ve had stock splits and amazing growth. But if the management favored the move, they really had no reason to object. The matter had also to be discussed with you, naturally.”

  “I don’t like to upset applecarts,” Paul said. “Just as they told you, Finn Weber has been making money. Hank’s got more than he needs by far, and it’s all secure. Why tamper with it?”

  “Tamper? No. I’m talking about taking over the company and doubling—tripling—its value. Here’s the way it is. There’s a firm in Germany that’s looking for certain things they make, certain patented electronic gear. Actually—and I’ve got a couple of electrical engineers quietly looking into it—the thing they’re especially interested in is some sort of long-distance detection device that’s an offshoot, an improvement on Dan Roth’s old original patent. Interesting, isn’t it?”

  “Very,” Paul said.

  “Well, to make a long story short, I’d like to own—or rather I’d like Hank and me to own Finn Weber before these Germans start buying, and they’re going to buy big. So far, I’ve been holding them off.”

  Donal ground out the cigarette, mashing it round and round the ashtray, as though he were killing it. Paul watched the strong, manicured fingers for a moment or two before he spoke.

  “Where are those Germans of yours going to get all this money?”

  “Oh, they’ve got plenty! You surely know what’s been happening in Germany the last couple of years? Starting in about twenty-five, everything has boomed. Last spring, when Meg and I went over, I was amazed at what I saw. Do you know that they’re right back to where they were before the war, and then some? Production is 122 percent of what it was in 1913. The people are satisfied, well dressed and well fed.… The restaurants are the finest anywhere. We went all over. Frankly, I found Berlin more exciting than Paris. The cafés—the parks, the music and theater—”

  Donal’s voice was rich in timbre and softly modulated. It is one of his assets, Paul thought, and corrected himself: one of his many assets. A woman might let herself be hypnotized by that voice.

  “And the paintings,” Donal said. “I know very little about art, I’m sorry to say, but they tell me that some of the best work is being done in Germany today. The galleries are certainly crowded enough. A dream of a place for a collector like you, I should think.”

  “So we’re agreed that Germany is prosperous. But do you know why?”

  Donal laughed. “Any fool knows why, or ought to. Loans! They owe billions. Speaking of fools, the creditors are mostly Americans. Naturally. I wouldn’t invest a cent in Germany! I’d only sell t
o them for cash.”

  “You think they’re going to crash, then?” asked Paul, who knew that they inevitably must.

  “No question about it.” The reply was prompt and sure. “Then a new government will take over, repudiate the debts, and build the nation back. Probably go to war again someday. They’ll wreck all Europe.” He shrugged. “However, that’s not our affair. Certainly not now while things are rosy.”

  The cynicism was revolting. If Joachim should hear him—

  “I can’t give permission to vote Hank’s stock your way,” Paul said clearly.

  Donal stared at him. “Just like that? The answer is no, just like that?”

  “It’s not something I want to get involved in. As I’ve said, Finn Weber is doing well enough. I’m satisfied, and I don’t want to have dealings with Germany anyway.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “They want this stuff for rearmament. The country is quietly, secretly rearming. Even now, under this republic. Oh, they’ll say they’re buying it for civilian purposes, but they don’t fool you, do they?”

  “They don’t. But what if they do want it for armament?” Donal flung the question. “They’re going to get what they want, if not here, then somewhere else.”

  “Let it be somewhere else, then.” Paul’s glance fell to the pile of letters on the desk. He saw himself standing again on that narrow street, squeezed against the sun-hot wall of the building; Joachim was slumped on the sidewalk with blood pouring over his face.

  “Evil,” he repeated. “That’s what you will be selling. Not electrical equipment, but evil.”

  “You exaggerate,” Donal said. His smile had long faded. “I find all this ridiculous, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  Paul shrugged. “That’s the way it is, ridiculous or not.”

  “I don’t think Leah and Ben will be pleased to hear this.”

  Paul didn’t restrain his anger this time. “It’s none of Ben’s business. I’m Hank’s trustee, he isn’t. And Leah, although she may possibly not agree—I can’t say—will at least understand. Dan Roth didn’t take one cent from his work because our War Department had bought it, and that hardly compares with making money out of foreign rearmament.”

  “Dan Roth and his scruples! You can buy a seat in the park with his scruples. Or a seat in the Tombs.” And from the fine eyes, with their feminine lashes, there gleamed black scorn.

  As if Paul needed to be reminded that it had been Donal Powers and not Paul Werner, of the distinguished banking house, who had rescued the little teacher, the scientist, the naive and simple dreamer, from the cell!

  “The company’s going to sell to the German outfit, make no mistake,” Donal said. “So Hank will profit anyhow. The pity is he could profit a whole lot more if you didn’t stand in his way. If you weren’t so—”

  “Pigheaded?” Paul suggested.

  “You said it. I didn’t.”

  “I never favored acquisitions. ‘Friendly takeovers.’ They are very seldom friendly, and this one surely isn’t.”

  Donal stood up. “Is this your final word?”

  “It’s my final word. Sorry.”

  “Very well. I’ll be going. I’ve got my work cut out for me, I see, and time’s wasting.”

  Paul stood up too. “I take it you’re going to buy up a majority of the stock?”

  “What the hell do you think I’m going to do?”

  “I think you are. But Hank’s shares are not for sale.”

  “I didn’t think they were,” Donal said impatiently, as if to say, What do you take me for?

  No fool, God knows, Paul was thinking. Also, a man who doesn’t like being thwarted and will not forget who thwarted him.

  “Remember about Dan’s heart,” he continued. “When you do sell to the Germans, I hope you won’t let word leak out to him.”

  Again the eyes flashed scorn. “I always keep my business under my hat.”

  “Good. That’s a good place for it.”

  Donal took his time, putting on his overcoat and gloves. Then he said, “Sorry if I blew up. I don’t make a habit of it.”

  Paul took the cue. Appearances were to be preserved. It was better that way.

  “Quite all right. You didn’t really blow up. Give my love to Meg. Doesn’t she ever come into the city?”

  “She’s here today, shopping.” Donal bowed slightly. “Regards at home.”

  The door closed, making a delicate click. I shouldn’t like to be there when he throws appearances to the winds, Paul thought.

  From the window he watched Donal stride down the street through the gusting rain. That man is my enemy, he thought.

  The same gusting rain slid down the windowpanes under the single name, written in gilded brass script: Léa. On the other side of the panes two mannequins, in white linen and straw hats heaped with daisies, announced the start of the resort season.

  Meg stood for a moment looking out at the passersby as they struggled and hunched themselves against a wind that turned their umbrellas inside out. Then she went back to the full-length mirror.

  Leah circled her, considered every angle, with her round eyes narrowed in concentration, and said finally, “Yes, this is the one. It’s for you. It has enough dash, but it’s sweet too.”

  A woman in a black velvet evening gown looked back out of the window at Meg. The skirt stopped at the knees. A wide belt of pink crystal beads had been appliquéd to the dress and formed the design of a large flat bow in front.

  “You need black velvet shoes, you know,” Leah said. “And a pink beaded bag.”

  Meg sighed. “Who has time to run around looking for all those things? I’ve got four children. Oh, people say ‘relax, you’ve got a nurse,’ but they’re my children and I can’t just—” and aware of sounding plaintive, she stopped.

  “I can pick up the purse for you. I saw one last week,” Leah said promptly. “Shall I have it sent?”

  “Oh, please do. Now, am I finished?”

  “Except for a hat to go with the green suit. Come on back to the dressing room.”

  Clothes hung against the silver brocade walls of the little room and lay over the back of the silver brocade chairs.

  “I seem to have bought the place out,” Meg remarked to the air, Leah having disappeared.

  When she returned, she had in her hands a pile of velour hoods, the plain shapes out of which hats were cut and fitted.

  “I’ve brought you a model to try for style. We made this for a customer in bois de rose, but it would be stunning in moss green for your suit. Try it on.”

  Again, as Meg obeyed, the face looked back at her. Her eyes sank into dark hollows under the cloche brim, which came down to the level of her eyebrows. Her cheeks had grown thinner. With each baby they had grown thinner.

  “I don’t know that it’s so becoming,” she murmured. “One looks as though one had no forehead in these hats.”

  “You look lovely. You need to get used to it,” Leah replied positively. She stroked a green hood. “Feel the fabric; isn’t it exquisite? Silky as fur. French, of course.”

  Leah really loved all these clothes. So much enthusiasm! So much energy! You wondered where it all came from.

  “So, we’ll baste the hat and you can have a fitting next week. While you’re getting the velvet shoes, why don’t you get yourself a pair of bronze kid pumps? You know the kind with square buckles? They’d be marvelous with green. And amber beads, long ones, right to the skirt hem.”

  Meg removed the hat to reveal a short bob, saying only, “One goes to all the trouble of a permanent wave just to have a hat flatten it out.”

  “What can you do? C’est la vie!”

  Meg had to smile. Leah liked to dot her remarks with her newly acquired French.

  “Now I really am finished,” she said, pulling the velvet over her head and handing it to Leah. “Let me get dressed and get out of here.”

  Leah draped a pile of dresses over her arm. “You’re sure y
ou don’t want to think again about the charmeuse?”

  “No, I’m taking the velvet, that’s enough.”

  “You go to so many places. Theater and nightclubs. You can’t wear the same thing too often.” Leah hesitated. “Those people—the women you’re with—have tons of clothes.”

  Nightclubs. Speakeasies, you mean. Jazz. Blues. Harlem. Hard-eyed men and smooth; men of few words. Their subservient women, expensively decorated. Three o’clock in the morning. Sleeping in the car on the way home.

  I’m bored by it too, a lot of the time, Donal conceded. But it’s business. You have to put in an appearance. Be one of the guys.

  “I’m not those women,” Meg said now.

  Leah gave her a gentle look. “Meg, dear, I’m not putting any pressure on you.”

  “Goodness, I know that! I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s just that Donal phoned yesterday and gave me a list of what you were to buy. Three suits, two evening gowns, a wrap, a sport coat for the races, and—here, I wrote it all down. His idea, not mine.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know why I need all these clothes, when I’ll only be pregnant again in a couple of months.”

  Leah appeared to ignore this observation. Instead she called a saleswoman. “Lottie, will you have these wrapped and carried out to Mrs. Powers’s car? It’s a maroon car, just to the left of our door. Oh, and by the way, make sure the alterations on the Lemming order are finished before anyone goes home—she’s packing for Europe and must have the delivery before ten tomorrow. And tell Annette to duplicate this bois de rose for Mrs. Powers—here’s the green hood—not that one, this moss color. Thanks.”

  Meg got back into her clothes. “You know, I admire you so much, Leah. You’ve built up this place, you’ve made a name for yourself, doing what you like doing. It must be wonderful. I read that mention of you in Vogue, when you were at the Paris openings.”

  Leah shrugged, making light of her pleasure in the admiration. “I’ve always loved clothes, ever since I was a poor kid. True, I’ve worked hard, I still work hard, and I’ve been lucky. Ben’s money didn’t hurt at all, at least until I could get started on my own.”

  “Even so. This place …” and Meg waved her arm toward the salon in which, through the open door of the dressing room, beige carpet, silk-covered chairs, and a spray of burnt-orange lilies in a black porcelain vase were visible. “You’ve created all this without anything but public high school, while I went to private schools and college, where I got almost all A’s, too, and I don’t do a thing.”