A Shared Confidence (2 page)

The fact that Ethan Ryland was willing to consult a private detective recommended by a bartender told me he was pretty desperate, and now here we sat, me having just assured him I wouldn't call the cops if he walked out now and him trying to decide if he wanted to tell me more. I could see that the look of worn-out desperation on his face was one step away from becoming a dangerous kind of apathy. If the poor guy didn't get at least a few demons off his back, there was no telling what harm he might do to himself.

Ryland let out a small sigh, which I took for disappointment that I wasn't making the decision for him. He sat there and thought about it for a minute. What little conversation we'd had up to this point had been loaded with thoughtful pauses. Too many for my liking, but the guy was in bad shape and he had been a referral. I could squeeze out a bit more patience.

“Like a belt to help you mull it over?” Without waiting for an answer I got up and walked over to the bookcase, grabbing a bottle of rye and two glasses.

“Yes, yes I guess so. Thank you.” His answer had the ring of a last-second decision that could have gone either way, like he'd flipped a mental coin and hadn't really cared which way it came up. I guessed he'd been deciding a lot of things that way recently. Whether to eat, shower, change clothes, or even get out of bed in the morning. I poured us both a tot and sat back down behind my desk, raising my glass. A simple toast, a sense of social convention that might give this man something to focus on.

“Good health.”

He picked up his glass and raised it slightly to me in turn, then downed half of it without tasting it as I knew he would, which is why I hadn't broken out the good stuff.

I took the barest sip from my own glass to be sociable before setting it down. That birthday date with the bottle of scotch was just going to be a little hand holding; I wasn't planning to go all the way. These days I was taking it pretty easy with the hooch. Not that I was looking down my nose at Ryland for being on a bender; I knew how he felt. Toward the end of last year I hit a rough patch, and for awhile I was hitting the bottle like I caught it with my sister. It can happen to anyone.

Just the same, though, empathy and patience aren't exactly the same coinage, and I could see this stretching out to be a long damn morning if I didn't nudge the ball forward again.

“Mr. Ryland,” I began, “I can't say right now what I will or won't do. There's no way I can until I know more, but I really think you'd be better off talking to somebody. Would you prefer to talk to a lawyer? I can recommend a few good ones.”

He looked down at his half-empty glass and shook his head slowly.

“Maybe later,” he said quietly. “If there is a later.”

“That still leaves us with now.”

He brought the tumbler to his lips and knocked back the rest of the rye in one gulp. His eyes watered for as second, and when he looked back up at me, they were already starting to glaze with the sheen of alcohol. He was ready to start talking.

Until recently, Ethan Ryland had been a successful business man from Lincoln, Nebraska. He started out working in his father's hardware store after school, and inherited the store at the age of twenty when the old man passed away unexpectedly. Ryland had no great ambitions at that point, nothing beyond a general notion that he would keep the store and make a decent enough living with it following what his father had taught him: Buy quality merchandise, charge a fair price for it, and be upfront and honest in your dealings with customers. A steady, reliable income, nothing more. And then came the pipe fittings.

A new hotel was going up nearby. One of the construction foremen came into Ryland's hardware store to ask about pipe fittings, grousing about how a supplier had left him in the lurch. Trying to help the man out, Ryland got busy on the telephone and that very afternoon netted the largest order in the store's history. A bulk of pipe fittings would arrive by rail the next day, enough to keep the construction crew going until the rest of the order showed up the following week. Ryland made something more than a tidy profit that day, he made a customer. The construction crew did a lot of work in that area, and they knew now where to go.

Word got around, and soon Ryland was splitting his time between running his hardware store and serving as a wholesale supplier of pipe fittings in the region. He discovered he had a knack for scouting out new material and making deals. He had a good sense for when to wait and when to push, whatever it took to keep the supplies and the money flowing. He bought out a few other hardware stores in the area, then even more in other cities and finally other states. Oh, it hadn't been easy, Ryland assured me. There were long hours spent scouting out dependable suppliers and drumming up new customers. He'd had to learn a lot about the merchandise he handled, about the trade, about the seasonal impacts of buying and selling in large volumes. He'd had to get hard-nosed enough to drop suppliers who couldn't deliver, to hound slow-paying customers who were dragging their feet. Most importantly, he learned how to take risks, how to separate golden opportunities from paths to disaster. The secret, he explained, was recognizing luck when it came your way and knowing what to do with it. By the age of thirty, Ethan Ryland was worth nearly a quarter of a million dollars.

Ryland's eyes came alive while he told me his story. He even smiled a few times. He needed this, I could tell, a chance to take his mind back to before…to before what exactly? I topped off his glass and told him to continue.

Another five years at the grindstone and Ryland decided he owed himself a real vacation. He booked a steamship passage to South America where he spent a few weeks soaking up the exotic ports and sunshine, sampling the local cuisine, and generally enjoying the usual pursuits of a healthy young male, footloose and fancy free in a strange land. He sailed back through the Florida Keys, stayed there a few days, then boarded another ship for a cruise up the coastline to New York City. A week of fine dining and Broadway, and then it would be back to Lincoln, refreshed and reinvigorated, and ready to continue building his empire.

It was on the ship to New York where Ryland met Jimmy Canfield in the ship's forward cocktail lounge. They fell into easy chat, just a couple of friendly strangers heading in the same direction. James Canfield was originally from Texas, but had traveled extensively and picked up a wealth of interesting knowledge from all over. He could hold discourse on practically any subject yet not come across as a know-it-all. He showed genuine interest when Ryland attempted to share his comparatively more modest experiences.

When the chat became comfortable enough, Jimmy confided that he was from a rather wealthy family but that he was determined not to touch his inheritance just yet. He wanted to make his own way in the world, prove to himself that he could make it on hard work the way Ryland had. Flattered, Ryland had to admit he was impressed by this young fellow anxious to show he was as good as any working man. He wondered how many young men would want to work that hard when they had it all waiting for them. Jimmy was impressed by what Ryland had accomplished with nothing but a simple hardware store and some sweat and guts. The two men were mighty impressed with one another, which happens sometimes when two like-minded souls spend hours together soaking up booze.

Fast friends by now, the two discovered they were booked into the same hotel in New York and made arrangements to meet for breakfast their first full day there, take in the sights together. Jimmy had been to New York a couple of times and was only too happy to show Ryland around.

“It was at breakfast, at the hotel,” Ryland told me. “That's where Jimmy first saw him.”

“Saw who?”

“Clay Stanton,” he answered after a moment. “Jimmy recognized him right away. He got real excited.”

I felt a tiny flutter in my stomach as I broke in with a question.

“Where is this Jimmy Canfield now?”

Ryland looked up at me, eyes hollow, no longer remembering past successes or high times in exotic ports. His voice was as empty as his eyes.

“Jimmy's dead, Mr. Caine. He's dead and I'm an accessory to his murder.”

W
e stared at each other
over the desk for a minute. I reached for my cigarette case and offered him one. He told me he didn't smoke and that he didn't mind if I did. Still holding his gaze, I picked up the desk lighter and touched the flame to the end of my cigarette, then sat back and exhaled a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.

“Well,” I said matter-of-factly, “now you have to tell me more.”

“Are you going to the police?”

“I can't say yet.” I picked a flake of tobacco off my tongue. “I am if you leave now. I definitely am.” I wasn't sure how true that was, I was just trying to get this guy to spill.

I waited a few seconds until it became clear that Ryland wasn't going to bolt from my office.

“How was Jimmy killed?” I asked.

“Shot with a pistol.”

“Who shot him?”

No answer. I leaned forward and poured him another splash of rye. “So the two of you are having breakfast and Jimmy sees someone he knows named Clay Stanton. Keep going.”

Ryland picked up the glass, took a drink, and started talking.

Ryland looked
up from his plate of eggs and saw Jimmy Canfield staring out the window, an excited look on his face. Following his gaze, Ryland saw a long black limousine pulled up at the curb outside, a liveried chauffeur holding the door as the stately, somber-looking man who'd just stepped out the back gave instructions. Jimmy recognized the man as Clay Stanton, a big shot on Wall Street. A financial genius who'd not only come through the Crash of 'Twenty-Nine relatively unscathed, but who'd made packets of money for Jimmy's own father in years past. Jimmy was hesitant about approaching Stanton, not having seen the man since Jimmy was in his teens, but when Stanton came inside the hotel lobby and entered the gift shop, Ryland coaxed him to try.

Jimmy, Ryland in tow, carefully approached the distinguished-looking, middle-aged gentleman with the neat gray mustache who was busy scanning the copy of
The Wall Street Journal
he'd just purchased. Everything about the man said money, from the black bowler set squarely on his head to the fine topcoat with the white cashmere scarf draped elegantly over the shoulders. Jimmy was right, Stanton didn't recognize him, but when Jimmy told Stanton who he was, mentioned his father, a light went on in the older man's eyes.

“Of course,” he said. “William Canfield's boy! And look at you, all grown up! How have you been keeping, my boy? What's brought you to New York?”

Jimmy explained that he was doing some traveling, trying to learn a bit of the world and make himself worthy of the family name. He looked shyly downward, embarrassed under Mr. Stanton's admiring gaze.

“I had a feeling about you, Jimmy,” Stanton said. “Even as a young man, I saw it in your eyes. I told your father more than once: ‘There's one you won't have to worry about becoming a burden. That boy of yours has a fire inside him.'”

Jimmy introduced his newfound friend, Mr. Ethan Ryland of Nebraska. Quite the name in his own circle, truth be told, and suddenly it was Ryland's turn to dip his head modestly as Stanton peeled off a glove of soft pigskin to shake his hand, saying that he was pleased to know any friend of Jimmy's. Stanton then apologized and explained that he had some rather urgent business to attend to, but that he would be in town for a couple of days and that if Jimmy was not otherwise engaged, they must meet for dinner that evening. And Mr. Ryland as well if he happened to be free.

Just before Stanton turned to leave, Jimmy asked half-jokingly if the older man had any good stock tips. Stanton turned back to Jimmy and looked at him seriously for a moment, then with a twinkle in his eye asked if Jimmy had fifty dollars on him. Jimmy had his wallet out in a flash. The older man took the fifty-dollar bill and said, “Just wait until you see what I bring you back tonight.”

That night over a sumptuous dinner at a perfectly elegant restaurant, Stanton discreetly handed Jimmy an envelope containing the one hundred and fifty dollars of his tripled investment.

“In one day?” Jimmy asked, incredulous.

“In a few hours,” Stanton corrected. “When things move in this business, my boy, they move quickly.”

Now Ryland was really feeling jealous. He'd expected the fifty might net sixty, maybe seventy-five. But triple? “I need a friend like your Mr. Stanton,” he told Jimmy.

“But you have one, sir,” Stanton replied, quite sincere. “I don't know why I didn't extend the offer to you as well, except that my mind was on other matters at the time. Allow me to make it up to you tomorrow.”

At the end of the meal, Ryland and Jimmy each handed over one hundred dollars cash to Mr. Stanton. The next afternoon, when they all met for an aperitif at the hotel bar, Stanton handed them each back an envelope containing four hundred fifty dollars. Ryland couldn't believe it. His first thought was that he should have given Stanton two hundred dollars. Why not four hundred? He'd be sitting here now with sixteen hundred dollars in his hands.

Jimmy and Ryland raised their glasses and toasted Mr. Clay Stanton, one of the true Wizards of Wall Street.

“Not a bit of it,” Stanton assured them. “It was the least I could do for Bill Canfield's son and his friend.”

The talk turned to future plans. Ryland was heading back to Lincoln at the end of the week. Jimmy hadn't quite decided yet. Stanton looked at Jimmy for awhile, seemed to be making up his mind about something.

“Why not come with me to Baltimore tomorrow?” he asked. “If you've nothing more pressing at the moment, you could be a great help to me.” Stanton went on to explain his situation, confessing that he'd come under rather intense scrutiny in recent months from federal regulators. Initiated by nothing more than jealousy on the part of his competitors, Stanton was certain, but it had created an infernal nuisance for him all the same. Yes, he'd made fortunes, for himself and others alike. He was good at what he did – spying legitimate business opportunities before others could see them and seizing those opportunities boldly and without hesitation, often taking great personal risks with his own money. And he'd prospered. And his reward? Newspaper articles that were just short of libelous, basically accusing him of illicit manipulation of stock. Busybody government agencies hounding his every move, eager to show the public they were keeping a weather eye on these Wall Street sharps who had single-handedly caused the Depression.

“Can you imagine, Mr. Ryland, working hard your entire life and then being penalized simply for being good at what you do? How would you feel, sir, if one day an agent from the U.S. Government came into one of your stores and said to you, ‘I'm sorry, Mr. Ryland, but you've simply worked too hard and made too much money. We must ask you to step aside for awhile so that those who haven't had their chance can make money.' Wouldn't that gall you, Mr. Ryland? To your very core?”

“It's Anarchy is what it is!” spat Ryland. “No, it's worse; it's Socialism! Where were all those deserving souls when I was breaking my back to build my store up? What stopped them from doing the same?”

“My point exactly, sir!”

On his first real vacation since coming into his own, Ryland had encountered not one but two kindred spirits, men who thought like he did, men who weren't afraid to work hard and take chances. He listened attentively as Stanton went on to explain that he found it necessary these days to work largely through intermediaries. Even before the government scrutiny had begun, Stanton needed to be very careful when making investments. Purchase by proxy, that was the ticket. He had a reputation, you see, and if enough competitors learned of his buying up a certain stock, they'd jump right into his boat, water-logging it until the value of a carefully put-together transaction plummeted under the weight of so many free riders. No, the only answer was to work through others, men of character who could be trusted. Men like Jimmy Canfield.

“How about it, my boy?” Stanton asked. “Come with me to Baltimore for a few weeks. Help my buy and sell a few stocks, make an honest profit for some deserving investors. Keep the fire alive in the face of petty bureaucrats and the vultures of the press and scheming freebooters.” Of course, it went without saying that Stanton didn't expect such assistance for nothing – Jimmy could expect to make a tidy little packet for himself.

Jimmy sat back with his drink, smiling, clearly tempted. However…well, he had promised his friend Mr. Ryland to show him the sights of New York before his return to the Midwest. Ryland had been about to tell the honorable young man that he was nuts to pass up such an opportunity when Stanton cut in:

“Mr. Ryland would be welcome as well. More than welcome. Two reliable men of character? Yes, I think that would do nicely. What say you, Mr. Ryland? Are you up to the challenge of handling large investments for important people, and turning yourself a handsome profit in the meantime?”

Ryland grew
quiet in his chair. He'd been talking quickly and animatedly for several minutes now. He obviously hadn't talked to anyone in awhile and he needed to badly. He'd also been throwing in a lot of detail. Partly, I imagined, because he wanted to make sure he left out nothing important, and partly because he was still trying to understand how things could have gone so wrong.

I was aware, more than most perhaps, that I'd been unconsciously adding details to the story, both to help me picture these happenings and to keep myself from becoming too bored during a lengthy monologue. I took advantage of the lull to sort out what the client had actually said from any of my own embellishments, then topped off Ryland's glass and leisurely rolled a smoke.

“So you went to Baltimore with the two of them?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“How did that go?” I had a pretty good idea how it went, but Ryland was telling the story.

The next
day, Ryland and Jimmy boarded the train together (Stanton's driver had taken him on ahead). Ryland had already called his manager at his main store in Lincoln, explaining that he was extending his vacation for a couple more weeks but that he'd be checking in by telephone daily. The two men decided to share a hotel suite in Baltimore to save expenses, as being frugal now would only add to the money they were going to make.

Stanton joined them for dinner at their hotel that evening, outlining his plan for the next two weeks and explaining their roles, and the next morning, he led them to a brokerage office downtown. Ryland had never been in one before. A line of men in suits stood at the caged windows, buying and selling various quantities of stock as efficient clerks in sleeve garters took down their orders and wrote out receipts. The shelves behind the cage were filled with neat piles of money, and the clerks deftly cut the bands from thick stacks of bills before counting out the payments – some quite large – for the cash transactions. Most of the customers left as soon as they'd finished their business, but a few joined the idlers in chairs along one wall, reading magazines and glancing up at the board where still other clerks with chalk-stained fingers were constantly updating the share values of dozens of stocks. The place was bustling but orderly, chaotic but efficient, an electric undercurrent of excitement belying the calm, almost placid faces of the men sneaking peeks at the board. The brokerage office must have struck Ryland like a more discreet version of a casino, which, when you get right down to it, is exactly what such places are.

Stanton walked up to the caged window, was casually but politely recognized, and asked to speak to the manager. A tall, thin, sere-looking fellow with thinning hair and steel-rimmed spectacles came out from behind the cage, all business. Stanton introduced Mr. Ethan Ryland and Mr. James Canfield, longtime associates of his who were looking to invest. They had asked Stanton to recommend a reliable brokerage firm and Stanton had naturally brought them here. The manager acknowledged the compliment with a slight nod before extending a firm, dry hand, assuring the newcomers that, as longtime associates of Mr. Stanton, every courtesy would be afforded to them.

That afternoon, Ryland and Jimmy returned to the brokerage office without Stanton. They took seats and watched the board together until Transco Amalgamated fell to two and three-quarters. They went to the caged window and bought three hundred shares each with money Stanton had given them. They returned to their seats, waited nearly an hour until that same stock climbed to five and one-quarter, then went back to the window and sold their shares, reinvesting the proceeds into shares of Hammerschmidt Resins which would keep till the next day.

That first day, both men made over five hundred dollars' personal profit. And both men reinvested it along with the money of Stanton's unnamed clients.

And so it went for the rest of that week and into the next. Acting on precise instructions from Clay Stanton, Ryland and Jimmy showed up at the brokerage office, bought what and when they were told to, sold what and when they were told to. Sometimes it was cash, other times by check, other times by simply reinvesting share receipts. Stanton frequently dined with them in the evenings, and Ryland soaked up all he could of Stanton's vast knowledge of the markets. He learned about simple things like buying on margin and selling short, tried to grasp Stanton's more nuanced lectures on how to read market fluctuations and determine their underlying causes.

In just over a week's time, Ryland had made almost twenty thousand dollars – nearly all of it immediately put back into play for the next deal. Stanton was always careful to let them know exactly how much of their own money they could add, either to round out a transaction or throw in on top of one. He was supervising dozens of other intermediaries handling hundreds of similar transactions in several states. Ryland and Jimmy were only one small part – a vitally important part, mind you – of a much larger mechanism. Each piece of that mechanism had to work perfectly and in concert to support a far grander strategy that, for reasons of security, Stanton could not share in detail. The two men understood. At least Ryland thought they both did until Jimmy padded his buy a little one day. This earned him a stern rebuke from Stanton, along an ungentle reminder that his instructions must be followed to the letter. Ryland was only mildly surprised by this point; he was beginning to figure out that under the veneer of unassuming worldliness and earnest ambition, Jimmy was actually a bit of a screw-up.