Sins of the Fathers (11 page)

‘Neil, I doubt if I could get more than half our syndicate to undercut those figures, and if we took up the slack ourselves
it would wipe out our profit.’

‘I think Whitmore’s double-crossing you,’ said Cornelius, ‘but not by choice. He doesn’t have the guts. I think you scared
him so shitless that he’s run to his boss and confessed, and now Bonner’s giving him orders. I know I got that firm out of
trouble with the SEC the other day because I thought it might be useful to have them in our hip pocket instead of perpetually
snarling at our heels, and I know Bonner acts as if he wants to be friendly and grab a piece of the next PPH syndicate, but
maybe Bonner still hasn’t forgiven us for screwing Christopherson over the Pan-Pacific Harvester merger back in ’43; maybe
in spite of PPH he just can’t resist this golden chance to screw us back.’

‘That’s possible.’

We thought about it. I was aware of Scott standing quietly by the door.

‘Bonner knows that if we undercut that kind of bid we’d be cutting off our nose to spite our face,’ said Cornelius. ‘He wants
to make us look fools. Let’s hold fast to what we’ve got, and I’ll bet you we’ll still win the damned bid hands down.’

‘Right.’ I turned to Scott. ‘Give the go-ahead to the boys in Number Seven and tell them to wrap up the paperwork right away.’

‘Yes, Sam,’ said Scott.

[6]

The call from the president of Hammaco came through at three minutes after six. I was drinking black coffee and lighting another
cigarette.

‘Sam!’

‘Hi Fred – how was the bid?’

‘Well Sam, it was a real close call and I just hate to have to tell you, but—’

The expression on my face must have altered although I was unaware of moving a muscle. I looked across the desk at Scott,
and as I saw him realize what had happened I thought with a clarity which shocked me: he’s glad. The knowledge, expressed
in words yet somehow beyond verbal expression, radiated powerful emotions which I neither stopped to analyse nor attempted
to control.

I did not speak. After replacing the receiver I stood up, walked to the window and stared silently down into the patio.

At last I heard Scott say: ‘I’m sorry, Sam. I guess I must feel almost as badly as you do. We all worked so hard.’

I turned slowly to face him. ‘Maybe our rivals had a line into our camp,’ said my voice, ‘just as we had a line into theirs.
And maybe Whitmore was playing a double game and relaying information in both directions.’

Scott looked blank. ‘I guess that’s possible but it seems unlikely. Would our rivals use those kind of tactics? And who on
our side would have given Whitmore his information?’

I knew at once he was innocent. A guilty man would have made a much neater comment to terminate my suspicions, but perversely
the very knowledge that my doubts about him remained impossible to justify only pushed me further towards losing my self-control.
Before I could stop myself I said bluntly: ‘Did you talk to Whitmore today?’

Comprehension burst upon him. His habitual pallor vanished as the colour flooded his face. ‘If you mean what I think you mean
by that question, Sam,’ he said, somehow keeping his voice level, ‘I must ask you not only to withdraw the question but to
apologize. Otherwise I shall go to Cornelius and tell him I can no longer work with you.’

For the first time in my life I saw his father in him. It was as if the curtain had gone up on a performance which long ago
I had seen time after time: Steve under pressure, Steve turning the tables, Steve knifing his way out of trouble with a couple
of terse sentences which had sent Cornelius and me backing into the nearest corner. I had forgotten until that moment how
frightened we had been of Steve Sullivan. I had forgotten the relief which had mingled with the guilt when I had heard of
his death. I had taken such care to forget because those memories were better suppressed, but now they were all coming back
to me; now I could remember them far, far too well.

I took off my glasses and began to polish them with my handkerchief. Amidst my shock – and I was profoundly shocked – I was
furious with myself for making the foolish accusation which had laid me wide open to such a successful counter-attack. I didn’t
see how I could conclude the interview without a loss of face.

At last I managed to say: ‘I’m sorry – I’m not myself. Losing that bid was a big disappointment to me.’ Cornelius would be
furious if he heard I had lashed out at an innocent Scott. He would think me neurotic. Whatever happened I had to smooth over
the incident. ‘Of
course I withdraw the question,’ I said rapidly, ‘and of course I apologize. Thank you for all your hard work on the bid.
I appreciate your loyalty and support.’

He did not move but I sensed him relax. ‘Thank you, Sam. That’s okay. I realize you were very upset.’

‘And now if you’ll excuse me—’

‘Sure.’

He left the room. I made a great effort to pull myself together quickly but it took me a full minute before I could face picking
up the red phone.

‘Yes?’ said Cornelius.

‘We lost.’

‘Come right down.’

I found him drinking Coca-Cola out of a cut-glass tumbler, but when I entered the room he moved at once to the concealed bar.

‘Want some?’ he said, producing a bottle of brandy.

‘That’s a humane and generous gesture in the circumstances. But I don’t want to drink alone.’

Cornelius produced two glasses the size of thimbles and carefully poured a couple of drops of brandy into each.

‘Well?’ he said after I had swallowed my drink in a single gulp.

‘I’m sorry, Neil. What else can I say? Of course I accept full responsibility.’

‘No, the responsibility’s mine. I was the one who said we should ignore Whitmore. We should have adjusted the bid – not as
much as Whitmore and Bonner hoped we would, perhaps, but some adjustment should still have been made … Well, so much for post-mortems.
Everything’s going wrong at the moment, isn’t it? First Vicky, now Hammaco. I wonder what the next disaster will be. They
say trouble always runs in threes … Sam, you’re looking terrible. You know how much I disapprove of drinking at the office,
but I think you’d better have some more brandy.’

Cornelius was being so nice to me that I began to feel nervous.

‘No, I won’t drink any more,’ I said. ‘I’m okay. Neil, once again I can’t apologize sufficiently for not arriving at a winning
formula—’

‘Oh, forget the apologies, Sam, and tell me what’s really bothering you! I’m worried. You’re drinking and smoking too much
– incidentally please do me a favour and put out that goddamned cigarette – and now you look as if you’re about to fall apart.
What’s your problem? It’s not just Hammaco, is it? Is it this girl you’re so crazy about? Is she at the bottom of it all?’

‘Hell, no! She’s the one bright light on the horizon!’

‘Then what is it? There
is
something else, isn’t there?’

‘Well …’

‘Come on, Sam, remember the old days. When one of us made a mistake or got into trouble the other came to the rescue; we had
to operate that way in order to ensure we both survived here. Now you’ve obviously got problems and if you fall apart there’ll
be a big mess so you’ve damn well got to talk to me. It’s your moral duty as a Van Zale partner.’

I knew better than to argue with Cornelius once he started talking about moral duty. This was obviously the moment when I
should tell him I wanted to go to Germany to work for the ECA, but although Cornelius seemed to be in an exceptionally sympathetic
mood I couldn’t help thinking the moment was hopelessly wrong. To reject his daughter, lose the Hammaco bid and then ask for
a prolonged leave of absence would surely be begging for trouble … or would it? On reflection it occurred to me that perhaps
the reverse was true and now was the perfect time to ease myself away from the wreck of the battlefield. I decided to take
the chance and confide in him.

‘Well, Neil, I’ve been feeling kind of screwed up about everything lately. When I was in Germany—’

‘Oh Christ,’ said Cornelius. He returned to the liquor cabinet, took out two large glasses and poured us both double brandies.
‘I wish to God you’d stay away from Europe,’ he said. ‘You know how it always upsets you. I can’t think why you had to go
back to Germany last month. If I didn’t know you so well I’d say you had masochistic tendencies.’

I had a moment of acute loneliness. I realized then how isolated I was, unable to communicate my most private feelings to
those around me. I wanted to talk about Germany, to unburden myself of the memories of my recent visit – even to confess every
detail of the ordeal of growing up German-American during and after the First World War but no one wanted to listen. Cornelius
became exasperated every time I mentioned the word Germany; Jake had long since turned his back on me; Kevin was a stranger.
Even Teresa, the one person I most wanted to confide in, had inexplicably distanced herself from me by retreating behind her
work.

I groped for the words which would communicate my feelings without alienating him further. ‘Germany means something very special
to me, Neil,’ I said with difficulty at last, ‘just as America means something very special to you. Do you remember how upset
you got in the Depression when you found out people were living in caves in
Central Park? Well, people are living in air-raid bunkers in Germany. The port of Hamburg’s closed and thirty thousand men
are unemployed. And all through the Ruhr—’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Cornelius. ‘It’s terrible, of course it’s terrible, but we’ll fix all that. The Americans will patch
up Europe as usual and maybe we’ll have a few years of peace and quiet before the Third World War—’

I saw my opportunity and grasped it. ‘That’s exactly the point I want to make, Neil. The Americans are going to rebuild Europe,
and I want to be a part of that. In fact I’ve got to be a part of it – it’s my moral duty, if I may use your own favourite
phrase against you—’

‘Trash,’ said Cornelius, who was much shrewder than his fondness for ingenuous moral platitudes would suggest. ‘It’s not your
moral duty. It’s your guilt.’

‘Okay, it’s my guilt! That doesn’t make my desire to take a leave of absence from Van Zale’s in order to work for the ECA
any the less real! Don’t you see, Neil? Can’t you understand? This is a very special opportunity for me to work in a just,
meaningful cause, and if I let it pass me by—’

‘Christ, you’re talking like some idealistic kid of eighteen!’

‘I wasn’t allowed to be an idealistic kid of eighteen,’ I said. ‘Maybe it would have been better if I had been. Maybe it would
have been better if I’d never met Paul, never come to work here, never got involved in a life where I spend my time blackmailing
and cheating and lying – no, don’t interrupt me! You asked me to tell you what was bothering me, so let me have my say! This
Hammaco bid simply underlines everything that’s wrong with my life, Neil. Twisting Whitmore’s arm, trying to screw our rivals,
being counter-screwed by them in return – and all for what? So that Van Zale’s can bank another million bucks! So that Hammaco
can go into the armaments business and step up the Cold War! Can’t you see how wrong it all is? Can’t you see it’s empty?
And what the hell does it all mean anyway? Don’t you ever ask yourself those sort of questions? And don’t you ever have those
kind of doubts?’

‘Never,’ said Cornelius. ‘I enjoy my work, I enjoy my position in life, and I’m entirely happy with no regrets, no misgivings
and no morbid introspection of any kind.’

‘Oh yeah?’ I said, drinking my brandy too fast. ‘Then let me ask you a couple of questions. Do you never think of Steven Sullivan?
And do you never remember Dinah Slade?’

[7]

I hadn’t intended to ask those questions. Nowdays Cornelius and I seldom mentioned our old enemy Steve Sullivan, and we never
under any circumstances referred to Dinah Slade.

It was now over twenty years since Cornelius had first clashed with Steve. Although barely out of our teens we had by our
hard work at the bank since Paul’s death acquired a certain confidence, and Cornelius had begun to feel he could no longer
tolerate his most powerful partner’s indulgent, patronizing contempt. However when he first suggested that we might try ‘persuading’
(his word) Steve to abandon the New York office in order to run the London branch of Van Zale’s, I thought he had gone mad.

‘How could we ever force him to do that?’ I was scared as well as horrified. The idea of us kicking Steve out of One Willow
Street conjured up a vision of two kittens trying to deprive a lion of his dinner by hauling him away by the tail.

‘Don’t be dumb, Sam,’ said Cornelius, always astonished by the naïvety which even after two and a half years at the bank I
still occasionally displayed. ‘Have you really forgotten what happened when Paul died?’

To protect the bank after Paul’s murder in 1926, Steve had been driven to conceal the true facts of the crime from the police
and pursue his own private, ultimately successful vendetta against the murderers. Cornelius now proposed the time had come
for us to use this technical obstruction of justice as a lever to oust Steve from Willow and Wall.

‘But that’s blackmail!’ I said appalled.

‘No, no, no,’ said Cornelius soothingly. ‘There’s no extortion of money involved. I’m just going to point out a few facts,
apply a little logical persuasion. What’s wrong with that? Salesmen do it all the time.’

I wasn’t present at Cornelius’ interview with Steve. I just sat in my office and waited dry-mouthed. I didn’t think he could
possibly succeed in twisting Steve’s arm, but I admired him very much for having the guts to try.

Eventually he rejoined me. He looked a little white around the mouth but his smile was radiant.

‘You did it?’ I gasped.

‘Sure.’ Cornelius tried to sound nonchalant and failed. We laughed, and after I had shaken his hand with enthusiasm we hurried
home for a celebration drink. I remember thinking as we yodelled ‘Yippee!’
exuberantly in the hall that Cornelius was the most remarkable person I had ever met and that I was very lucky to have him
for a friend. I knew it was in my best interests to like him, since my future success as a banker lay in his hands, but I
could never have worked for any man I despised. Nowadays, when Cornelius has such a reputation as a despot, many people find
it hard to believe how generous he was to me when we were young, sharing his home and his wealth readily with me, never taking
advantage of our disparate financial and social positions, as willing to stand by me as I was to stand by him during our early
struggles to survive at the bank. He was loyal and straightforward with me always, irreproachably honest, untiringly considerate
and good-natured. He was also – and nowadays plenty of people might find this hard to believe too – great fun. We had a lot
of laughs together in the old days, particularly during that golden summer of 1929 after we had ousted Steve Sullivan from
New York, and I’ll never forget my twenty-first birthday when we threw a huge party, drank illegal champagne and danced with
our favourite girls to the music of ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’.