‘It’s all over bar the shouting,’ he whispered, but that was before they’d heard Thaddeus Cohen.
The young unknown took everyone by surprise. He had a pleasant, diffident manner and a sympathetic style. His references and quotations were catholic, pointed and illuminating. Without patronizing the audience, he conveyed a moral earnestness that made a failure to support those less fortunate than oneself seem to be irrational. He was willing to admit the excesses of the Left and the inadequacy of some of its leaders, but he didn’t leave the audience in any doubt that, in spite of its dangers, there was no alternative to socialism if the lot of mankind was ever to be improved. ‘Equality in the end is more important than equity.’ He sat down to loud applause from both sides.
William was flustered. A surgically logical attack on his adversaries would be useless against Cohen’s gentle and persuasive presentation. But to outdo him as a spokesman of hope and faith in the human spirit might also be impossible. He concentrated first on refuting some of Crosby’s more outrageous claims, then attempted to counter Cohen’s arguments with a declaration of his faith in the ability of the American system to produce the best results through competition, both intellectual and economic. He felt he had played a good defensive game, but no more, and sat down feeling that he had been well beaten by Cohen.
Crosby was their opponents’ rebuttal speaker. He began ferociously, sounding as if he now needed to beat Cohen even more than William or Matthew, demanding if anyone present could identify the enemy of the people among us tonight. He glared around the room for several long seconds as the audience squirmed in embarrassed silence, and even his most ardent supporters studied their shoes. Then he learned forward and roared:
‘He stands before you. He has just spoken in your midst. His name is William Lowell Kane.’ Gesturing with one hand towards William - but without looking at him - he thundered: ‘His bank owns mines in which the workers die to give its owners an extra million a year in dividends. His bank supports the bloody, corrupt dictatorships of Latin America. Through his bank, the American Congress is bribed into crushing the small farmer. His bank …’
The tirade went on for several minutes. William sat in stony silence, occasionally jotting down a comment on his yellow legal pad. A few members of the audience had begun shouting, ‘No!’ Crosby’s supporters shouted ‘Yes!’ loyally back. The society officials began to look nervous.
Crosby’s allotted time was almost up. He finally raised his fist and said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I suggest that not more than two hundred yards from this very room we have the answer to the plight of America. There stands the Widener Library, the greatest private library in the world. Poor and immigrant scholars pass through its doors, along with the best-educated Americans, to increase their knowledge of the world. But why does it exist? Because one rich playboy had the misfortune to set sail sixteen years ago on a pleasure boat called the Titanic. I suggest, ladies and gentlemen, that not until the people of America hand each and every member of the ruling class a ticket for his own private cabin on the Titanic of capitalism, will the hoarded wealth of this great continent be freed, and devoted to the service of liberty, equality and progress.’
As Matthew listened to Crosby’s speech, his sentiments changed from exultation that with this blunder the victory had been handed to his side, to rage at the reference to the Titanic. He had no idea how William would respond to such provocation.
When a measure of silence had been restored, the debating captain walked to the lectern and said, ‘Mr William Lowell Kane.’
William walked slowly to the lectern and looked out over the audience. An expectant hush filled the room.
‘It is my opinion that the views expressed by Mr Crosby do not merit a response.’
He sat down. There was a moment of surprised silence - followed by thunderous applause.
The captain returned to the lectern, but appeared uncertain what to do next. A voice from behind him broke the tension.
‘If I may, Mr Chairman, I would like to ask Mr Kane if I might use his rebuttal time.’ It was Thaddeus Cohen.
William nodded his agreement.
Cohen walked to the lectern and blinked at the audience disarmingly. ‘It has long been true,’ he began, ‘that the greatest obstacle to the success of democratic socialism in the United States has been the extremism of some of its exponents. Nothing could have better exemplified this unfortunate fact more clearly than my colleague’s rebuttal speech tonight. The propensity to damage the progressive cause by calling for the physical extermination of those who oppose it might be understandable in a battle-hardened immigrant, a veteran of foreign struggles fiercer than our own. In America it is inexcusable. Speaking for myself, I extend my sincere apologies to Mr Kane.’
This time the applause was instantaneous. Virtually the entire audience rose to its feet and cheered.
It was no surprise to either William or Matthew that they won the debate by a margin of more than 150 votes. As the audience filed out of the hall, talking animatedly at the tops of their voices, William walked across to shake hands with Thaddeus Cohen.
‘How did you know my father was on the Titanic?’ he asked.
‘Because my father told me years ago.’
‘Of course,’ said William. ‘You must be Thomas Cohen’s son. Why don’t you join us for a drink?’
‘Thank you,’ said Cohen. The three of them set off together across Massachusetts Avenue, barely able to see where they were going in the driving snow. They came to a halt outside a big black door almost directly opposite Boylston Hall. William opened it with his key, and the three entered the vestibule.
Before the door was closed behind him, Cohen spoke. ‘I’m afraid I won’t be welcome here.’
William looked startled for a moment. ‘Nonsense. You’re with me.’
Matthew gave his friend a cautionary glance, but saw that William was determined.
They went up the stairs and into a large room, comfortably but not luxuriously furnished, in which there were about a dozen young men sitting in armchairs or standing in knots of two or three. As soon as William appeared in the doorway, the congratulations began.
‘You were magnificent, William. That’s exactly the way to treat that sort of people.’
‘Enter in triumph, the Bolski slayer.’
Cohen hung back, but William had not forgotten him.
‘Gentlemen, may I present my worthy adversary, Mr Thaddeus Cohen.’
Cohen stepped forward hesitantly.
All conversation ceased. A number of heads were averted, as if they were looking at the elm trees in the Yard, their branches weighed down with snow.
There was the creak of a floorboard as one young man left the room by the far door. Moments later there was another departure. Without haste, without a word being spoken, every other member filed out. The last to leave gave William a long look, then turned on his heel and disappeared through the door.
Matthew gazed at his companions in dismay. Thaddeus Cohen had turned a dull red, and stood with his head bowed. William’s lips were drawn together in the same tight, cold fury that had been apparent when Crosby had made his reference to the Titanic.
Matthew touched his arm. ‘We’d better leave.’
The three trudged off to William’s rooms and silently drank some indifferent brandy, and exchanged stories that no one listened to.
When William woke in the morning, an envelope had been pushed under his door. He tore it open to find a short note from the chairman of the Porcellian Club, informing him that he hoped ‘there will not be a recurrence of last night’s unfortunate incident’.
By lunchtime the chairman had received two letters of resignation.
After several studious months, William and Matthew were almost ready - no one ever thinks they are entirely ready - for their final examinations. For six days they answered questions and filled pages and pages of the little blue examination books, and once they had written their last line they waited patiently, but not in vain.
A week after the exams it was announced that William had won the President’s Mathematics Prize. Matthew had managed a ‘gentleman’s C, which came as a relief to him, and as no great surprise to anyone. Neither had any interest in prolonging their education, both wishing to join the ‘real’ world as quickly as possible.
William’s bank account in New York edged over the million-dollar mark eight days before he left Harvard. For the first time he discussed with Matthew his long-term plan to gain control of Lester’s Bank by merging it with Kane and Cabot. Matthew was enthusiastic about the idea, and confessed, ‘That’s about the only way I’ll ever improve on what my old man has achieved in his lifetime.’
In June 1928, Alan Lloyd, now in his sixtieth year, travelled to Harvard for graduation day. How William wished his father was alive to witness the presentation ceremony.
Afterwards, he took Alan for tea on the square. The banker looked at the tall young man with affection.
‘And what do you intend to do now that you’ve put Harvard behind you?’
‘I’m going to join Charles Lester’s bank in New York. I want to gain some more experience before I come to Kane and Cabot in a few years’ time.’
‘But you’ve been practically living in Lester’s Bank since you were twelve years old, William. Why don’t you come straight to us? We would make you a director immediately.’
No reply was forthcoming.
‘Well, I must say, William, it’s most unlike you to be rendered speechless by anything.’
‘But I never imagined you’d invite me to join the board before my twenty-fifth birthday. My father …’
‘It’s true that your father was twenty-five when he was elected. But that’s no reason why you shouldn’t join the board before then if the other directors support the idea, and I know they do. In any case, there are personal reasons why I’d like to see you take your place on the board as soon as possible. When I retire from the bank in five years’ time, we must be sure to elect the right chairman. You’ll be in a stronger position to influence that decision if you’ve been working for Kane and Cabot during those years, rather than as a glorified functionary at Lester’s. Well, my boy. Will you join the board?’
It was the second time that day that William had wished his father was still alive.
‘I should be delighted to accept, sir.’
‘That’s the first time you’ve called me “sir” since we played golf together, and I didn’t win on that occasion.’
William smiled.
‘Good,’ said Alan, ‘that’s settled, then. You’ll be a junior director in charge of investments, working directly under Tony Simmons.’
‘Can I appoint my own assistant?’ asked William.
‘Matthew Lester, no doubt?’
‘Yes.’
‘No. I don’t want him doing to our bank what you intended to do to theirs.’
William didn’t comment, but he never underestimated Alan Lloyd again.
PART THREE
1928-1932
25
IT TOOK ABEL about three months to appreciate the full extent of the problems facing the Richmond Continental, and why the hotel was losing so much money.
The simple conclusion he came to after twelve weeks of keeping his eyes wide open and his mouth shut, while at the same time allowing the staff to believe he was half asleep, was that the hotel’s profits were, quite simply, being stolen. The Richmond staff were working a cooperative on a scale that even Abel had not previously come across. The system did not, however, take into account a new assistant manager who’d had to steal bread from the Russians to stay alive. Abel’s first problem was not to let anybody know how much he knew until he’d had a chance to check on every department in the hotel. It didn’t take him long to figure out that each one of them had perfected its own system for stealing.
Deception started at the front desk, where the clerks were registering only eight out of every ten guests, and pocketing any cash payments from the remaining two. The routine they were using was a simple one. If anyone had tried it at the Plaza in New York, they would have been found out within minutes, and fired the same day. The head desk clerk would select an elderly couple from another state who had booked in for only one night, and who had never stayed at the hotel before. He would then discreetly make sure they had no business connections in the city, and then simply fail to register them. If they paid cash the following morning, the money was pocketed. Provided they had not signed the register, there was no record to show that they had ever stayed at the hotel. Abel had long thought that all hotels should be required to register every guest, as the Plaza did.
In the dining room the system had been refined. All cash payments from any non-resident guests for lunch or dinner were immediately siphoned off. Abel had anticipated this, but it took him a little longer to check through the restaurant bills and establish that the front desk was working with the dining-room staff to ensure there were no restaurant bills for those guests they had already chosen not to register. In the bar it was even more blatant. The barman was bringing in his own bottles of liquor and pocketing the cash while the hotel’s own bottles remained unopened. Over and above all this, there was a steady trail of fictitious breakages and repairs, missing equipment, disappearing food and lost bed linen - even an occasional mattress had gone astray. Abel concluded that more than half of the Richmond’s staff were involved in the conspiracy, and that not one department had a completely clean record.
When he’d first arrived at the hotel, he had wondered why the manager, Desmond Pacey, hadn’t noticed what was going on under his nose. He wrongly assumed that the man was just lazy, and could not be bothered to follow up minor peccadilloes. Even Abel was slow to realize that the manager was in fact the mastermind behind the entire operation, and the reason it worked so well. Pacey had been employed by the Richmond Group for more than thirty years. There was not a single hotel in the group in which he had not held a senior position at one time or another, which made Abel fearful for the solvency of the entire chain. Moreover, Pacey was a close friend of Leroy, and had become his most trusted lieutenant. Abel calculated that the Chicago Richmond was losing more than $30,000 a year in theft alone, a situation that could be remedied overnight by firing a large portion of the staff, starting with Desmond Pacey. This posed a problem, because in thirty years Davis Leroy had rarely fired anyone. He simply tolerated their indiscretions, hoping that in time they would leave. As far as Abel could determine, Richmond Group staff went on robbing the chain blind until they reluctantly retired.
Abel decided that the only way he could reverse the hotel’s fortunes was to have a showdown with Davis Leroy, but not until he had all the details documented. On his next free weekend Abel boarded the Great Express from Illinois Central to St Louis and on, via the Missouri Pacific, to Dallas. Under his arm was a 200-page report that had taken him three months to compile in his attic room in the hotel annexe. When Davis Leroy had finished reading through the mass of evidence, he sat staring at Abel in disbelief.
