‘These people are my friends,’ were his first words. ‘Some of them have been with me for thirty years. Hell - there’s always been a little pilfering in the hotel business, but now you tell me they’ve been systematically robbing me behind my back?’
‘In one or two cases, I suspect every day for the past thirty years,’ said Abel.
‘So what am I expected to do about it?’
‘I can stop the rot if you’re willing to sack Desmond Pacey, and give me the authority to remove anyone who has been working with him.’
‘Well now, Abel, I wish it was as simple as that.’
‘It’s just that simple,’ said Abel. ‘And if you won’t let me deal with the culprits, you can have my resignation before I get back on the train to Chicago, because I have no interest in being a part of the most corruptly run hotel in America. I’m only surprised Al Capone isn’t a director.’
‘Couldn’t we just demote Desmond Pacey to assistant manager? Then I could make you manager and the problem would simply go away. After all, he’s due to retire in a couple of years’ time.’
‘Just long enough to bankrupt you,’ said Abel. ‘And what’s worse, I suspect all your other hotels are being run in the same cavalier way. If you want things to change in Chicago, you’ll have to make a firm decision about Pacey right now, or you can go to the wall on your own, because I’ve got better things to do with my life.’
‘Us Texans have a reputation for speaking our mind, Abel, but we’re sure not in your class. Okay, okay, I’ll give you the authority to sack Pacey, which means you’re now the manager of the Chicago Richmond. Congratulations, my boy,’ continued Leroy, standing up and slapping his new manager on the back. ‘Don’t think I’m ungrateful. You’ve done a swell job in Chicago, and from now on I’ll look upon you as my right-hand man. To be honest with you, Abel, I’ve been doing so well on the Stock Market I hadn’t even noticed the losses in the group, so thank God I have one honest friend. Why don’t you stay overnight and join me for dinner?’
‘I’d be delighted, Mr Leroy. I was hoping to spend the night at the Dallas Richmond so I can find out what they’ve been up to.’
‘You’re not going to let anyone off the hook, are you, Abel?’
‘Not if I find out they’ve been educated at the same business school as Desmond Pacey.’
That evening, Abel and Davis Leroy ate two huge steaks, and drank a little too much whiskey, which the Texan insisted was no more than southern hospitality. He also admitted to Abel that he had been considering inviting someone to take charge of the Richmond Group, so that he could take life a little easier.
‘Are you sure you want a dumb Polack in charge?’ slurred Abel.
‘Abel, it’s me who’s been dumb. If you hadn’t smoked out those thieves, I might have gone under. But now that I know the truth, we’ll lick the bastards together, and I’m going to give you the chance to put the Richmond Group back on the map.’
Abel shakily raised his glass. ‘I’ll drink to that - and to a long and successful partnership.’
‘Go get ‘em, boy.’
Abel spent the night at the Dallas Richmond, giving a false name and pointedly telling the desk clerk he would be staying only one night. In the morning, he watched the hotel’s only copy of the receipt for his cash payment disappear into the wastepaper basket. His suspicions were confirmed. The problem was obviously not Chicago’s alone, but had permeated the entire group. He decided he would have to get Chicago sorted out before he could take on any other Desmond Paceys, and called Davis Leroy to tell him that the disease had spread to more than one limb.
Abel travelled back the way he had come. The Mississippi Valley lay sullen beyond the train windows, devastated by the floods of the previous year. Abel could only think about the devastation he was going to cause once he was back at the Chicago Richmond.
When he walked through the revolving doors of the hotel, there was no sign of the night porter, and only one clerk was on duty. He decided to let them all have a good night’s rest before he bade them farewell. A young bellboy opened the front door of the annexe for him.
‘Have a good trip, Mr Rosnovski?’
‘Yes, thank you. How have things been here?’
‘Oh, very quiet.’
You may find it even quieter this time tomorrow, thought Abel, when you’re the only member of the staff who still has a job.
Abel unpacked and ordered a light meal from room service. It took more than an hour to arrive, and when it did, it was cold. When he had finished his coffee, he took a cold shower and went over his plan for the following day. He had picked a good time of year for his massacre. It was early February, and the hotel only had about 25 per cent occupancy. He was confident that he could run the Richmond with about half its present staff. He climbed into bed, threw the pillow on the floor and slept, like his unsuspecting staff, soundly.
Desmond Pacey, known to everyone at the Richmond as Lazy Pacey, was sixty-three years old. He was considerably overweight, and rather slow of movement on his short legs. He had seen seven assistant managers come and go during his time at the Richmond. Some had been greedy, and had wanted too much of the ‘take’ while others couldn’t seem to understand how the system worked. The Polack, he decided, was just plain dumb. Like all Polacks. Pacey hummed to himself as he strolled towards Abel’s office for their daily ten o’clock meeting. It was seventeen minutes past ten.
‘Sorry to have kept you waiting,’ he said, not sounding at all sorry. ‘I was held up with something at the front desk - you know how it is.’
Abel knew exactly how it was at the front desk. He slowly opened the drawer of his desk and laid out forty crumpled hotel bills, some of them torn into pieces; bills he had recovered from wastepaper baskets and ashtrays, bills for those guests who’d paid cash and had never been registered. He watched the fat little manager trying to read them upside down, slowly becoming aware what they were.
Not that Pacey cared much. There was nothing for him to worry about. If the stupid Polack had caught on to the system, he could either take his cut or leave. Perhaps a nice room in the hotel would keep him quiet.
‘So, what you got for me today, Abel?’ he asked just as he was about to sit down.
‘You’re fired, Mr Pacey. I want you off the premises within the hour.’
Desmond Pacey didn’t respond immediately, because he couldn’t believe what he’d heard.
‘What was that you said? I don’t think I heard you right.’
‘You heard me just fine,’ said Abel. ‘You’re fired.’
‘You can’t fire me. I’m the manager. I’ve been with the Richmond Group for over thirty years. If there’s any firing to be done, I’ll do it. Who in God’s name do you think you are?’
‘I’m the new manager.’
‘You’re what?’
‘The new manager,’ Abel repeated. ‘Mr Leroy appointed me yesterday, and my first executive decision is to fire you, Mr Pacey.’
‘What for?’
‘For larceny.’ Abel turned the bills around so that Pacey could see them more clearly. ‘Every one of these guests paid their bill, but not one penny of the money reached the Richmond account. And they all have one thing in common - your signature is on them.’
‘That doesn’t prove anything.’
‘I know. You’ve been running a good system. Well, you can go and run it somewhere else, because your luck’s run out here. There’s an old Polish saying, Mr Pacey: The pitcher carries water only until the handle breaks. The handle has just broken. You’re fired.’
‘You don’t have the authority to fire me,’ spluttered Pacey, sweat peppering his forehead. ‘Davis Leroy is a close personal friend of mine. He’s the only man who can fire me. You only turned up a few months ago. I’ll have you thrown out of this hotel with one phone call.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Abel. He picked up the telephone and asked the operator to get Davis Leroy in Dallas. The two men waited, staring at each other. Sweat began to trickle down to the tip of Pacey’s nose. For a second, Abel wondered if Leroy might change his mind.
‘Good morning, Mr Leroy, it’s Abel Rosnovski calling from Chicago. I’ve just fired Desmond Pacey, and he wants a word with you.’
Shakily, Pacey took the telephone. He listened for a few moments.
‘But Davis, I … What could I do … ? I swear to you it isn’t true … There must be some mistake—’
Abel heard the line click.
‘One hour, Mr Pacey,’ said Abel, ‘or I’ll hand these bills to the Chicago Police Department.’
‘Now wait a moment,’ Pacey said. ‘Don’t act so hasty.’ His tone and attitude had suddenly changed. ‘We could bring you in on the whole operation. You could make a very steady little income if we ran this hotel together, and no one would be any the wiser. The money would be far more than you’re making as assistant manager, and we all know Davis can afford the losses—’
‘I’m not the assistant manager any longer. Get out, Mr Pacey, before I throw you out.’
‘You fucking bastard,’ said the ex-manager, realizing his last card had been trumped. ‘You better keep your eyes wide open, Polack, because I’m going to cut you down to size.’ He slammed the door as he left.
By lunchtime, Pacey had been joined on the street by the headwaiter, head chef, senior housekeeper, chief desk clerk, head porter and seventeen other members of the Richmond staff who Abel felt were past redemption. In the afternoon he called a meeting of the remainder of the employees, explained to them in detail what he had done, and assured them that their jobs were not in any danger.
‘But if I find one dollar,’ said Abel, ‘I repeat, one dollar misplaced, the person involved will be fired on the spot, without references. Do I make myself clear?’
No one spoke.
Several other members of staff left during the next few weeks, once they realized that Abel Rosnovski did not intend to continue Desmond Pacey’s system on his own behalf. They were quickly replaced.
William started work as a junior director of Kane and Cabot in September 1928. He began his banking career in a small office next to Tony Simmons, the bank’s Investment Director. From the day William arrived he knew, even though nothing was said, either discreetly or indiscreetly, that Simmons was hoping to succeed Alan Lloyd as chairman of the bank.
The bank’s entire investment programme was Simmons’s responsibility. He delegated some part of his portfolio to William, in particular private investment in small businesses, land and any other outside entrepreneurial activities. Among William’s duties was the compilation of a monthly report for the board on any investments he wished to recommend. The seventeen board members met once a month in a larger oak-panelled room, dominated at both ends by portraits, one of William’s father, the other of his grandfather. William had never known his grandfather, but had always suspected he must have been one hell of a man to have married Grandmother Kane. There was ample room left on the walls for his own portrait.
William conducted himself with caution during his early months at the bank, and his fellow board members soon came to respect his judgement, and almost invariably accepted his investment recommendations. On the rare occasions when they didn’t follow his advice, they lived to regret it. On the first occasion, a Mr Mayer sought a loan from the bank to invest in ‘talking pictures’, but the board refused to believe that the concept had any merit or future. Another time, a Mr Paley came to William with an ambitious plan for a radio network. Alan Lloyd, who had about as much respect for telegraphy as for telepathy, would have nothing to do with the scheme. The board supported his view. Louis B. Mayer later founded MGM, and William Paley became Chief Executive of CBS. William backed his own judgement and supported both men with his own money, without informing either the bank or the recipients. It was a personal matter.
One of the more unpleasant aspects of William’s day-to-day duties was handling the liquidations and bankruptcies of clients who had borrowed large sums from the bank and had subsequently found themselves unable to repay their loans. William was not by nature a soft man, as Henry Osborne had learned to his cost, but insisting that old and respected clients liquidate their stocks, and even sell their homes, was always a disagreeable experience. He soon learned that these clients fell into two distinct categories - those who looked upon bankruptcy as an excuse to avoid their responsibilities, and those who were appalled by the very thought of it, and would spend the rest of their lives trying to repay every penny they had borrowed. William found it easy to be tough with the first category, but was far more lenient with the second, often with the grudging support of Tony Simmons.
The customer who had requested to see him that morning clearly fell into the second category. Max Brookes, had borrowed more than a million dollars from Kane and Cabot to invest in the Florida land boom of 1925, an investment William would never have supported had he been advising the bank at that time. Max Brookes was however celebrated in Massachusetts as one of the intrepid breed of balloonists and flyers, and a close friend of Charles Lindbergh. His tragic death, when the small plane he was piloting crashed into a tree only a hundred yards after take-off, was reported in the press across the length and breadth of America, making him a national hero.
William, acting for the bank, immediately took over the Brookes estate, which was already insolvent. He closed the account, and tried to cut the bank’s losses by selling off the land Brookes owned in Florida, except for two acres on which the family home stood. The bank’s loss still turned out to be over $300,000.
Once William had liquidated everything the bank held in Max Brookes’s name, he turned his attention to Mrs Brookes, who had signed a personal guarantee for her late husband’s debts. Although William always tried to secure such a guarantee on any loans granted by the bank, he never recommended undertaking such an obligation to his friends, however confident they might feel about a venture, as failure invariably caused great distress to the guarantor and, more importantly, to his or her family.
William wrote a formal letter to Mrs Brookes, suggesting she make an appointment to discuss her position. He knew from the Brookes file that she was only twenty-two years old, and a member of an old and distinguished Boston family - daughter of Andrew Higginson and great-niece of Henry Lee Higginson, founder of the Boston Symphony. He also noted that she had substantial assets of her own. He did not relish the thought of requiring her to make them over to the bank, so he steeled himself for an unpleasant encounter.
The morning had begun badly, after a heated disagreement with Simmons about a substantial investment in copper and tin that he wished to recommend to the board. Industrial demand for the two metals was rising steadily, and William was convinced that a world shortage was certain to follow, which would guarantee the bank a handsome profit. Simmons did not agree with William’s judgement, feeling the bank should invest more heavily in the stock market, and the matter was still uppermost in William’s mind when his secretary ushered Mrs Brookes into his office.
