Kuppelton noticed. He wondered if his mother would like her. It was
important to him to have his mother like his future wife--if he ever
had one. She had been wonderful about the other girls he had liked but
somehow they had never been quite what she thought his wife should be.
He was her favorite son and he could not disappoint her, naturally.
“I guess that leaves me out,” he said wearily, hoping she would give
him some good news.
“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much,” she said, a little coldly he
thought, “you’ve got a good job now.”
“Well, you’re right about that,” he said emphatically.
“Oh, I know I am. Bob’s the fair-haired boy these days,” she added.
“I expect he is.”
Caroline walked to the window and looked down at the crowded street.
“There really are a lot of people in this town,” she said in a distant
voice.
“There sure are.”
“Do you ever wonder about all those people ... down there?”
This was the sort of talk that made Richard Kuppelton nervous. He hated
it when people started asking him vague questions to which there were
no sensible answers. “No, I can’t say that I do.”
She turned around and looked at him then, looked at him rather sadly,
he thought. “I’ve got work to do,” was all she said.
“See you, Caroline.”
Robert Holton was leaning back in his chair.
“Pretty dull, isn’t it?” commented Dick.
“The army was a lot duller.”
“I thought that was one thing that it wasn’t ... dull.”
Robert Holton chuckled. “This is a lot better.”
“Don’t you miss moving around?”
He paused before he replied and Kuppelton wondered what the truth
really was; however, Robert Holton only said, “No, no, I like staying
in one place.”
Richard Kuppelton turned back to his books of figures. He wondered
helplessly, as he wrote, how anyone could be as deceitful as Robert
Holton. It was obvious to him that Holton would get the job he was
to have gotten and he certainly could not get this job without being
deceitful. Richard Kuppelton was worried about this. He was also
worried because he found himself hating Robert Holton and his mother
would never have approved of that.
_Chapter Five_
The ulcer was the most important thing.
After the ulcer his wife, and then his job, and finally his children.
These were Mr Murphy’s interests. At the moment the ulcer was more
important to him than all the others together.
Ever since Mr Murphy could remember, he had had pains in his stomach.
Not really bad pains: just unpleasant sensations. In recent years this
had gotten worse. A month before, a doctor examined him and said that
he had an ulcer. The doctor was very serious and there was talk of
further tests. Then Mr Murphy read a picture magazine article on cancer.
He did not suspect cancer: he knew. The doctor, although he had
been rather grave, had said nothing about cancer, but Mr Murphy was
confident he had it. He had tried to do everything right, to cure
himself with bicarbonate of soda and other medicines but the pains not
only didn’t go away but they got worse when he thought about them.
He pushed his fist into his stomach for a moment and felt the pain
under his fingers. He cursed himself for having gone to the party the
night before.
As he walked through his office he wished that he were home in bed. It
would have been harder, of course, to stay home, because his wife was
not very good with an illness. She had a tendency to become hysterical
if she had to do anything unusual. No, it was better to be here at the
office. To be here even if he was dying. This last thought made him
uncomfortable and he put it out of his mind.
He looked at his watch--eleven-fifteen. The meeting would begin soon.
Mr Golden insisted that all meetings begin on time.
Mr Murphy left his office. As he walked through the rooms he was
pleased to have everyone speak to him politely. He was a person of
importance here and he had become this all by himself with no help from
anyone; practically no help.
The executive offices were larger and better decorated than the other
offices. There were several uniform rooms where the vice-presidents
(they used to be partners but Mr Golden had changed that) sat at big
desks and received clients and dictated letters and did other things.
Then there was the anteroom. This was a small room with red leather
couches, a receptionist, some modern lamps and two portraits on the
walls. These paintings were of Mr Heywood and Mr Golden. Beyond the
anteroom was the boardroom.
The receptionist smiled at Mr Murphy. He smiled back at her and sat
down in one of the red leather couches. Two minor vice-presidents were
also seated and waiting. They greeted him soberly.
“Nice morning,” said the younger of the vice-presidents; he had been a
lieutenant commander in the navy.
“Certainly is,” said Mr Murphy.
“I understood we’re in for a cold winter,” commented the older of the
two vice-presidents; he had been a commander in the navy.
“Nothing like a real old-fashioned Christmas,” said Mr Murphy in a
smooth low voice. He was conscious of a difference in their voices. His
own voice sounded rough to him while their voices were always smooth
and almost British. He had noticed these differences before but there
was nothing much he could do about them. In the front office he always
felt less important because of this difference, and because of this and
other things, too, he was made to feel an outsider.
The vice-presidents then talked in their cultured near-British voices
about a certain college football game. Mr Murphy lay back in his red
couch and wondered if perhaps he should drink more milk. That was good
for ulcers; but nothing was good for cancer. He shuddered.
A few more vice-presidents and section heads came into the anteroom.
They talked and laughed together and Oliver L. Murphy talked and
laughed with them.
There was a buzz and everyone stopped talking. The receptionist looked
up from her desk. “They’re ready,” she said.
The men walked into the boardroom of Heywood and Golden.
A long room, with indirect lighting, thick carpets, and a long table
with armchairs around it: this was the boardroom. On the walls were
charts of stocks and trends.
Mr Heywood was sitting at one end of the table and Mr Golden was
sitting at the other end of the table. Murphy sat down on the left of
Mr Heywood. This was his usual seat.
“Hello, Oliver,” said Mr Heywood cheerily.
“Hello, Mr Heywood.” Murphy was suddenly glad, glad that Mr Heywood
had called him by his first name; he did this only when he was
well-pleased, or wanted something.
Oliver L. Murphy leaned back in his leather armchair. Mr Heywood sat
rather limply in his own chair at the head of the table. He waited for
the others to be seated.
Lawrence Heywood was a gentleman. He had a large estate in Maryland and
he collected prints; he had had three wives and a number of children
and, generally, he had managed to do everything in a large but tasteful
manner.
He was a tall man in his late forties. Completely bald, his neat round
head shone pinkly under the indirect lights. His face was smooth and
neat and looked as if he had never worried in his life. His voice was
not near-British like his vice-presidents: it was British. He had gone
to school in Massachusetts which explained a lot of it, thought Murphy.
Mr Heywood did everything properly. He had inherited a lot of money. It
seemed as if every year a new relative would die and leave more money
to him. His three wives had all been beautiful and that was another
thing to be said for him--he knew how to choose women. Mr Murphy
wondered what it would be like to marry a beautiful woman.
“How’s that new man in your office?” asked Mr Heywood suddenly.
“You mean Holton? He’s doing very well.”
“I’m glad to hear it. We have a mutual friend,” and Mr Heywood laughed
gently at the thought.
“Is that right? He’s got a good background, I guess,” said Murphy.
“I expect so. I used to know his mother. She was a very attractive
woman twenty years ago. She married ...” Mr Heywood decided not to
reminisce in front of Murphy.
“He’s worked in my section, in the office, just fine.”
“That’s good. I don’t know him myself but I have some plans for him.
We’re going to the same party tonight.” Mr Heywood laughed gently
again. “Perhaps we’ll get to know each other. It’s so hard ever getting
to know employees in the office,” sighed Mr Heywood. “I rather wish
there weren’t so many of them sometimes.”
“I know just how it is.”
“We going to call this meeting together?” It was Mr Golden’s high voice
from the other end of the table.
“Certainly, Ben,” said Mr Heywood. “We’ll start right now.” He picked
up a black ebony gavel and tapped lightly, apologetically with it. The
men stopped talking. “Now, let’s see,” began Mr Heywood.
“The Steel account, that’s the big thing we’re going to talk about,”
said Mr Golden.
“That’s right.” Mr Heywood sounded bored. “That’s right. Well,
gentlemen, it seems that we have a problem.”
Mr Murphy relaxed in his chair. Mr Heywood’s voice, gentle and
cultured, came to him soothingly. The Steel account was of no interest
to Mr Murphy; in fact, these conferences were generally of no interest
to him. He was just there to talk about Statistics.
He played with papers in front of him. The voice of Mr Heywood flowed
about him. He was lost in a slow current of polite vowels. The pain in
his stomach was, for the time, gone.
Mr Heywood spoke of the market, of stocks and shares, of the state of
the Union. He spoke convincingly because his manner was convincing
and, also, because his ideas and facts had been given him by many
clever men.
Mr Golden sat at his end of the table and listened. He sat there very
straight, his little mouth set in a soft line of pseudo-firmness. His
small hands drummed on the table and his eyes glanced about the room.
His eyes were always in motion. The fear of a thousand years was in Mr
Golden’s eyes.
From time to time he interrupted. Mr Heywood would pause and listen;
then, when the other had finished, he would continue in his gentle
voice to tell the others what clever men had told him about Steel, and
the men, whose livings depended upon him, listened respectfully to
their ideas.
Mr Murphy observed these things as he sat in his chair. He felt
less important in these conferences but he did feel secure. Here in
the boardroom he felt himself to be a part of something large and
opulent--of American Business. This thought was comforting as well
as sobering. There was no security in the world to equal that of
belonging. It made no difference to what one belonged just as long as
one was a part of something big and secure. And what, Oliver Murphy
asked himself, could be bigger or more secure than Business? He saw
these things clearly because he had a philosopher’s mind and the Celt’s
ability to envisage life in a clear perspective. He could, he knew, see
the trees as well as the forest. That was what made him different from
the others. They felt, perhaps, that they belonged, but he _knew_.
Then the ulcer began to bother him.
He no longer was conscious of Mr Heywood’s voice. The only thing of
importance now was the dull pain in his stomach. He moved uneasily in
his chair. He pushed a hand into his stomach. This helped a little.
The pain shifted slightly. He followed it with his hand, his fingers
pressing gently into the pain.
“We’ll want complete figures on the rise and fall of Arizona Zinc
during the past five years.”
This was said by Mr Heywood. It registered in Mr Murphy’s mind but he
didn’t respond for a moment.
“You’ll have those figures for us next meeting, won’t you?” Heywood
asked, irritation in his voice.
“Certainly, Mr Heywood,” said Murphy. He sat up straight and Mr Heywood
nodded to him and then continued to talk.
Oliver Murphy listened carefully to everything said. He was beginning
to sweat from the pain and the fear (more fear than pain, he told
himself) but still he strained to hear every word and, slowly, as he
listened, magic took place and the pain went away.
At last, when certain decisions had been made, Mr Heywood adjourned the
meeting.
Murphy stood up. He felt better now. He wondered if perhaps he might
not be mistaken about the cancer.
“Oh, Murphy.”
“Yes, Mr Heywood?”
“That fellow in your office, that Holton, you think he’s quite
efficient?”
“I do.”
“I wonder,” said Mr Heywood hesitantly, “I wonder how he might work out
as one of our customers’ men. Dealing with the public, all that sort of
thing.”
“He’d probably do that very well.”
“You could afford to lose him?”
“Oh, yes, I think so.”
“I wish,” said Mr Heywood petulantly, “that I knew him better. It’s
terrible having so little contact with the office people.”
“I could send him in to see you.”
“Good Lord, no! I wouldn’t know what to say. I’ll wait and see him
tonight at Mrs Stevanson’s.”
“When do you think you’ll change him over?”
“Oh, I don’t know. If I think he has the suitable, ah, temperament, we
might change him this week.”
“I know he’ll be really tickled to hear this.”
“I expect so.”
“How is Mrs Heywood?” asked Murphy politely.
“She’s fine, thank you,” said Mr Heywood blankly. Trouble, decided
Murphy. The third Mrs Heywood seemed to be following the previous Mrs
Heywoods.
“Well ...” said Murphy and he mumbled words to himself as he walked
toward the door. Mr Heywood stared vacantly at him as he left.
Mr Murphy felt well when he was in motion. Walking with great dignity
from office to office, conscious of the eyes of others upon him, was
good for him. Aware of being a symbol of success he forgot his pains
and some of his worries.
As he went into the Statistical office he could feel the atmosphere
change. The clerks and typists became busy.
Mr Murphy went to his desk. “Any calls?” he asked.
Caroline shook her head. When she shook, her breasts quivered slightly.
Mr Murphy noticed this and his stomach constricted with pain. Emotion
was bad for him, according to the doctors. He looked away and tried to
think of something else.
“No, there weren’t any calls. Some memorandums came in from the other
sections but that was all.”
“Any letters?” He thought of his family.
“Yes.” Caroline sounded surprised. “Right there on your desk. Right
where I always put them.”
“Oh, yes.” Mr Murphy sat down at his desk and looked at the pile of
neat businesslike envelopes. He had no desire to open them.
Caroline typed rhythmically at her desk.
“Say, Caroline....”
She stopped and looked at him.
“Tell Holton to step over here, will you?”
“Sure, Mr Murphy.” She got up and went through the gate and out into
the office. He watched her legs as she walked determinedly to the other
end of the room. He was almost pleased to feel the pain come flooding
into his stomach. That would teach his stomach, he thought viciously.
The gate creaked and Robert Holton stood before him.
“You want to see me, sir?”
“Yes, yes, Holton. Sit down here. Over here on my left.”
Robert Holton sat down and looked expectant. Mr Murphy wondered for
a moment why he had asked to see Holton. Then he remembered what Mr
Heywood had said.
“How’s everything coming, Holton?”
“Just fine, Mr Murphy.”
“Well, that’s good. Things _have_ been going pretty well here. But
I suppose you find things pretty dull after the army?”
“No, no. I like this sort of work. I had enough moving around.”
“I should think so. Well, that’s what most of us want, I guess,” said
Mr Murphy. “We want to settle down. A lot of people say they don’t like
routine but I think everybody does. It’s an important thing.”
“Yes, sir. I think it is.”
“There is,” said Mr Murphy, shutting his eyes for a moment to give the
illusion of pondering, “there is security in working for a big house
like Heywood and Golden.” He opened his eyes and looked directly at
Holton. “Don’t you feel that’s true?”
“Yes, I hope so.”
“Yes, it’s true.” Mr Murphy sighed and thought about going out to the
country for a rest. A place that would have neither telephones nor
mosquitoes. Most places had one or the other.
He looked at Robert Holton and wondered what he was thinking. He seemed
a likeable young man. He was quiet and reserved and didn’t seem too
aggressive. In fact that was probably a fault that Mr Murphy had not
thought of. Holton was not a go-getter. He might lack initiative. That
was why he was quiet and reserved. Or, as Mr Murphy finally thought,
that might be a reason for his reserve.
“Tell me, Holton,” said Murphy, “have you had any ideas about, ah,
your place here? I mean, what you would like to do. Naturally you
wouldn’t be interested in staying here, in this department. With your
education....” He permitted his voice to fade.
“No, I haven’t had any ideas; in fact, I haven’t thought too much about
it. You see this is all pretty different from what it was like where I
was in the army. I don’t suppose I’m quite used to the idea ... well,
you know....”
“I think I do. You would like to work in another department perhaps?”
Robert Holton looked at him. Mr Murphy could not tell what he was
thinking for his face was relaxed and calm. “Well,” said Holton, “I
don’t know. I don’t want to be out of my depth. I’d like to make more
money. I like the idea of buying and selling stocks. I like that idea
very much. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I came here.”
“Of course, there’s a lot of work to knowing about stocks and bonds.
You realize all the work that’s involved.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps a place will be found for you in that department. It’s hard to
say, though. With your, ah, background it shouldn’t be too hard. That
is, if you have the _stuff_.”
“I hope so.”
“Good.” Mr Murphy watched Caroline typing. “I understand,” said Mr
Murphy finally in a changed voice, “that you’re going out tonight.”
Robert Holton looked surprised. “What do you mean?”
“Mr Heywood said you and he were going to the same party.”
Holton smiled. “That’s right, I’d forgotten. Mrs Stevanson’s giving a
cocktail party. I guess that’s what he means.”
“It won’t hurt to be nice to him there,” said Mr Murphy with a laugh.
“No, I don’t suppose so.”
Mr Murphy looked at Holton and wondered what would become of him. If he
had more initiative he might be a wealthy man because of his background
(the important thing was background), but he would probably not go
very far. He might not even go as far as Mr Murphy had and Mr Murphy
had been a success without background. Robert Holton didn’t look as
though he cared to be a success.
“Well, don’t let your night life interfere with business,” said Mr
Murphy lightly.
“No,” said Holton rising, “I won’t.”
With a nod Mr Murphy dismissed him.
Mr Murphy watched Caroline absently as she typed. Her hair was rather
long. It must be a nuisance to help her into a coat, he thought
suddenly. That was something he hated to do. Whenever he helped a woman
into a coat there was, first, a certain struggle to get her arms into
the sleeves. Some women were better than others at this. And then,
second, there was the problem of hair. If the woman had long hair it
was inevitably caught inside the coat. This meant that her first motion
was usually to free her hair and that involved a wild freeing and
flinging of the hair which for anyone still posted behind her meant
running a risk of becoming entangled. Mr Murphy wondered about these
problems as he looked at Caroline’s long dark hair.
He had started to work on his letters (the ones in the business
envelopes) when Richard Kuppelton appeared.
“Yes?”
“I’ve got the first part of that report here, the one on aircraft,”
said Kuppelton.
“Yes?” Mr Murphy made himself sound cold and official.
“Well, I wondered if you cared to look at them ... what I’ve done so
far, I mean.”
Mr Murphy looked at him for a moment without speaking. When Mr Murphy
had first come to work for Heywood and Golden his then immediate boss
had impressed him greatly by just looking at him for several seconds
at a time without speaking. Mr Murphy had adopted the mannerism and
over the years had improved it until now he could be very frightening.
He was that way now.
“You want me to do it for you?” he asked finally.
“No ... no, sir, I didn’t mean that. I just thought you would like to
see what I got done.” Kuppelton was uncomfortable and Mr Murphy decided
that he had done enough.
“Why, I’d be glad to look at it,” he said.
Kuppelton brightened. “Thank you. I only wanted you to see the form I
was using here. That was all. I’m making my conclusions in a slightly
different way from usual and I thought....”
“Yes, I’ll take a look at it.”
Kuppelton put a pile of papers down on Mr Murphy’s desk.
Mr Murphy nodded at him and Kuppelton left quickly. Mr Murphy felt much
better after exercising his power. Poor Kuppelton was a good man in an
office but he would never go very far because he didn’t have assurance.
He would be promoted after the first of the year if Holton were moved
out. That would make Kuppelton happy, which was a good thing. It
wasn’t bad, thought Mr Murphy, to have contented people about you in a
discontented world. He relaxed in his chair and then the pains started
again.
This time the ache was about an inch below his belt and slightly toward
the left (his appendix was on the right and, besides, his appendix was
in good shape). The pain began to move toward the center. Quickly he
pressed his fingers into the pain.
His heart beat rapidly and sweat formed on his face. If the pain
didn’t go away by the count of ten he would get up and take the special
medicine his doctor had given him.
Frightened, Mr Murphy counted and the pain, not subject to this magic,
did not go away.
_Chapter Six_
“It’s twelve o’clock,” Caroline said to Mr Murphy. “I think I’ll go out
to lunch, if that’s O.K.”
“Yes, yes, Caroline.”
She thought he looked rather pale. She was about to ask him how he felt
but she stopped herself, remembering how he disliked talking about his
health. She had noticed that during the last year he had been taking a
lot of medicine. Perhaps he was going to die. Caroline began to compose
a little drama to herself. Mr Murphy had just collapsed across his desk
and she had been the only one to keep a clear head....
“You coming, Caroline?” It was Robert Holton.
“Be right there.” She arranged the papers on her desk, shut the drawers
and joined Robert Holton outside the gate of the railing.
“Where’ll we eat today?” asked Holton.
“At _the_ restaurant, of course. Where did you think we would?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He was smiling now and she wondered if he could
have been trying to be funny; she could never be sure.
“Sometimes you don’t make sense,” said Caroline.
They were almost through the door when one of the secretaries called to
Holton. “Phone, Bob.”
She waited for him at the door. He went over to his desk and answered
the phone. He seemed excited, she noticed, and he talked very quickly.
She wished she could hear what he was saying. Finally, he finished and
joined her.
“Who was that?”
“An old friend of mine.”
“Man or woman?”
“A guy I used to know. He just got in town. He comes from out West and
I haven’t seen him for a couple of years.”
“You knew him in the army?”
“Yes.”
They walked through the offices to the elevator and Holton pressed the
button.
“What’s he doing in town?”
“He’s just visiting. I’m going to see him this afternoon. He’s coming
over here after lunch.”
“That’ll be nice. What does he look like?” She asked this gaily, hoping
to have some effect on him. She didn’t, though.
“I don’t know. He looks all right, I guess.”
“You certainly are good at description. Be sure to let me meet him.”
“I will.”
The elevator stopped for them and they pushed into the lunch-going
crowd. With a rush they descended to the street floor.
Outside the sun shone brightly above the street. The sky was a vivid
blue and the air smelt clean in spite of the exhaust fumes and the
people of the city. The day was warm.
They walked along the crowded street. Men of affairs with brief cases
walked in and out of swinging glass doors. Younger men of affairs,
wearing bowler hats and dark coats with darker velvet lapels, marched
solemnly in the parade of business. The white-faced clerks squinted at
the bright sun. Women secretaries walked together, admiring themselves
in the windows. As they walked they talked to each other and to
themselves.
“What a nice day,” said Caroline, breathing deeply and coughing as the
exhaust fumes tickled her throat.
“Must be nice in the country,” commented Robert Holton.
“Not you too?” Caroline laughed. “First Murphy and now you want to go
out in the country.”
“I don’t want to go. I just said it must be pleasant there.” They
crossed a street and he looked carefully to left and right and when
they finally crossed the street the crowd had gone around them and the
light was beginning to change again.