Man in the Gray Flannel Suit Page 27

  “Yes,” Bernstein said calmly. “Sit down, Mr. Schultz.”

  Edward remained standing. “Who’s he?” he demanded, jerking his thumb toward the man in the wheel chair.

  “This is Mr. Sims, Mr. Rath’s lawyer,” Bernstein said. “Sit down, Mr. Schultz. We have some things we wish to talk over with you.”

  “Why isn’t my lawyer here?”

  “This isn’t a trial, and you are at liberty to call your lawyer whenever you want,” Bernstein said. “I suggest that you hear what we have to say first.”

  “We want to do you a favor,” Sims said icily.

  “A favor? What kind of a favor?”

  “We think we can save you money.”

  Edward sat down in the nearest chair. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “We want to give you a preview of the hearings on this document you brought in signed by the late Mrs. Rath,” Sims said quietly. “We think that might save you money–lots of it.”

  “She signed it!” Edward said.

  “We know that,” Sims replied. “But by a curious coincidence, she never told anyone about it, and there are no witnesses to her signature. Do you know why the law generally requires witnesses to a signature?”

  “It doesn’t always!” Edward said. “I read that any document can be considered a will if in the opinion of the court it represents the intention of the deceased.” He spoke in a monotone.

  “That’s true,” Sims replied gravely. “But there usually is some reason even for technicalities in the law. The reason that witnesses to a signature are generally required is that theoretically–theoretically, mind you–it would be possible for a man to trick an elderly woman into signing something without knowing it. I don’t say that happened in this case, mind you–I just say it’s theoretically possible.”

  “You can’t prove that.”

  “Of course not,” Sims replied soothingly. “Of course not. But if you persist in pressing your claim against the estate, there are a few facts I can prove, and I intend to bring them all before the court. For one thing, I intend to show it was part of your job to type up the checks Mrs. Rath used to pay her bills and to submit them for her signature. I also intend to prove that her eyesight was extremely poor during her later years. And finally, Mr. Schultz, I will prove that you are dishonest.”

  “How?”

  “By presenting at least five witnesses who will swear that you asked them to pad bills,” Sims said mildly.

  Bernstein, who had been looking at Schultz’s face, glanced away. His stomach was hurting badly.

  “They’re lying,” Schultz said.

  “I doubt that the court would think so,” Sims continued evenly. “Our witnesses happen to be the most respected tradesmen in town. And there are other things we could look into. It might be interesting, for instance, to compare your bank balance with your income tax returns–that too might show you are dishonest.”

  Edward’s face went white. “You can’t . . .” he began.

  “Just keep quiet a moment,” Sims said. “I’m going to give you a chance to save your neck. If you withdraw this document of yours and sign a release giving up all claim to the Rath estate, you can get out of this by paying only a small fee to your lawyer for the trouble you’ve already caused him. It’s entirely possible, of course, that your lawyer will sue you for giving him a fraudulent case, but that will be between you and him. If you continue your suit he’ll be much more likely to sue you himself, and that won’t be all. We may reconsider and sue for all the bills which you’ve been padding during the last thirty years. If you pursue this fraudulent claim, you’ll walk out of here without a cent, and you may go to jail!”

  “Wait a minute,” Bernstein said, “You understand, Mr. Schultz, that we don’t want you to sign any sort of release if you feel further investigation would clear you of the suspicions Mr. Sims has formed. If you have a clear conscience, I suggest you sign nothing and that you call your lawyer immediately. If, on the other hand, you know that Mr. Sims’s suspicions are justified, you will probably be saving yourself and everyone concerned a lot of trouble if you drop your case here and now.”

  “I have prepared those papers,” Sims said, pointing to some neatly typed documents on Bernstein’s desk. “It is an ordinary release, and by signing it you will give up all claim to the Rath estate. I’d like you to sign all five copies, and we’ll have a witness come in from next door.”

  Edward said nothing.

  “If you don’t sign, we’ll go ahead with our case,” Sims said. “I think I’ll start by impounding your bank account.”

  “You’re cheating me!” Edward said.

  “Then don’t sign and get out of here,” Sims shot out. “If you think you’re being cheated, call your lawyer, and we’ll get on with the case. In the long run I think we might get more out of you that way, anyhow. We might collect forty or fifty thousand dollars.”

  Without a word, Edward walked to Bernstein’s desk and seized the papers lying there. Standing like a speaker about to deliver an address, he read them, his lips moving slowly. Then he reached for a pen.

  “Wait a minute,” Bernstein said. “We want to call a witness.”

  He picked up the telephone, and a moment later an elderly woman who served as a Notary Public and worked in an insurance office next door stepped in. With a trembling hand Edward signed his name to all five documents. When he had finished, he stood watching the Notary impress her seal on them. Then he suddenly turned and bolted out the door.

  When the Notary Public had gone, Sims said, “That’s that.”

  “I’m glad it’s over,” Bernstein said, and sighed.

  “I’ll tell Tom Rath,” Sims said. “I’ll also tell him you deserve the credit for figuring this thing out.”

  “Oh, no!” Bernstein said in real alarm. “Don’t do that–in conducting my own little investigation, I really exceeded the prerogatives of a judge. It wasn’t ethical at all!”

  Sims laughed. “Now if you’ll help me down the stairs, I’ll go up and see the Raths,” he said. “I imagine they’ll be happy to hear about this.”

  “Wait,” Bernstein said. “You might as well give them the bad news with the good. I’ve just been appointed a member of the Zoning Board, and although I can’t speak for the other members, I personally would not like to consider a housing project unless the town votes for a new school. If the people here won’t build schools, we can’t bring in a lot of new families. Ask Rath to hold up on his housing project, at least until the vote on the school next month.”

  That same morning Tom finished a new, much shorter draft of the speech. For the first time he himself liked what he had written, and he was anxious to find if Hopkins approved. Only an hour after he had sent the speech up to Hopkins, the voice box on his desk buzzed, and when Tom flipped it on, Hopkins’ voice boomed, “Well, you’ve really done it, Tom! That’s just what I wanted. Let’s have lunch today by way of celebration.”

  “Thanks!” Tom said. “I’m glad we finally got it right.”

  “Come up in about ten minutes,” Hopkins said. “Bill Ogden will join us, and we can talk about plans for following up the speech.”

  Only about five minutes after Tom had learned of this success, his telephone rang. It was Betsy, with the news that Edward had withdrawn his claim from the estate, and that in due time the house, land, and a small amount of money would be theirs. The two pieces of good news, arriving so close together, seemed extraordinary to Tom. “That’s wonderful!” he said several times to Besty, and to himself thought, Let this be a lesson to me. Sometimes things really do turn out all right. Grandmother was perfectly honest, and I never should have doubted her.

  “There’s only one thing for us to worry about now,” Betsy said after he had told her that he had successfully completed the speech. “Bernstein says we shouldn’t do anything about our housing project unless they pass a bond issue for a new school. If they vote that down next month, it may be ages. To tell the tru
th, I don’t understand much about it–Bernstein says that in a few days there’s going to be a public hearing on the whole thing that we ought to go to. Anyway, don’t let’s worry about that now. Tonight we’re going to have a double celebration.”

  “That will be swell,” Tom said. “I’ve got to see Hopkins now. Don’t cook anything tonight–let’s all go out somewhere.”

  He started up to Hopkins’ office. As soon as he got in the elevator, he saw Caesar at the controls. “Going up,” Caesar said in his deep voice. “Going up. Face the front, please.”

  The elevator was crowded. Tom edged toward Caesar. On this day of good luck, it seemed that anything could happen, and he half expected Caesar to tell him that he had just heard from Maria, that she was doing fine and didn’t need any help at all. Instead, Caesar, who had a strong sense of propriety, barely glanced at him, and all he said was, “Floor, please. Going up. Face the front.”

  He couldn’t have heard anything about Maria, Tom thought. If he had, he would have nodded to me or something. He hurried to Hopkins’ office, feeling somewhat subdued.

  Hopkins led the way to a taxi and told the driver to take them to the River Club, where they were going to meet Ogden. It was cold–the first cold day of autumn. Many of the women on the street were already wearing their fur coats. When they passed St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Tom saw on the wide stone steps a worn woman with a shawl around her head leading a thin child, a little boy wearing only a light summer coat, which the wind was whipping around his legs. The cathedral looked like one which was not far from Maria’s apartment in Rome. Tom remembered the first time Maria had taken him there, two days after he had met her, and before he had known her very well–he had been surprised that a girl he had picked up in a bar wanted to take him to church. She had been insistent about going, and he had agreed, feeling, if anything, indulgent. The moment he had stepped into the cathedral that had changed. Somewhere an organ had been playing softly. The ceiling had arched up so high that it disappeared in the shadows. The air had smoldered with incense. Along the walls had been life-sized statues of saints, their faces exalted and serene. In front of the saints had been racks holding tiers of many short thick candles–at first glance, the whole interior of the cathedral had seemed to be sparkling with innumerable small flames. He had never been in a Catholic church before and had watched, entranced, as one person after another stepped up to the statues of the saints, lit a candle, placed it carefully on the rack among all the others, then knelt in prayer. Taking him by the hand, Maria had led him to the statue of the Virgin and had made him kneel beside her. He had glanced from the simply carved but compassionate face of the statue to Maria, kneeling beside him with her lips moving silently, and he had felt no irony and no hypocrisy in kneeling before the Virgin with a girl he had picked up in a bar. After that he and Maria had gone to the cathedral often. He had said good-by to her there. After he had received his orders to go, and after she had told him she expected a child, she had insisted that they go to the cathedral one more time together. And she had not prayed for herself–she had prayed for him. Knowing how scared he was of death, she had knelt with him before the Virgin, and she had prayed for him. “After you have gone, I will come here often and light a candle for you,” she had said. And he had cried–for the first time in his adult life he had cried when he said good-by to her.

  Now, riding past St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York on this day of his good luck, Tom wondered whether she had lit many candles for him. Now he was safe, and everything was turning out beautifully for him, but where was she? He had a sudden impulse to leap out of the moving taxicab, run into the cathedral, and light a candle for her.

  At luncheon Hopkins was effusive in his praise of the speech, and Ogden gave even more satisfaction by seeming pained at the compliments Tom got, but the thoughts set in motion by the glimpse of the worn woman with a thin little boy in the cold wind on the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral robbed Tom of a feeling of victory. It is strange, he thought, that almost always there is so much irony in success.

  “A fundamental responsibility . . .” Hopkins was saying.

  “What?” Tom asked, bringing himself back to the luncheon conversation with difficulty.

  “We people in the business of communications have a fundamental responsibility to bring key issues to the attention of the public,” Hopkins continued. “I think this speech we’ve worked out is an excellent example. . . .”

  Tom couldn’t concentrate, and Hopkins’ voice seemed to fade away. Maria, Tom thought, Maria. Somehow the very name sounded heartbreakingly lonely and forlorn. He felt as though he had been awakened suddenly in the night by the distant echo of a cry for help.

  32

  IT WAS eight-fifteen on the evening of the fifteenth of September. The Grand Ballroom of the big hotel in Atlantic City had been changed into an auditorium by filling it with rows of chairs. About fifteen hundred physicians were sitting there holding printed programs on their laps. The room hummed with conversation, which gradually subsided as a tall, white-haired doctor in a dinner coat stood up behind the lectern at the head of the room. The tall man stood there smiling until the room was quiet. “Gentlemen,” he said, “we have a distinguished speaker here tonight, a man whose influence is felt in almost every home in America–every home which has a radio or television set. This is a man who without ever seeking personal fame has been behind almost every public-service advertising campaign which has taken place in the past twenty years. He has been one of the leaders in marshaling public opinion in the fight against polio, heart disease, and cancer. He is not a physician himself, but I think it fair to say that indirectly he has been responsible for saving more lives than any of us. Gentlemen, I present to you Mr. Ralph Hopkins, president of the United Broadcasting Corporation!”

  There was mild applause. Ralph Hopkins, who had been sitting in one of the front rows, walked to the platform and stood behind the lectern. He looked astonishingly small, almost frail. He placed a black notebook containing the speech Tom had written for him on the lectern, looked up, and coughed apologetically. Tom, sitting in a back row, thought with astonishment, He’s nervous–the poor guy doesn’t like to make speeches, and he’s scared. Hopkins waited until the applause died down. Then in a small, unassuming voice, he said, “Dr. Stutgarten, and other distinguished physicians: it is a great pleasure for me to have this opportunity to talk to you tonight. As a layman, I feel peculiarly honored to be invited to address this gathering of doctors. I will not keep you long. . . .”

  He paused. The audience waited without a sound.

  “Now, we laymen look at disease somewhat differently than you doctors do,” Hopkins continued in a firmer voice. “In the first place, we’re scared of disease and don’t like to talk about it much. When something goes wrong with us, we go to a doctor and put the whole burden on his shoulders. We don’t tend to believe that there’s anything we can do about disease ourselves, and almost the last thing which occurs to us is that the doctor might need help. Of course, there actually isn’t much a patient can do to help his doctor, except to follow his advice, but there is, I think, a legitimate responsibility the public as a whole has toward its physicians. We laymen must make sure we have a broad understanding of the problems the physicians face and the the physicians have the tools they need to find solutions.”

  Hopkins looked up from his notebook to smile hesitantly at the audience, then glanced down again. “Now, the medical profession,” he went on, “has done wonders with the conquest of the physical diseases–we all know how the human life expectancy has been extended. But while this progress has been going on, the incidence of mental illness has been rising, as we all know. The question I want to pose here tonight is whether there is anything the public could do to help the doctors conquer this problem. It is my belief that the public has failed the medical profession worst in this area, because the public is the most scared of mental illness and understands it least of all. I am wondering if so
mething couldn’t be done to bring the problem of mental illness into the open and get together the funds necessary to make a major frontal attack upon it.”

  It was an odd sensation, Tom found, to sit in the audience and hear the words he had written come back to him. He did not feel very proprietary about the words. If I myself said them, they would mean little, he thought, but coming from Hopkins, they mean a lot. He listened as Hopkins continued to develop his theme. At the end of precisely twenty minutes, Hopkins concluded by saying, “There is a possibility that some organization might be formed, similar in purpose to the March of Dimes, to subsidize research on mental disease, but, beyond that, to banish unreasonable fear. In such an effort, the medical profession would have to take the lead. I think you can be sure that those of us whose business it is to transmit information to the public will do everything we can to help.”

  He stopped abruptly and folded his notebook. The audience clapped politely, almost enthusiastically, and several doctors walked up to the lectern to congratulate him. Hopkins stood in the middle of a small circle of physicians, shaking hands and smiling. Then he moved slowly toward the lobby and, followed by a growing group of physicians, headed toward the elevators.

  Fifteen minutes later, Tom walked into the crowded living room of Hopkins’ suite and found Hopkins drinking with a group of the leaders of medical associations. Several of them were urging him to start a mental-health committee. “It’s nice of you to suggest it,” he said. “I’m not at all sure I’m the man to take the leadership and I’m so pressed for time. . . .”

  “How do you think it went?” Tom asked Ogden, who was standing in a corner sipping a highball, next to a vase of long-stemmed roses.

  “Fair,” Ogden said. “Just about fair, I’d say. The advance publicity wasn’t much. We’ll see what the morning papers do with it.”

  As it happened, the morning papers played the story up. Some of them put it on the front page, but Hopkins barely glanced at the clippings Ogden handed him. He seemed much more impressed by the many requests he got from doctors to start the committee. “I didn’t sense a bit of opposition,” he said to Tom. “I know that speech was a lot of work, but I think it’s done exactly what we intended.”