A quarter of an hour ago, after Wainwright's threat to walk out, Miles Eastin had collapsed entirely, co- operative and cowed.
Now, while Eastin continued writing his confession Wainwright telephoned Innes, the FBI man, at his home.
15
During the first week of November, Ben RossellPs physical condition worsened. Since the bank president's disclosure of his terminal illness four weeks earlier, his strength had ebbed, his body wasted as proliferating and invading cancerous cells tightened their stranglehold on his remaining life.
Those who visited old Ben at home including Roscoe Heyward, Alex Vandervoort, Edwina D'Orsey, Nolan Wainwright, and various directors of the bank were shocked at the extent and speed of his deterioration. It was obvious he had very little time to live.
Then, in mid-November, while a savage storm with gale force winds beset the city, Ben Rosselli was moved by ambulance to the private pavilion of Mount Adams Hospital, a short journey which was to be his last abode. By then he was under almost continuous sedation, so that his moments of awareness and coherence became fewer day by day.
The last vestiges of any control of First Mercantile American Bank had now slipped from him, and a group of the bank's senior directors, meeting privately, agreed the full board must be summoned, a successor to the presidency named. The decisive board meeting was set for December 4th.
Directors began arriving shortly before 1O A.M. They greeted one another cordially, each with an easy confidence the patina of a successful businessman in the company of his peers.
The cordiality was slightly more restrained than usual in deference to the dying Ben Rosselli, still clutching feebly to life a mile or so away. Yet the directors now assembling were admirals and field marshals of commerce, as Ben had been himself, who knew that whatever else on traded, business, which kept civilization lubricated, must go on. Their mood appeared to say: The reason behind decisions we must make today is regrettable, but our solemn duty to the system shall be done.
Thus they moved resolutely into the walnut paneled boardroom, hung with paintings and photographs of selected predecessors, once important themselves, now long departed.
A board of directors of any major corporation resembles an exclusive club. Apart from three or four top management executives who are employed full time, the board comprises a score or so of outstanding businessmen often board chairmen or presidents themselves from other diverse fields.
Usually such outside directors are invited to join the board for one or more of several reasons their own
achievements elsewhere, the prestige of the institution they represent, or a strong connection usually financial with the company on whose board they sit.
Among businessmen it is considered a high honor to be a company director, and the more prestigious the company the greater the glory. This is why some individuals collect directorships the way some Indians once collected scalps Another reason is that directors are treated with ego satisfying reverence and also generously major companies pay each director between one and two thousand dollars for every meeting attended, normally ten a year.
Particularly high in prestige is a directorship of any major bank. For a businessman to be invited to serve on a top-flight bank board is roughly equivalent to being knighted by the British Queen; therefore the accolade is widely sought. First Mercantile American, as befitting a bank among the nation's top twenty, possessed a board of directors appropriately impressive. Or so they thought.
Alex Vandervoort, surveying the other directors as they took seats around the long, elliptical boardroom table, decided there was a high percentage of deadwood. There were also conflicts of interest since some directors, or their companies, were major borrowers of bank money. Among his long-term objective if he became president would be to make the FMA board more representative and less like a cozy club. But would he be president? Or would Heyward?
Both of them were candidates today. Both, in a short time, like any seeker after office, would expound their views. Jerome Patterton, vice-chairman of the board, who would preside at today's meeting, had approached Alex two days earlier. 'You know as well as the rest of us, our decision's between you and Roscoe. You're both good men; making a choice isn't easy. So help us. Tell us your feelings about FMA, in any way you like; the what and how, I leave to you.'
Roscoe Heyward, Alex was aware, had been similarly briefed.
Heyward, typically, had armed himself with a prepared text. Seated directly across from Alex, he was studying it now, his aquiline face set seriously, the gray eyes behind rimless glasses unwaveringly focused on the typewritten words. Among Heyward's abilities was intense concentration of his scalpel-sharp mind, especially on figures. A colleague once observed, 'Roscoe can read a profit and loss statement the way a symphony conductor reads a score sensing nuances, awkward notes, incomplete passages, crescendos, and potentialities which others miss.' Without doubt, figures would be included in whatever Heyward had to say today.
Alex was unsure whether he would use numbers in his own remarks or not. If they were used, they would have to be from memory since he had brought no materials. He had deliberated far into last night and decided eventually to wait until the moment came, then speak instinctively, as seemed appropriate, letting thoughts and words fall into place themselves.
He reminded himself that in this same room, so short a time ago, Ben had announced, 'I'm dying. My doctors tell me I don't have long.' The words had been, still were, an affirmation that all in life was finite. They mocked ambition his own, Roscoe Heyward's, others.
Yet whether ambition was futile in the end or not, he wanted very much the presidency of this bank. He longed for an opportunity just as Ben in his time had to determine directions, decide philosophy, allot priorities and, through the sum of all decisions, leave behind a worthwhile contribution. And whether, viewed across a larger span of years, whatever was accomplished mattered much or little, the zest itself would be rewarding the doing, leading, striving, and competing, here and now.
Across the boardroom table to the right, the Honorable Harold Austin slipped into his accustomed seat. He wore a windowpane check Cerruti suit, with a classic button-down shirt and hounds-tooth pattern tie, and looked like a pacesetting model from the pages of Playboy. He held a fat cigar, ready to be lighted. Alex saw Austin and nodded. The nod was returned, but with noticeable coolness.
A week ago the Honorable Harold had dropped by to protest Alex's veto of Keycharge credit-card advertising prepared by the Austin agency. 'Keycharge marketing expansion was approved by the board of directors,' the Honorable Harold had objected. 'What's more, the department heads at Keycharge had already okayed that particular ad campaign before it got to you. I'm of two minds whether to bring your high-handed action to the attention of the board or not.'
Alex was blunt, '`To begin with, I know exactly what the directors decided about Keycharge because I was there. What they did not agree to was that marketing expansion would include advertising which is sleasy, misleading, half-truthful and discreditable to the bank. Your creative people can do better than that, Harold. In fact, they already have I've seen and approved the revised versions. As for being high-handed, I made an Executive management decision well within my authority, and any time necessary I'll do the same again. So if you choose to bring the subject before the board, you can. If you want my opinion, they won't thank you for it they're more likely to thank me.'
Harold Austin had glowered, but apparently decided to drop the subject, perhaps wisely because Austin Advertising was going to do just as well financially with the revised Keycharge campaign. But Alex knew he had created an antagonist. He doubted, though, if it would make any difference today since the Honorable Harold obviously preferred Roscoe Heyward and was lately to support him anyway.
One of his own strong supporters, Alex knew, was Leonard L. Kingswood, outspoken, energetic chairman of Northam Steel, now seated near the head of the table, conversing intently with his neighbor. It was Len Kingswood who had telephoned Alex several weeks ago to advise him that Roscoe Heyward was actively canvassing directors for support as president. 'I'm not saying you should do the same, Alex. That's for you to decide. But I'm warning you that what Roscoe's doing can be effective. He doesn't fool me. He's not a leader and I've told him so. But he has a persuasive way which is a hook that some may swallow.'
Alex had thanked Len Kingswood for the information but made no attempt to copy Heyward's tactics. Solicitation might help in some cases but could antagonize others who objected to personal pressure in such
