“Hurry up, will you?” he called irritably. “I’ve got to dress,”
She did not answer. She had left the door of the bathroom open; he could hear the sound of gargling.
Why do I do those things?—he thought, remembering last night. But it was too much trouble to look for an answer.
Betty Pope came into the living room, dragging the folds of a satin negligee harlequin-checkered in orange and purple. She looked awful in a negligee, thought Taggart; she was ever so much better in a riding habit, in the photographs on the society pages of the newspapers. She was a lanky girl, all bones and loose joints that did not move smoothly.
She had a homely face, a bad complexion and a look of impertinent condescension derived from the fact that she belonged to one of the very best families.
“Aw, hell!” she said at nothing in particular, stretching herself to limber up. “Jim, where are your nail clippers? I’ve got to trim my toenails.”
“I don’t know. I have a headache. Do it at home.”
“You look unappetizing in the morning.” she said indifferently. “You look like a snail.”
“Why don’t you shut up?”
She wandered aimlessly about the room. “I don’t want to go home,” she said with no particular feeling. “I hate morning. Here’s another day and nothing to do. I’ve got a tea session on for this afternoon, at Liz Blane’s. Oh well, it might be fun, because Liz is a bitch.” She picked up a glass and swallowed the stale remnant of a drink. “Why don’t you have them repair your air-conditioner? This place smells.”
“Are you through in the bathroom?” he asked. “I have to dress. I have an important engagement today.”
“Go right in. I don’t mind. I’ll share the bathroom with you. I hate to be rushed.”
While he shaved, he saw her dressing in front of the open bathroom door. She took a long time twisting herself into her girdle, hooking garters to her stockings, pulling on an ungainly, expensive tweed suit.
The harlequin negligee, picked from an advertisement in the smartest fashion magazine, was like a uniform which she knew to be expected on certain occasions, which she had worn dutifully for a specified purpose and then discarded.
The nature of their relationship had the same quality. There was no passion in it, no desire, no actual pleasure, not even a sense of shame.
To them, the act of sex was neither joy nor sin. It meant nothing. They had heard that men and women were supposed to sleep together, so they did.
“Jim, why don’t you take me to the Armenian restaurant tonight?” she asked. “I love shish-kebab.”
“I can’t,” he answered angrily through the soap lather on his face.
“I’ve got a busy day ahead.”
“Why don’t you cancel it?”
“What?”
“Whatever it is.”
“It is very important, my dear. It is a meeting of our Board of Directors.”
“Oh, don’t be stuffy about your damn railroad. It’s boring. I hate businessmen. They’re dull.”
He did not answer.
She glanced at him slyly, and her voice acquired a livelier note when she drawled, “Jock Benson said that you have a soft snap on that railroad anyway, because it’s your sister who runs the whole works.”
“Oh, he did, did he?”
“I think that your sister is awful. I think it’s disgusting—a woman acting like a grease-monkey and posing around like a big executive. It’s so unfeminine. Who does she think she is, anyway?”
Taggart stepped out to the threshold. He leaned against the doorjamb, studying Betty Pope. There was a faint smile on his face, sarcastic and confident. They had, he thought, a bond in common.
“It might interest you to know, my dear,” he said, “that I’m putting the skids under my sister this afternoon.”
“No?” she said, interested. “Really?”
“And that is why this Board meeting is so important.”
“Are you really going to kick her out?”
“No. That’s not necessary or advisable. I shall merely put her in her place. It’s the chance I’ve been waiting for.”
“You got something on her? Some scandal?”
“No, no. You wouldn’t understand. It’s merely that she’s gone too far, for once, and she’s going to get slapped down. She’s pulled an inexcusable sort of stunt, without consulting anybody. It’s a serious offense against our Mexican neighbors. When the Board hears about it, they’ll pass a couple of new rulings on the Operating Department, which will make my sister a little easier to manage.”
“You’re smart, Jim,” she said.
“I’d better get dressed.” He sounded pleased. He turned back to the washbowl, adding cheerfully, “Maybe I will take you out tonight and buy you some shish-kebab.”
The telephone rang.
He lifted the receiver. The operator announced a long-distance call from Mexico City.
The hysterical voice that came on the wire was that of his political man in Mexico.
“I couldn’t help it, Jim!” it gulped. “I couldn’t help it! . . . We had no warning, I swear to God, nobody suspected, nobody saw it coming, I’ve done my best, you can’t blame me, Jim, it was a bolt out of the blue! The decree came out this morning, just five minutes ago, they sprang it on us like that, without any notice! The government of the People’s State of Mexico has nationalized the San Sebastian Mines and the San Sebastian Railroad.”
“. . . and, therefore, I can assure the gentlemen of the Board that there is no occasion for panic. The event of this morning is a regrettable development, but I have full confidence—based on my knowledge of the inner processes shaping our foreign policy in Washington—that our government will negotiate an equitable settlement with the government of the People’s State of Mexico, and that we will receive full and just compensation for our property.”
James Taggart stood at the long table, addressing the Board of Directors. His voice was precise and monotonous; it connoted safety.
“I am glad to report, however, that I foresaw the possibility of such a turn of events and took every precaution to protect the interests of Taggart Transcontinental. Some months ago, I instructed our Operating Department to cut the schedule on the San Sebastian Line down to a single train a day, and to remove from it our best motive power and rolling stock, as well as every piece of equipment that could be moved.
The Mexican government was able to seize nothing but a few wooden cars and one superannuated locomotive. My decision has saved the company many millions of dollars—I shall have the exact figures computed and submit them to you. I do feel, however, that our stockholders will be justified in expecting that those who bore the major responsibility for this venture should now bear the consequences of their negligence. I would suggest, therefore, that we request the resignation of Mr. Clarence Eddington, our economic consultant, who recommended the construction of the San Sebastian Line, and of Mr. Jules Mott, our representative in Mexico City.”
The men sat around the long table, listening. They did not think of what they would have to do, but of what they would have to say to the men they represented. Taggart’s speech gave them what they needed.
Orren Boyle was waiting for him, when Taggart returned to his office. Once they were alone, Taggart’s manner changed. He leaned against the desk, sagging, his face loose and white.
“Well?” he asked.
Boyle spread his hands out helplessly. “I’ve checked, Jim,” he said.
“It’s straight all right; d’Anconia’s lost fifteen million dollars of his own money in those mines. No, there wasn’t anything phony about that, he didn’t pull any sort of trick, he put up his own cash and now he’s lost it.”
“Well, what’s he going to do about it?”
“That—I don’t know. Nobody does.”
“He’s not going to let himself be robbed, is he? He’s too smart for that. He must have something up his sleeve.”
“I sure hope so.”
“He’s outwitted some of the slickest combinations of money-grubbers on earth. Is he going to be taken by a bunch of Greaser politicians with a decree? He must have something on them, and he’ll get the last word, and we must be sure to be in on it, too!”
“That’s up to you, Jim. You’re his friend.”
“Friend be damned! I hate his guts.”
He pressed a button for his secretary. The secretary entered uncertainly, looking unhappy; he was a young man, no longer too young, with a bloodless face and the well-bred manner of genteel poverty.
“Did you get me an appointment with Francisco d’Anconia?” snapped Taggart.
“No, sir.”
“But, God damn it, I told you to call the—”
“I wasn’t able to, sir. I have tried.”
“Well, try again.”
“I mean I wasn’t able to obtain the appointment, Mr. Taggart.”
“Why not?”
“He declined it.”
“You mean he refused to see me?”
“Yes, sir, that is what I mean.”