Small as this exercise of authority was, it was significant, for it showed that Constant had at last become interested in something he owned. And, though his holdings in the firm had more than doubled in value, he did not sell them all. He sold only forty-nine per cent of them.
Thereafter, he continued to take the advice of his Gideon Bible, but he kept big pieces of any firm he really liked.
During his first two years in Room 223 of the Wilburhampton, Noel Constant had only one visitor. That visitor did not know he was rich. His one visitor was a chambermaid named Florence Whitehill, who spent one night out of ten with him for a small, flat fee.
Florence, like everyone else in the Wilburhampton, believed him when he said he was a trader in stamps. Personal hygiene was not Noel Constant’s strongest Suit. It was easy to believe that his work brought him into regular contact with mucilage.
The only people who knew how rich he was were employees of the Bureau of Internal Revenue and of the august accounting firm of Clough and Higgins.
Then, after two years, Noel Constant received his second visitor in Room 223.
The second visitor was a thin and watchful blue-eyed man of twenty-two. He engaged Noel Constant’s serious attention by announcing that he was from the United States Bureau of Internal Revenue.
Constant invited the young man into his room, motioned for him to sit on the bed. He himself remained standing.
“They sent a child, did they?” said Noel Constant. The visitor was not offended. He turned the gibe to his own advantage, using it in an image of himself that was chilling indeed. “A child with a heart of stone and a mind as quick as a mongoose, Mr. Constant,” he said. “I have also been to Harvard Business School.”
“That may be so,” said Constant, “but I don’t think you can hurt me. I don’t owe the Federal Government a dime.”
The callow visitor nodded. “I know,” he said. “I found everything in apple-pie order.”
The young man looked around the room. He wasn’t surprised by its squalor. He was worldly enough to have expected something diseased.
“I’ve been over your income-tax reports for the past two years,” he said, “and, by my calculations, you are the luckiest man who ever lived.”
“Lucky?” said Noel Constant.
“I think so,” said the young visitor. “Don’t you think so? For instance — what does ELCO Hoist Company manufacture?”
“ELCO Hoist?” said Noel Constant blankly.
“You owned fifty-three per cent of it for a period of two months,” said the young visitor.
“Why — hoists — things for lifting various articles,” said Noel Constant stuffily. “And various allied products.”
The young visitor’s smile made cat’s whiskers under his nose. “For your information,” he said, “ELCO Hoist Company was a name given by the Government in the last war to a top-secret laboratory that was developing underwater listening gear. After the war, it was sold’ to private enterprise, and the name was never changed — since the work was still top secret, and the only customer was still the Government.
“Suppose you tell me,” said the young visitor, “what it was you learned about Indiana Novelty that made you think it was a shrewd investment? Did you think they made little party poppers with paper hats inside?”
“I have to answer these questions for the Bureau of Internal Revenue?” said Noel Constant. “I have to describe every company I owned in detail, or I can’t keep the money?”
“I was simply asking for my own curiosity. From your reaction, I gather that you haven’t the remotest idea what Indiana Novelty does. For your information, Indiana Novelty manufactures nothing, but holds certain key patents on tire-recapping machinery.”
“Suppose we get down to the Bureau of Internal Revenue business,” said Noel Constant curtly.
“I’m no longer with the Bureau,” said the young visitor. “I resigned my one hundred-and-fourteen-dollar-a-week job this morning in order to take a job making two thousand dollars a week.”
“Working for whom?” said Noel Constant.
“Working for you,” said the young man. He stood, held out his hand. “Ransom K. Fern is the name,” he said.