Chapter 12

The phone rang. “Mr. Tompkins?” A girl’s voice inquired. “Just a moment, Mr. Willamer of the Securities and Exchange Commission will speak to you.”

I didn’t like that “will.” “And who the hell, Arthurjean, is Mr. Willamer of the S.E.C.?” I asked in an aside.

“The woiks,” she said.

“Hullo, Tompkins,” a clear phonogenic baritone inquired. “This is Harry Willamer. I saw your list of selling-orders this morning and wondered if you would drop in and see me.”

“Certainly,” I said. “Shall I bring my books?”

“Not necessary. This is entirely informal. As a matter of fact, I have some gentlemen from Washington whom I think you will be interested in meeting. This is entirely unofficial, of course.”

“How about meeting me at the Pond Club at one o’clock?”

“That will be grand,” Mr. Willamer answered heartily. “The Pond Club at one o’clock it is.”

I turned to Arthurjean. “What kind of go-round is this? I start selling and inside an hour the S.E.C. is on my tail. Isn’t speculation legal any more?”

“Baby,” she remarked, “anything’s legal as long as you’re in with the right guys. All I can tell you is that Willamer is hot stuff. His aunt is a cousin of Jesse Jones or maybe it’s Henry Morgenthau. So you watch yourself and don’t do any talking out of turn.”

It was Tuesday, the 10th, and I had launched my plan of selling the war short in a determined campaign to unload G.M. and U.S. Steel. I was well covered in case of a rise, but there was already a million dollars of the firm’s money in the operation, behind the Fynch million which I had used to break the ice.

The Pond Club was the same as ever. Tammy was polishing the glasses in his little bar and there were no fellow-members in evidence. After all, I decided, they weren’t likely to show up much before three o’clock. However, I decided that privacy was called for, especially if Commander Tolan put in an appearance.

“Tammy,” I explained, as he produced his usual pick-me-up and waited for me to down it. “I’m expecting some gentlemen to join me in a few minutes. Is there a room where we could have a private conversation and still get something to drink?”

“Well, sir, Mr. Tompkins,” the steward said, “I think I could let you use the Minnow Room. That’s private and there’s a dumbwaiter to the bar. Just push the buzzer and say what you want in the phone and I’ll send it right up to you.”

“It sounds like perfection,” I told him. “I’ll go on up to the Minnow Room. The gentleman I’m expecting is named Willamer and he’ll have some friends with him. Just send them up when they arrive. How do you get there?”

Tammy looked a trifle startled. “That’s where you had your bachelor dinner, sir,” he reproved me. “Up the stairs and first door to your left, sir. You’ll remember it when you see it, I’m quite sure.”

Tammy was right. No one who had ever seen the Pond Club’s Minnow Room was likely to forget it. The wall on one side was lined solid with illuminated tanks containing gold-fish making fishy little zeros with their stupid mouths. The other walls were enlivened by frescoes of drunken fish in various hilarious attitudes. Indirect lighting gave a sort of Black Mass or Diabolical Fish-Fry effect to the whole. It was definitely not a room to stay sober in.

“Tompkins?” The door opened and an egg-smooth young man with a baldish head and pale eyebrows stood in the entrance. “I’m Harry Willamer. Meet the rest of the gang. Here’s Winston Sales of the War Production Board, Lieutenant-Colonel George Finogan of the Army Quartermaster Corps and Commander Raymond Coonley of the Navy Bureau of Supplies.”

Except for the uniforms, they might have been cousins--they were all fattish, baldish and blondish. They were all egg-like men, middle-aged, all hearty in manner and all seemed to have no particular reason for existing.

“Well, gentlemen,” I asked, “what will you have to drink?”

“Scotch-and-soda,” said Willamer. “Hell, let’s make it Scotch for everyone and save trouble.”

“I’d like a whiskey sour,” objected Commander Coonley. “I’ve got butterflies in my stomach after working with those hot-shots from Detroit last night.”

“Okay,” Willamer accepted the amendment. “One whiskey sour. Any other changes?”

There were none, so I signaled to Tammy and our order was filled.

“Tompkins,” Willamer remarked. “You’ll excuse this short notice but when I spotted your selling-orders in the market this morning I knew we had to move fast. First of all, I’d like to know why you are selling, when everybody else is buying.”

“Mr. Willamer,” I explained, “it’s none of the S.E.C.’s goddamned business what or why I sell so long as I follow the regulations.”

Willamer laughed. “Who said anything about the S.E.C.?” he demanded. “Oh, I get it. You thought this was an informal investigation by the Commission. Right? My fault. Should have told you that this has nothing to do with your firm’s market-position or the S.E.C.”

I took a reflective swallow of Scotch. “Then what the hell is this?” I asked.

Harry Willamer drew himself up, “We,” he explained, “are the Inter-Alia Trading Corporation. Your selling orders suggest that you don’t expect the war to last much longer.”

“I don’t,” I told him.

“Neither do we,” Willamer continued. “That’s why we’ve been busy organizing Inter-Alia. It’s a neat set-up. Sales here, on the War Production Board, is in a position to advise us of all cut-backs in war-contracts and keep in touch with the whole contract-termination program. Colonel Finogan is in the Quartermaster Corps and is the only man in the Army--”

“In the world, Harry,” Finogan corrected him.

“Right you are, George, in the world--who knows where all the surplus war-stocks are located. His office routes them to the depots. That in itself is worth a million dollars to the company. Anything from jeeps to nylons, Colonel Finogan knows where they are and what price will buy them. Commander Coonley is in the same position on Navy Supplies. Between him and Finogan there isn’t an ounce of anything from parachute-silk to bull-dozers which we can’t locate. As for me, I watch the way money and markets move here in Wall Street.”

I finished my drink. “That sounds wonderful, Mr. Willamer, but what has it got to do with me? You have the makings of a ten million dollar corporation between the four of you.”

Willamer raised a soft, white, well-manicured hand in a traffic-stopping gesture. “All but one thing, Tompkins,” he said. “We haven’t got working capital to exploit this set-up. That’s where you come in. Tompkins, Wasson & Cone controls between three and five million dollars and are smart operators. So long as you stuck to conservative methods, no dice for Inter-Alia, but when I saw you gambling on the early end of the war, I said to myself, this is where we can do business with Tompkins.”