Free Executive Suite by Cameron Hawley Page A

do.”
    â€œNot clever enough to outsmart Avery Bullard.”
    â€œHe must have found out something.”
    â€œI tell you there was nothing to find out,” Caswell said, his voice sharpened with a quick-passing edge of irritation. “I spent two hours with Avery Bullard this morning. We went over the whole business from stem to stern. If there was any bad news in the wind he’d have told me about it.”
    â€œSure? From some of the stories I’ve heard you tell about Mr. Avery Bullard I’ve gathered the impression that he can be a bit of a fox himself—if the occasion demands it.”
    Caswell shook his head vigorously. “If I’ve ever said anything to give you that impression of Avery Bullard it was completely unintentional. He’s rough and tough and always swinging with both fists, but he’s one of the most uncompromisingly honest men that I’ve ever known in my whole life. I think—yes, it’s true—I have more respect for Avery Bullard than for any man I’ve ever done business with. If I were to lose my faith in him I’d lose my faith in everyone.”
    â€œI long since have,” Finch said with a wry chuckle. “It’s not as much of a handicap as you might think. Helps you keep your perspective.”
    George Caswell did not smile. He found no humor in Finch’s cynicism.
    â€œWhat’s the matter, George, still worried?” Finch finally said, breaking the silence.
    â€œNot worried,” Caswell said slowly. “Just wondering why Avery Bullard didn’t call me back this afternoon.
    5.12 P.M. EDT
    Bruce Pilcher, exercising his self-endowed prerogative as a third-generation member of the Greenback Club who had been proposed for membership on the day of his birth, ordered a very dry Martini to be served in the reading room, a violation of the house rules.
    Andrew, the oldest of the club’s attendants, shuffled in with the cocktail and Bruce Pilcher flipped a dollar tip on the wet tray. The waiter sponged the bill dry, making no attempt to conceal the fact that his annoyance exceeded his gratitude.
    Pilcher was completely unaware of Andrew’s openly critical attitude but he would not have been disturbed even if he had noticed it. The perpetually sour mien of all of the club’s employees was as much a part of the decorative scheme as the collection of gold-framed life-size nudes that sprawled lasciviously over the worthless stock certificates with which the walls were completely covered.
    â€œWhere are the late papers, Andrew?” Pilcher demanded.
    The old waiter silently indicated the rack.
    â€œI want the final editions. Is there any good reason why they shouldn’t be here by now?”
    Andrew shuffled out.
    Pilcher lifted the cocktail, studying the tracery of lemon oil that marbled the surface. The tremor of his hand started tiny ringlet waves and, as if their consumption might banish his nervousness, he gulped deeply, half of the glass in a single draught.
    There was no reason for nervousness, he told himself. It was perfectly understandable why there had been nothing in the Wall Street Closing editions about Avery Bullard … hadn’t been time … might not be anything in the Final either. But that wouldn’t matter. It would be there in the morning. No, that wasn’t anything to be nervous about. Neither was the two thousand shares. Yes, he had been shocked when Wingate had called back to tell him that they had sold two thousand shares … hadn’t expected anything like that in twenty minutes on an inactive issue … but still it was all right … better than all right … perfect! When you held the winning cards, the bigger the pot the better.
    Wingate had told him that the reason he had been able to sell so much Tredway was that there was a rumor on the floor that some of the smart-money boys were expecting an unusually good semi-annual report on