The two-day lying-in-state was at St. Matthew’s Cathedral, appropriate since Matthew—once Levi the tax collector—is considered by bankers as a patron saint. Some two thousand people, including a presidential representative, the state governor, ambassadors, civic leaders, bank employees and many humbler souls, filed past the bier and open casket.
On the morning of burial—taking no chances—an archbishop, a bishop, and a monsignor concelebrated a Mass of the Resurrection. A full choir intoned responses to prayers with reassuring volume. Within the cathedral, which was filled, a section near the altar had been reserved for Rosselli relatives and friends. Immediately behind were directors and senior officers of First Mercantile American Bank.
Roscoe Heyward, dressed somberly in black, was in the first row of bank mourners, accompanied by his wife Beatrice, an imperious, sturdy woman, and their son, Elmer. Heyward, an Episcopalian, had studied the correct Catholic procedures in advance and genuflected elegantly, both before seating himself and on departure later—the last a piece of punctilio which many Catholics ignored. The Heywards also knew the Mass responses so that their voices dominated others nearby who didn’t.
Alex Vandervoort, wearing charcoal gray and seated two rows behind the Heywards, was among the non-responders. An agnostic, he felt out of place in these surroundings. He wondered how Ben, essentially a simple man, would have regarded this ornate ceremony.
Beside Alex, Margot Bracken looked around her with curiosity. Originally Margot had planned to attend the funeral with a group from Forum East, but last night she had stayed at Alex’s apartment and he persuaded her to accompany him today. The Forum East delegation—a large one—was somewhere behind them in the church.
Next to Margot were Edwina and Lewis D’Orsey, the latter looking gaunt and starved as usual and frankly bored. Probably, Alex thought, Lewis was mentally drafting the next edition of his investment newsletter. The D’Orseys had ridden here with Margot and Alex—the four of them were often together, not just because Edwina and Margot were cousins, but because they found each other’s company agreeable. After the Mass of the Resurrection they would all go to the graveside service.
In the row ahead of Alex were Jerome Patterton, the vice-chairman, and his wife.
Despite his detachment from the liturgy, Alex found tears spring to his eyes as the coffin passed by and was carried from the church. His feeling for Ben, he had realized over the past few days, was close to love. In some ways the old man had been a father figure; his death left a gap in Alex’s life which would not be filled.
Margot reached gently for his hand and held it.
As mourners began filing out he saw Roscoe and Beatrice Heyward glance their way. Alex nodded and the greeting was returned. Heyward’s face softened in an acknowledgment of mutual grief, their feud—in recognition of their own, as well as Ben’s mortality—for this brief moment put aside.
Outside the cathedral, regular traffic had been diverted. The coffin was already in a flower-laden hearse. Now, relatives and bank officials were getting into limousines being brought up under police direction. A police motorcycle escort, engines running noisily, was at the head of the assembling cortege.
The day was gray and cold with eddies of wind raising dust whorls in the street. High above, the cathedral towers loomed, the whole façade immense and blackened by the grime of years. Snow had been forecast earlier but so far had not appeared.
While Alex signaled for his car, Lewis D’Orsey peered over his half-moon glasses at TV and still cameramen, shooting pictures of the emerging mourners. He observed, “If I find all this depressing, and I do, the reports should depress FMA stock even more tomorrow.”
Alex murmured uneasy agreement. Like Lewis, he was aware that First Mercantile American shares, listed on the New York Stock Exchange, had fallen five and a half points since news of Ben’s illness. The death of the last Rosselli—a name which for generations had been synonymous with the bank—coupled with uncertainty about the course of future management, had caused the most recent drop. Now, even though illogically, publicity about the funeral could depress the stock still further.
“Our stock will go up again,” Alex said. “Earnings are good and nothing’s really changed.”
“Oh, I know that,” Lewis agreed. “It’s why I’ll cover my short position tomorrow afternoon.”
Edwina looked shocked. “You shorted FMA?”
“Sure did. Advised a few clients to do the same. As of right now there’s a tidy profit.”
She protested, “You and I know I never discuss anything confidential with you, Lewis. Others don’t. Because of my connection with the bank you could be accused of insider trading.”
Alex shook his head. “Not in this case, Edwina. Ben’s illness was public knowledge.”
“When we eventually make over the capitalist system,” Margot said, “selling short on the stock market will be one of the first things to go.”
Lewis raised his eyebrows. “Why?”
“Because it’s totally negative. Short selling is disruptive speculation that requires someone else to lose. It’s ghoulish and a non-contribution. It creates nothing.”
“It creates a handy-dandy capital gain.” Lewis grinned broadly; he had crossed arguments with Margot many times before. “And that isn’t easy to come by nowadays, at least with American investments.”
“I still don’t like you doing it with FMA stock,” Edwina said. “It’s too close to home.”
Lewis D’Orsey looked at his wife gravely. “In that case, my dear, after I’ve covered my shorts tomorrow I will never trade in FMA again.”
Margot glanced over sharply.
“You know he means it,” Alex said.
Alex wondered sometimes about the relationship between Edwina and her husband. Outwardly they seemed ill-matched—Edwina elegantly attractive and self-possessed; Lewis, scrawny, unimpressive physically, an introvert except with those he knew well, though the personal reticence never showed in his roaring-lion financial newsletter. But their marriage appeared to work well, and each showed respect and affection for the other, as Lewis had just now. Perhaps, Alex thought, it proved that not only did opposites attract; they tended to stay married.
Alex’s Cadillac from the bank car pool moved into the lengthening line outside the cathedral and the four of them walked toward it.
“It would have been a more civilized promise,” Margot said, “if Lewis agreed not to sell anything short.”
“Alex,” Lewis said, “what the hell do you have in common with this socialist broad?”
“We’re great in the sack,” Margot told him. “Isn’t that enough?”
Alex said, “And I’d like to marry her soon.”
Edwina responded warmly, “Then I hope you will.” She and Margot had been close since childhood, despite occasional clashes of temperament and outlook. Something they had in common was that in both branches of their family women were strong, with a tradition of involvement in public life. Edwina asked Alex quietly, “Anything new with Celia?”
He shook his head. “Nothing’s changed. If anything, Celia’s worse.”
They were at the car. Alex motioned the chauffeur to remain seated, then opened a rear door for the others and followed them in. Inside, the glass panel separating the driver from the passenger seats was closed. They settled down while the still assembling cortege inched forward.
For Alex, the mention of Celia sharpened the sadness of this moment; it also reminded him guiltily that he should visit her again soon. Since the session at the Remedial Center in early October which had so depressd him, he had paid one other call, but Celia had been even more withdrawn, gave not the slightest sign of recognition, and wept silently the entire time. He remained dejected for days afterward and dreaded a repeat performance.
The thought occurred now that Ben Rosselli, in the coffin up ahead, was better off than Celia because his life had ended conclusively. If only Celia would die … Alex quelled the thought wit
h shame.
Nor had anything new developed between himself and Margot, who remained adamantly opposed to a divorce, at least until it became clear that Celia would be unaffected. Margot seemed willing to go on indefinitely with the arrangement they had. Alex was less resigned.
Lewis addressed Edwina. “I’ve been meaning to ask what the latest is about that young assistant of yours. The one who got caught with his arm in the cash drawer. What was his name?”
“Miles Eastin,” Edwina answered. “He appears in criminal court next week and I have to be a witness. I’m not looking forward to it.”
“At least you got the blame where it should be,” Alex said. He had read the audit chiefs report about the embezzlement and cash loss; also that of Nolan Wainwright. “What about the teller who was involved—Mrs. Núñez? Is she okay?”
“She seems to be. I’m afraid we gave Juanita a hard time. Unjustly, as it turned out.”
Margot, only half listening, now, sharpened her attention. “I know a Juanita Núñez. Nice young woman who lives at Forum East. I believe her husband left her. She has a child.”
“That sounds like our Mrs. Núñez,” Edwina said. “Yes, I remember now. She does live at Forum East.”
Though Margot was curious, she sensed it was not a time for further questions.
As they sat, briefly silent, Edwina pursued her thoughts. The two recent events—Ben Rosselli’s death and Miles Eastin’s foolish wrecking of his life—had come too close together. Both, involving people whom she liked, had saddened her.
She supposed she should care more about Ben; she owed him most. Her own rapid rise within the bank had been due to ability; however, Ben had never hesitated—as many employers did—to allow a woman the same opportunity as men. Nowadays Edwina resented the parrot cries of women’s lib. As she saw it, women in business were being favored because of their sex, giving them an advantage Edwina had never sought or needed. Just the same, across the years she had known Ben, his presence was a guarantee of equal treatment.
Like Alex, Edwina had been moved to tears in the cathedral as Ben’s body passed by on its outward journey.
Her thoughts returned to Miles. He was young enough, she supposed, to build another kind of life, though it would not be easy. No bank would ever employ him; nor would anyone else, in a position of trust. Despite what he had done, she hoped he would not be sent to prison.
Aloud, Edwina said, “I always get a guilty feeling about ordinary conversation at a funeral.”
“No reason to,” Lewis said. “Personally, at mine I’d like to think there was something solid being said, not just small talk.”
“You could make certain of that,” Margot suggested, “by publishing a farewell edition of The D’Orsey Newsletter. Pallbearers could hand out copies.”
Lewis beamed. “I might just do that.”
Now the cortege began to move onward more purposefully. Up ahead the motorcycle escort had revved up and was rolling; two outriders shot forward to halt traffic at intersections. The other vehicles following increased their speed and moments later the procession left St. Matthew’s Cathedral behind and was passing through city streets.
The snow which had been forecast was beginning to fall lightly.
“I like that idea of Margot’s,” Lewis mused. “A ‘Bon Voyage Bulletin.’ And I have a headline for it. ‘Bury the U. S. Dollar with Me! You Might as Well—It’s Dead and Done For.’ Then, in what follows, I shall urge creation of a new unit of currency to replace the dollar—the ‘U. S. D’Orsey.’ Based, of course, on gold. Later, when it’s happened, the rest of the world will hopefully have the sense to follow suit.”
“Then you’d be a monument to retrogression,” Margot said, “and any picture of you should have the head facing backwards. On a gold standard, even fewer people than now would own most of the world’s wealth, with the rest of mankind left bare-assed.”
Lewis grimaced. “A distasteful prospect—at least, the last one. But even that price might be worth a stable money system.”
Alex, on a jump seat ahead of the other three, half turned to join the conversation. “Lewis, I try to be objective and sometimes your gloom about dollars and the money system makes sense. But I can’t share your total pessimism. I believe the dollar can recover. I can’t believe everything monetary is falling apart.”
“That’s because you don’t want to believe it,” Lewis retorted. “You’re a banker. If the money system collapses, you and your bank are out of business. All you could do would be to sell off the worthless paper currency as wallpaper or toilet rolls.”
Margot said, “Oh, come on!”
Edwina sighed. “You know this always happens when you provoke him, so why do it?”
“No, no!” her husband insisted. “With all respect, my dear, I demand to be taken seriously. I neither need nor want tolerance.”
Margot asked, “What do you want?”
“I want the truth to be accepted that America has ruined its own * and the world’s money system because of politics, greed, and debt. I want it clearly understood that bankruptcy can happen to nations as well as to individuals and corporations. I want a realization that the United States is close to bankruptcy because, God knows!, there’s enough precedent and history to show us how and why it happens. The collapse of currencies isn’t new. Our own century is littered with examples, each one traceable to the selfsame cause—a government which began the syphilis of inflation by printing fiat money unbacked by gold or any other value. For the past fifteen years the United States has done precisely that.”
“There are more dollars in circulation than there should be,” Alex admitted. “No one with any sense doubts it.”
Lewis nodded dourly. “There’s also more debt than can ever be repaid; debt that’s expanding like a monstrous bubble. American governments have spent billions wildly, borrowed insanely, piled up debits beyond believing, then used the painting presses to create more paper money and inflation. And people, individuals, have followed that example.” Lewis motioned in the direction of the hearse ahead. “Bankers like Ben Rosselli have done their damnedest, piling crazy debts on debts. You too, Alex, with your inflationary credit cards and easy borrowing. When will people relearn the lesson that there isn’t any easy debt? I tell you, as a nation and as individuals, Americans have lost what they once had—financial sanity.”
“In case you’re wondering, Margot,” Edwina said, “Lewis and I don’t discuss banking much. It’s more peaceful at home that way.”
Margot smiled. “Lewis, you sounded exactly like your newsletter.”
“Or,” he said, “like the beating of wings in an empty room where no one hears.”
Edwina said suddenly, “It’s going to be a white funeral.” She leaned forward, looking through the car’s steamy windows at the snow outside, now falling heavily. The suburban streets which they had reached were smooth with freshly fallen snow and the cortege slowed as the police motorcycle escort up ahead reduced its speed for safety.
The cemetery, Alex realized, was barely half a mile away.
Lewis D’Orsey was adding a postscript. “So, for the bulk of people, all hope is gone, the money game is over. Savings, pensions and fixed interest investments are becoming worthless; the clock’s at five past midnight. Right now it’s every man for himself, a time to survive, for individuals to scramble for financial life belts. And there are ways to profit from general misfortune. In case you’re interested, Margot, you’ll find descriptions in my latest book, Depressions and Disasters: How to Make Money from Them. Incidentally, it’s selling very well.”
“If you don’t mind,” Margot said, “I’ll pass. It seems a bit like cornering vaccine in an outbreak of bubonic plague.”
Alex had turned his back to the others and was peering through the windshield. Sometimes, he reflected, Lewis became theatrical and went too far. Usually, though, an undercurrent of sense and solid reasoning ran through everything he said. It had today. And Lewis could be righ
t about a financial crash ahead. If it happened, it would be the most disastrous in history.
Nor was Lewis D’Orsey alone. A few financial pundits shared his views, though they were unpopular and frequently derided, perhaps because no one wanted to believe an apocalypse of doom—bankers least of all.
But it was coincidental that Alex’s own thoughts had been turning of late in two of Lewis’s directions. One was a need for greater thrift and saving—a reason Alex had urged emphasis on savings deposits in his presentation to the board a week ago. The second was unease about the swelling debts of individuals resulting from proliferating credit, including, especially, those plastic cards.
He swung around once more, confronting Lewis. “Believing the way you do—that a crash is coming soon—and assuming you were an ordinary saver or depositor with U.S. dollars, what kind of bank would you want to have your money in?”
Lewis said unhesitatingly, “A big bank. When a crash comes, small banks are the first to fail. It happened in the 1920s when small banks went down like tenpins, and it will happen again because small banks don’t have sufficient cash to survive a panic and a run. Incidentally, forget federal deposit insurance! The money available is less than one percent of all bank deposits, nowhere near enough to cover a countrywide chain of bank failures.”
Lewis considered, then went on. “But small banks won’t be the only ones to fail next time. A few of the big ones will go under, too—those with too many millions locked into big industrial loans; with too high a proportion of international deposits—hot money which can vanish overnight; with too little liquidity when scared depositors want cash. So if I were your mythical depositor, Alex, I’d study the balance sheets of the big banks, then choose one with a low loan-to-deposit ratio and a broad base of domestic depositors.”
“Well, that’s nice,” Edwina said. “It just so happens that FMA fills all of those conditions.”
Alex nodded. “At the moment.” But the picture could change, he reasoned, if Roscoe Heyward’s plans for new and massive loans to industry were agreed to by the board.