She had started late, and two trips to the speakeasy took an extra chunk out of the day. It was nearly four before she got back to the office, to find a parcel waiting from George. She scooped it up, and then stopped as she nearly tripped over a set of tools on the floor.

“Sorry,” the receptionist said, as she picked herself up. “They’ll be done in a jiffy.” Susan looked at the work order curiously, but could not remember anything on the schedule.

“What is going on in meeting room 2C?”

“Mr. Killgrace bought a stock ticker. They’re installing it now.” Well, Susan thought, that would make things easier, but there was something else she needed to arrange.

“Sarah, I’m going to be working late nights and Saturdays for this week and next. I’m going to need someone to cover switchboard. It’s paid overtime.” The receptionist nodded as the phone rang again.

“I’ll cover tonight, and get a schedule sorted. Hello, Killgrace Industries…” Mouthing a silent thank you, Susan left her to it, hauling the thick package up to her office.

The statement of accounts was fairly hefty, more pages than she expected, and she spread the pages out on the office floor. Her Boston Edison gamble, and she knew it had been a gamble, had netted them another fourteen thousand dollars. Seven jobs for a year, or another one hundred and forty thousand dollars of shorts for the next two weeks.

Her total investments currently were roughly two million in cash, and nearly twenty million dollars in short positions on margin – and if she closed them all right now she would have one and a half million left to show for it. That was better than when she started, but nowhere near enough to last out the Depression. Nothing was certain yet. Until those positions were closed, the money could vanish in a heartbeat.

~ End Entry ~

(Closing Index: 320.91)

Tuesday 22nd October 1929

 

Henry knocked before he opened the door to Susan’s office, wondering why she had called him up so early. Susan was sitting behind the desk as usual, but the company lawyer, Mr. Marcus, was to her left. She was not smiling, and still looked tired.

“You asked for me, Ms Chapman?” Henry said, a little cautiously.

“Yes, Henry. Take a seat.” He did, with a quick nervous glance at the lawyer.

“I believe we have a few things to discuss,” she said, “Last Friday, I promised you ten percent of the value of a trade if it went right.” She held her hand up and the lawyer put a piece of paper into it. Henry began to shake his head, suddenly worried it had gone wrong and she was firing him.

“That was just crazy tal–” she slid the paper across to him and he picked it up. He choked.

“One thousand, four hundred dollars,” Susan said, with a delighted grin. “I keep my promises.” Henry nodded, still staring at the slip of paper. Then he coughed, doubling over. The cheque, more than a year’s wages, was clutched tightly in his hand. Susan got up and poured him a stiff gin from the bottle in the stationery cupboard.

“You need it,” she said.

“I’m working.”

“That’s one of the things we wanted to discuss. Are you sure you want to keep working for me?”

“Yes!” With bonuses like this, he thought, who wouldn’t?

“Do you have a bank account?” Henry looked at her, a little confused. No one he knew had a bank account, apart from her and the owner.

“No.”

“Henry, take my advice, please. If you are going to put this in a bank, put it in Porter & Mason. That bank is absolutely safe.”

“Don’t worry, Miss Chapman. I can just cash it at the pawn shop.” Susan stopped, visibly surprised by the comment.

“But they take a huge cut compared to a bank,” she said, and Henry nodded.

“Yeah, but the banks ain’t much use. Most of us don’t have the money for them, and they ain’t open when we can get to them.”

“There are three banks on this street,” Susan said, taken aback.

“They’re mostly for the factory owners and the foremen.”

“But we pay enough…”

“Ms. Chapman, it’s not the amount you pay. It’s who is doing the paying,” Henry said bluntly. For a moment she looked confused, and then slowly her eyes narrowed as she caught his meaning. She sat down slowly, and despite her age Henry felt as though he had just had to tell a child Santa was not real. Mr. Killgrace had been quite right; she really had been sheltered.

~