The boy careened into the ticker machine room an hour later, slamming the door open in his haste. Susan stood up and caught him as he tripped and nearly fell. He doubled over, trying to catch his breath and she guided him to a seat.
“The paper?” she asked, after a moment.
“Haven’t got one, Mrs Chapman. Rumour though.” The boy gasped for air, gabbling his words in excitement. “It’s the bankers, Miss Chapman. They’re buying.” He ran out of words, and Susan nodded in the quiet of the office.
“U.S.Steel?” she asked.
“And more. Word is there’s a rescue fund of a hundred million dollars!” The lad’s voice was excited, and she managed a faint smile. As she recalled the fund they had assembled was nowhere near that size, and the effects did not last – and in darker thoughts she seemed to remember that certain of the bankers held huge short positions in the same shares their banks were trying to support.
“Well done. Get a drink and then go out and check for a paper again.” She did not have any cash on her, so she wrote a quick slip for petty cash. “And give that to Polly for your tip.”
He nodded enthusiastically, mumbling something that might be ‘thanks’, and left. Susan sat down. The wireless broadcast cut to an emergency news bulletin a few minutes later. The bankers were reinvesting heavily, trying to boost confidence, and she shook her head at the announcement. Now was not the time. The decisions taken today would lead to the collapse of banks across the US within three years.
~
By the close of trade the market had recovered slightly, but was still down by six percent. It was not the steady fall of the index, or the huge volumes of shares traded that caught her attention. In the background, contrary to all her expectations and the lore of the time, Case’s price had gone up. The rise was less than seven points, under five percent, and thirty thousand dollars had just vanished.
The other shares had all fallen, hopefully enough to prevent a shortfall across her entire account. She stayed late again, in case the broker phoned with a margin call, but when the phone rang it was not the broker that spoke.
“Sam?” Susan was torn between concern and irritation that he was not George. “Phoning me twice in a week. Is everything alright?”
“Yeah. Susan, are you sure Porter & Mason is safe?”
“Yes,” she said, despite knowing she could not be so certain until October was over. The owner of a bank could show no doubt in it. “Why do you ask? Are you looking for somewhere to save?”
“Well, there’s this guy, see, and the word is he’s been going bar to bar, saying Porter & Mason are on the wrong end of the market.”
“Our friend the lawyer?” she asked.
“No. Older man, boot-polish hair, used to own a bank…” Sam let the words trail off.
“And his last name begins with M?” she said, smile vanishing. Spreading rumours about the bank being at risk was petty, vindictive and shallow, but in the current climate it could well be all it took to cause a run. If Mason wanted revenge for being pushed out, this was the perfect way to get it.
“I couldn’t say that. Heard it from a friend of a friend, you know.”
“I know. Thanks, Sam. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“How about tonight? I’ve got someone here who’d love to have a word.”
“George?” she said, standing up on reflex. “I’ll be right down there.” Hearing the click at his end, she put the phone down and grabbed her coat.
~
George was beginning to fidget by the time Susan walked in. He should be back at work, but this was too important. Trying to catch her attention, he waved, but she could not see him through the crowd. Resigned, he caught Sam’s eye and gestured for two drinks, walking across from the booth to the bar to meet her. She had taken a bar stool by the time he got there, chasing off the first unwelcome company with a curled lip and a sharp comment.
“Just the lady I wanted to talk to,” George grabbed the empty stool next to her, and its legs scraped against the floor as he almost fell onto it. He felt drained. Sam put the drinks down for them and walked down the bar to serve another customer.
“Likewise.” Susan’s reply was so quiet George almost missed it.
“What a mess. Looks like you’re better off out of it,” George said, downing his drink.
“No,” Susan said. She did not look round.
“You sure? That’s the worst market I’ve seen for years.” She did not answer, not even looking at him, but her grip on the glass tightened. Her knuckles stood pale under the skin.
“You think it’s gonna get worse,” he said in awe. He could not imagine anything worse than Thursday, short of another war. She said nothing. Drawing a breath, he lowered his voice. “I can open those positions Friday or Saturday. When do you want me to close those them?”
“Tuesday. Late…Tuesday,” she said eventually, and her voice was strained. “Don’t…discuss this.”
“Of course not. Client confidentiality.” George nodded, and raised his hand for another drink.
After a last strong whisky, he said a quick goodbye to Susan and left. The moment he was out of the speakeasy he began to run, flagging down a cab to get back to his office fast. There would still be people there late into the night, and what he had to say could not wait. Piling out of the cab he took the steps two at a time, barging into the office. No one paid much attention to one more sallow, exhausted figure in a room full of them, the air thick with the scent of cigarettes, sweat and stale coffee.
Ignoring the office boys frantically rushing papers to the filing cabinets, the brokers trying to recalculate portfolios as values changed, he walked through into the partner’s office at the back, closing the door and pulling the blind down so no one would see what he said. As the brokerage owner stood up behind the desk to protest the invasion of his office, George gathered his courage and said the two words that could end his career:
“Don’t buy.”
~ End Entry ~
(Closing Index 299.47)
