@At_Your_Throat
1552
We are all selfish one way or another; even in our virtues can be found some traces of 'self-first'. Take friendship for example. Rare is the friendship based entirely on unquestioning sacrifice which asks no return. Even the understanding of mutual loyalty is ensuring, basically, a return on sacrifices. This of course is more appreciable when a friendship is grounded in a material environment. Such was the delicate position of the three involved in the following incident.
Brandon Wilsted was as big as they come in the business world. He knew the game backwards and controlled many puppets on strings of dollar notes. Two of these were Paul Heath and Phillip Drake. Both were not particularly strong men; the kind that are slaves to fashion and fortune, yet who are so strong when it comes to totalling their bank accounts. Heath was virtually a production-management genius. Wilsted had found him in one of his production plants, elevated him to a company director, and had exploited and stepped on him in return. Yet Heath always felt a strong kind of gratitude and obligation towards his boss, and this, plus his natural timidity, had always kept him from antagonising his superior.
Phillip Drake was also a director, had been brought up the same way as Heath, but reacted in a manner much different from that of his counterpart. In his latest clash, he had tried to persuade Wilsted to create a certain transaction which, although it would mean overflowing coffers for them, was an outright betrayal of the rights of shareholders and minor enterprises. However, Wilsted had realised the stigma the firm would have to carry ever after, and had rightly concluded that immediate profits are not as valuable as long-term returns. Thus the United Plastics scheme, as it was called, was shelved without almost any further discussion. Drake resented it bitterly and discussed it with Heath as they finished work. It was the eve of a two-day public holiday, yet not even the pleasures of an unhurried two days at a fishing lodge could detract from the anger Drake felt.
"And there he sat, Paul, and for once in his life he turned down easy money."
"Well, he has always told me that there is no such thing as easy money; that everything has a price sooner or later."
The apologetic tone of Heath's voice infuriated Drake as he almost wrenched the clip from his brief case.
"You, Paul, you are the perfect disciple; you repeat your master's teachings at the precise moment every time."
"Now see here, Phil...”
"Oh, I'm sorry. It's just that Brandon makes me mad. You know he doesn't use his company car. He is so cheap he doesn't buy a car for himself, but leaves the company car to his wife, and catches a train to his charming little Chelmsford home. It would make you sick."
"Well, at least he misses out on the traffic at this time of the afternoon. It's not even three o'clock yet and the cars are all piled up. I will just check on the radio to see if the bridge is blocked up as usual. If it is I think I'll eat in town."
The small black box erupted into the sounds of invisible sparks; however, the spluttering and static soon settled down to the deep, penetrating voice which promulgated the news every hour on the hour. The news reader continued with his pageant of what fate had brought that day.
“... and is meeting with delegates on Saturday. A late news flash. At the small rail- station of Chelmsford, a few minutes ago, a middle -aged man collapsed off the station platform on to the tracks of an oncoming express. He died instantly. The body could not be recognised by anyone at the station and all that was found on it of use was a handkerchief
with the initials B.W. Later tonight a full police description will be announced."
Heath ended all further sound from the black box by cutting off its power. He then collected his papers and raincoat and prepared to pack up.
Drake, however, remained frozen. His still, quiet eyes not translating the turbulence going on in his mind.
"Paul, don't you see, don't you see!"
"Yes, I see quite well enough, thank you, Phillip. I only have these glasses for reading." Then the puzzled look on his face intensified as he realised he had given quite the wrong answer.
"No, no!" an exasperated Drake replied in disgust. "Can't you see the tie-up? I'll spell it out for you. Recently this afternoon; Chelmsford station; middle-aged man; collapsed; killed; initials B.W."
Heath stood silent, his bottom lip fallen in disbelief. Finally he managed, "Oh Lord no!"
"Oh yes!" came back Phillip full of energy, "but I can't see why they didn't find his name in his wallet."
"Mr. Wilsted never took his wallet on the train home. He had no use for it and what with all those train muggings recently.”
At Heath's verification Drake gripped him by the shoulders and shook him so violently that the drooped bottom lip bounced like a puncher's bag.
"This is our chance," he cried. "Here is what we do. Now the exchange closes for the holiday in an hour's time. If I get our broker to sell all our shares in this firm, and also contact Bright, our chief manager, to go ahead with the United Plastics deal, we get out of the firm before Wilsted's death gets out, and before the ship sinks. We still get the money coming to us from the Plastics deal, and we are set for life, my friend."
Heath was stunned by the speed and vigour of his partner's thinking and came around after he had finally digested it. "Yes, but what if he isn't dead? We will be sunk."
"Look," said Drake, tired of having to clarify everything, "his wife is at her sister's, you drove her to the airport yourself. Now, the least we can hope for is that he won't be missed or recognised till after the public holiday. We just say Wilsted made the Plastics deal, and sacked us and our holdings. We get cleared – and rich." He smiled in direct opposition to the look of horror on Heath's face.
"Oh, no, Phillip, we can't do that. That would be vilifying a dead man, our friend."
"Oh, blast our friend. Paul, don't you realise he needed and used us. What did we get in return, compared to what he got?"
Still the look of horror remained. Drake made another attempt. "Paul, do you know they laugh at you behind your back."
This hit home well, and Phillip smiled as he watched the change of expression on Heath's face. He continued. "Yes, and the way they think you are spineless; well, I think I just might have to agree."
"But, Phillip...”
"No, Paul, there are no 'buts'!"
"All right," a resigned and hurt Heath finally answered. "You make the arrangements, please."
"Good boy,” and Drake patted him on the back.
As he eagerly dialled the numbers, he did not notice the dipped head and the flooding flush as it usurped the deep tan on Paul's cheeks.
"Frank, hello, this is Phil. I want you to hurry and sell all the stock belonging to myself and Mr.Heath, and sell it before closing time. It will be easy, good! And, Frank, if you don't mention who owns the shares, you can have a holiday bonus. It's a pleasure. Happy holiday. Goodbye."
Heath was sickened by the complete absence of restraint in Drake as he made that, and the following call. He was bright and cool, yet exhibited an evil only Heath could detect.
"Well, it's all done, Paul. After the holidays, we just sit back and accept the money, and-“
"And leave the sinking ships like a certain type of rodent," volunteered Paul. He quickly continued with a vigor which escaped Drake. "You know, Mr. Drake, I sicken myself, and you revolt me even more. We're not even human, we aren't.”
Roars of laughter stopped him from saying any more. He quickly packed his bag and hurried out of the building. As he left, Drake's laughter incensed to virtual hysterics. Finally the rattling of buckets attracted Drake's attention. It was the cleaning woman; two hours had passed since he had fallen into a restful doze in his chair. Drowsily he bade the lady good evening. The markets were closed, the deal all settled and just this once he would listen to the gossipy woman's perpetual chatter. As usual she started off.
"Good, I am glad I caught you, Mr. Drake. One of the girls downstairs asked me to tell you to try and excuse Mr. Wilsted's absence from the Club tonight."
They found out quickly, thought Phillip.
“I don't suppose the girl knows where he is," he inquired testingly.
"Oh yes, she said something about a death."
He smiled inwardly till he was fit to burst.
“... and that Mr. Wilsted had to stay at home because his neighbour, a Mr. Bruce Williams, had been killed this afternoon. Terrible thing that. Seems he had a bad heart just like Mr. Wilsted, and the train just happened to... is there anything wrong, Mr. Drake?"
