Read Online Manhattan Monologues by Louis Auchincloss - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Louis Auchincloss
Tags: General Fiction
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to me first, of course, if you must be technical about it. And I'd be directing you to pay it to Harry. Can't I do what I wish with my own?"
"When it's your own, yes. But your fiduciaries must use their discretion in distributing capital for your benefit. And two of your three trustees, the bank and I, will hardly find it discreet to strip the fund, on which you none too lavishly exist, for a waxwork museum."
"But it might kill me if Harry fails! Isn't that such an emergency as the trust might call for? Think of all that poor boy has been through, with his heart trouble and losing that darling little wife and child and not being able to finish the war in the company of his great idol, the general!"
I couldn't help wondering what horrors could befall me that would "kill," or even grievously upset, my wonderful mother. The reflection would have helped to tighten, if tightening were needed, my resolution never to exercise that trust power except for the direst emergency affecting the life tenant. My reply perhaps sounded pontifical, but an undervalued son must have some compensation.
"We must pray then that the refusal of your fiduciaries to stretch the exercise of their power beyond the limits prescribed by law will not have the dire effect on the income beneficiary that you so dismally predict."
"Oh, Charles, you're impossible."
"It is not I who am that, Mother. It is what you ask of me."
"Leave me alone. Go away."
Which I was glad enough to do.
I did not hear of the matter for another month, and then it was only indirectly. Indirectly but fatally. At the bank one morning when I was getting ready to depart for my lunch club, Ray Burnside, the fussy but earnest diminutive assistant trust officer in charge of Mother's affairs, faced me across my desk with a pale countenance drawn with apprehension. It appeared that a hundred thousand dollars worth of U.S. Treasury notes were missing from her trust.
"You mean stolen?" I asked, gaping.
"No, no. At least I dare not think so. You will remember that we had agreed to sell them, and your brother asked me to deliver them to him so that he could use his own broker."
I felt at once sick. "You shouldn't have done that. You should have come to me."
"But after all, he is a trustee."
"Even so. How long have the notes been gone?"
"Three weeks. I've telephoned your brother several times to ask whether he's sold them and, if so, where the proceeds are. He keeps putting me off and insisting on more time. Says it's not a good market to sell in, which is ridiculous, of course, and gives me all sorts of odd excuses. If you can't get him to give us back the notes or the money, Charles, I'll have to go to the big boss."
I thought for a moment and then nodded. "Give me till tomorrow. I'll take care of it."
What made me so immediately sure that Harry had embezzled the money? What right had I to accuse, even in my mind alone, my amiable brother of a crime, when he had never been known to commit one? It may have been because I had come to my limit in believing in a universe that was so consistently perverse as to favor Harry with everyone's smiles and love and me with their sniggers and reluctant respect. There had to be somewhere a stop; Harry had to have his comeuppance. And wasn't the horrid thrill that seemed to trickle through my being one of an odious satisfaction? Wasn't it an essential part of the creature I had been made? And, after all, I hadn't made myself, had I? I could be at fault only if I acted on it.
I telephoned Harry to say that I was coming over to his museum to ask about the notes, and he replied, quite without agitation, that he would meet me in the main gallery. This long dark chamber was empty when I arrived, although the place was open to the public. It contained a dozen dioramas of city history, some moderately amusing, such as J. P. Morgan immersed in a game of solitaire as he awaits the answer to his proposition of how to bolster a crashing stock market from
"When it's your own, yes. But your fiduciaries must use their discretion in distributing capital for your benefit. And two of your three trustees, the bank and I, will hardly find it discreet to strip the fund, on which you none too lavishly exist, for a waxwork museum."
"But it might kill me if Harry fails! Isn't that such an emergency as the trust might call for? Think of all that poor boy has been through, with his heart trouble and losing that darling little wife and child and not being able to finish the war in the company of his great idol, the general!"
I couldn't help wondering what horrors could befall me that would "kill," or even grievously upset, my wonderful mother. The reflection would have helped to tighten, if tightening were needed, my resolution never to exercise that trust power except for the direst emergency affecting the life tenant. My reply perhaps sounded pontifical, but an undervalued son must have some compensation.
"We must pray then that the refusal of your fiduciaries to stretch the exercise of their power beyond the limits prescribed by law will not have the dire effect on the income beneficiary that you so dismally predict."
"Oh, Charles, you're impossible."
"It is not I who am that, Mother. It is what you ask of me."
"Leave me alone. Go away."
Which I was glad enough to do.
I did not hear of the matter for another month, and then it was only indirectly. Indirectly but fatally. At the bank one morning when I was getting ready to depart for my lunch club, Ray Burnside, the fussy but earnest diminutive assistant trust officer in charge of Mother's affairs, faced me across my desk with a pale countenance drawn with apprehension. It appeared that a hundred thousand dollars worth of U.S. Treasury notes were missing from her trust.
"You mean stolen?" I asked, gaping.
"No, no. At least I dare not think so. You will remember that we had agreed to sell them, and your brother asked me to deliver them to him so that he could use his own broker."
I felt at once sick. "You shouldn't have done that. You should have come to me."
"But after all, he is a trustee."
"Even so. How long have the notes been gone?"
"Three weeks. I've telephoned your brother several times to ask whether he's sold them and, if so, where the proceeds are. He keeps putting me off and insisting on more time. Says it's not a good market to sell in, which is ridiculous, of course, and gives me all sorts of odd excuses. If you can't get him to give us back the notes or the money, Charles, I'll have to go to the big boss."
I thought for a moment and then nodded. "Give me till tomorrow. I'll take care of it."
What made me so immediately sure that Harry had embezzled the money? What right had I to accuse, even in my mind alone, my amiable brother of a crime, when he had never been known to commit one? It may have been because I had come to my limit in believing in a universe that was so consistently perverse as to favor Harry with everyone's smiles and love and me with their sniggers and reluctant respect. There had to be somewhere a stop; Harry had to have his comeuppance. And wasn't the horrid thrill that seemed to trickle through my being one of an odious satisfaction? Wasn't it an essential part of the creature I had been made? And, after all, I hadn't made myself, had I? I could be at fault only if I acted on it.
I telephoned Harry to say that I was coming over to his museum to ask about the notes, and he replied, quite without agitation, that he would meet me in the main gallery. This long dark chamber was empty when I arrived, although the place was open to the public. It contained a dozen dioramas of city history, some moderately amusing, such as J. P. Morgan immersed in a game of solitaire as he awaits the answer to his proposition of how to bolster a crashing stock market from
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