can’t. We got ‘sell’ orders. That’s all I know. And if I did know more, I wouldn’t tell you or anybody else,” the broker snapped. “I’ve been questioned too much. Good day to you.”
It was about what Benson had expected, but it had been worth making a try, at least, for information from this source.
He went out—to a phone booth, where he dialed a number and placed a handful of change on the phone-booth counter for a long conversation.
Benson, as adventurer, had met thousands of men in positions ranging from that of water-front bum to governors of States. As rich man and business promoter, he had met more thousands, bankers, accountants, stock salesmen. Few men in the world had as varied and prodigious an acquaintanceship as his. He had lines of friendships leading into all sorts of places. And he utilized one of these lines now, as a short cut.
“Carter,” he said, when an important voice said “Hello” after the intervention of a switchboard girl and three secretaries, “this is Dick Benson talking.”
The man was Benjamin Carter, vice president of the Buffalo National Bank. He chuckled with delight.
“Dick! You old sawhorse! I didn’t know you were in this part of the world. We’ll have to get together—”
“Not just now,” said Benson. “I called for a little financial information. In rather a hurry—”
“Any financial information I can give you, you could put in your eye. You can beat the traders at their own game. But how are things? I heard you got married. Is the wife with you?”
“Yes,” said Benson steadily, eyes pale flames. “Yes. I got married. My wife . . . is not with me. I called about the stock of Buffalo Tap & Die, Carter. You probably have the last annual report lying around the bank. Dig it up and give me the dope, will you?”
There was a long pause. Benson dropped coins in the phone box. Carter came back on.
“I got one. Funny thing, though. There was no report in the regular files. I just happened to have this extra one in my desk. Finally remembered about it.”
He read down the sheet, and Benson listened with eyes intent but face dead and forever expressionless. Outstanding shares of stock, five hundred thousand, par one hundred. Plant and equipment—current debts—current liabilities—good will—
“Cash reserve on hand, fourteen million two hundred thousand dollars,” the banker finished.
“The size of the reserve,” said Benson, “puts the firm in a fine, sound spot, I’d say. Why is the stock so low, Carter?”
“It got started down with all the others listed on the board in the current recession,” the banker said. “No sense to it, any more than to the drop in other sound stocks. But it has been hammered down even lower by the French leave that seems to have been taken by some of the executives. I’d like to know something about that myself. Everybody in-money circles would.”
“There’s been a lot of the stock dumped at distress prices,” said Benson.
“Yes. But no one with sense should sell at the current quotations.”
“Mrs. Robert Martineau did.”
“Hysterical widow,” grunted Carter. “She probably got stampeded into selling by the continual dropping of the stock.”
“One more thing,” said Benson. “Could you tell me the names of the heaviest stockholders?”
“One of our customers’ men was with Carney & Buell for a while,” mused Carter. “I think he might know. Just a minute—”
Benson dropped more coins, and then Carter picked it up again:
“There are six, Dick. Lawrence Hickock, Mrs. Martineau, Stephen Vincent, John Lansing, Arnold Leon and Harry Andrews. But why all the curiosity? Have you some stock, too?”
“Just asking around,” said Benson expressionlessly.
“You fox! I’ll bet you plan to buy a lot low, and wait for a rise. If I had your money—When am I going to see you for a reunion?”
“Soon, I hope,” Benson said. “Thanks for the information, Carter. You’ll never
It was about what Benson had expected, but it had been worth making a try, at least, for information from this source.
He went out—to a phone booth, where he dialed a number and placed a handful of change on the phone-booth counter for a long conversation.
Benson, as adventurer, had met thousands of men in positions ranging from that of water-front bum to governors of States. As rich man and business promoter, he had met more thousands, bankers, accountants, stock salesmen. Few men in the world had as varied and prodigious an acquaintanceship as his. He had lines of friendships leading into all sorts of places. And he utilized one of these lines now, as a short cut.
“Carter,” he said, when an important voice said “Hello” after the intervention of a switchboard girl and three secretaries, “this is Dick Benson talking.”
The man was Benjamin Carter, vice president of the Buffalo National Bank. He chuckled with delight.
“Dick! You old sawhorse! I didn’t know you were in this part of the world. We’ll have to get together—”
“Not just now,” said Benson. “I called for a little financial information. In rather a hurry—”
“Any financial information I can give you, you could put in your eye. You can beat the traders at their own game. But how are things? I heard you got married. Is the wife with you?”
“Yes,” said Benson steadily, eyes pale flames. “Yes. I got married. My wife . . . is not with me. I called about the stock of Buffalo Tap & Die, Carter. You probably have the last annual report lying around the bank. Dig it up and give me the dope, will you?”
There was a long pause. Benson dropped coins in the phone box. Carter came back on.
“I got one. Funny thing, though. There was no report in the regular files. I just happened to have this extra one in my desk. Finally remembered about it.”
He read down the sheet, and Benson listened with eyes intent but face dead and forever expressionless. Outstanding shares of stock, five hundred thousand, par one hundred. Plant and equipment—current debts—current liabilities—good will—
“Cash reserve on hand, fourteen million two hundred thousand dollars,” the banker finished.
“The size of the reserve,” said Benson, “puts the firm in a fine, sound spot, I’d say. Why is the stock so low, Carter?”
“It got started down with all the others listed on the board in the current recession,” the banker said. “No sense to it, any more than to the drop in other sound stocks. But it has been hammered down even lower by the French leave that seems to have been taken by some of the executives. I’d like to know something about that myself. Everybody in-money circles would.”
“There’s been a lot of the stock dumped at distress prices,” said Benson.
“Yes. But no one with sense should sell at the current quotations.”
“Mrs. Robert Martineau did.”
“Hysterical widow,” grunted Carter. “She probably got stampeded into selling by the continual dropping of the stock.”
“One more thing,” said Benson. “Could you tell me the names of the heaviest stockholders?”
“One of our customers’ men was with Carney & Buell for a while,” mused Carter. “I think he might know. Just a minute—”
Benson dropped more coins, and then Carter picked it up again:
“There are six, Dick. Lawrence Hickock, Mrs. Martineau, Stephen Vincent, John Lansing, Arnold Leon and Harry Andrews. But why all the curiosity? Have you some stock, too?”
“Just asking around,” said Benson expressionlessly.
“You fox! I’ll bet you plan to buy a lot low, and wait for a rise. If I had your money—When am I going to see you for a reunion?”
“Soon, I hope,” Benson said. “Thanks for the information, Carter. You’ll never
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