Alice explains, “In Württemberg, there is always the ability to enter into a contract without money in hand. A note of... promise, is how it roughly translates.”
“Why, we have promissory notes here in the US of A, Your Grace,” Ward drawls. “If these fine investors would be willing to sign pledges to that effect.”
He looks around the group, gauging their responses.
The marks give eager nods.
“Well zen!” The ambassador claps his hands. “Then let us resume ze bidding. Did ze man on wheels zay one thousand a share?”
“Two thousand,” Vandemeer says.
“Three,” Witt trills, petting her empty crocodile clutch. “I’m good for it.”
“Five,” counters Vandemeer. “Thousand.”
“You think you’ve got me with five? Do you? Imbecile.” Peyton Senior growls. “Ten!”
Mr. Ames stands, squeaking, “Put me down for the majority of shares at twelve thousand!”
Mr. Vandemeer scoffs. “I call humbug, Robert; you know damn well you can’t afford that.”
Arabella blushes, recoiling, as her father reels toward Vandemeer. “How dare you claim to know my business!”
“And yet Idoknow your business,” Vandemeer goes on. “I thumbed through your financials during the Manifest merger, and unless you’ve received an unexpected inheritance... Oh, wait. You don’tcomefrom family money.”
Ames clenches his fists, but he’s easily held back by his much larger wife.
Arabella covers her face with both gloved hands.
Peyton’s attempt at sardonic laughter rolls him straight into a coughing fit.
Cora looks to Harry, expecting him to lend a hand to his father, but he’s walked away, gazing worriedly (longingly?) in the direction of Arabella.
Which makes Cora even more settled about her little amendment to the plan.
“Fifteenthousand.” Ogden cuts through her thoughts, though he’s looking a bit queasier, Mr. Vandemeer beside him a bit more deflated too.
“Sixteen,” Mrs. Witt says, her voice a far sight less braying than Cora’s ever heard it.
“Sixteen-five,” Ogden croaks.
“Twenty-five thousand a share!” Mr. Peyton roars.
Harry flinches. The rest of the room falls silent.
“That’s...” Ward looks taken aback as he scribbles down the calculations. “At 601 shares—”
“Fifteen million twenty-five thousand dollars, and none of you nitwits can outbid that, can you?” Peyton snarls. He stamps his cane beside his chair so hard, Cora suspects it’ll leave a dent in the embassy floor. “Living your frivolous lifestyles, building your monuments to poor taste all over Fifth Avenue, your ugly castles in the clouds. Iwillown this company, same as I once owned all of you! Imadeyou all... and I command you to stand down before you idiots ruin yourselves along with this opportunity.”
His head swivels toward Alice like a reared rattlesnake’s.
“But I don’t want 601 shares. I want 700 shares at twenty-five thousand a share, and the rest of these peons can peck at each other for the scraps.”
Alice stays silent, ostensibly waiting for someone to jump in, correct him, outbid.
No one does. Mr. Peyton has swallowed the room and spit out the bones. More vicious than all the rest of them put together. Alice and Cal were right.
How he produced a naive, harmless fellow like Harry, Cora will never understand.
