Gargoyles

[continued from here]

When the Stratoliner was almost at the Brooklyn Bridge, and now well below ten thousand feet, and slightly to the east of the tip of Manhattan, alongside the aircraft one might have noticed that one of windows in the forward part of the plane, hitherto shaded by a closed curtain, as the others nearby it, was slightly parted, only a slight crack, as if to let in as little sunlight as possible.

One might have noticed the fingers of man of middle age pulling the fabric aside this way, long enough that he might look down onto the tops of the building along Wall Street, the rivals to the Bank of Manhattan Trust buildings, going down the hill. His eyes sought out a particular building, all the way down Wall at the bottom of the hill at Pearl Street. Compared to the Bank of Manhattan Trust, it was hardly worth attention to the casual observer. Only thirty-six stories---half of the number of its dominating rival, and rising even shorter since it was placed closer to the water front.

It blended in well with the other buildings, although a closer inspection of the rooftop, one might noticed the anomaly of the strange decor---the medieval pikes along the roof, and the great drain spouts projected from the side, gave the appearance of prickly fortress, armored for battle. It was the opposite of the soft inviting look of the Empire State.  One could not have noticed as well, unless one was very up close to the roof, that the drainspouts were guarded each and every one by gargoyles that scowled down at the street below.

Down inside that building, on one of the topmost floors, sunlight fills a large empty conference room with a large polished table flanked by cushioned chairs bespeaking great opulence expressed in subdued tones. On the wall are portraits of groups of men, sitting in a pose towards the camera. In some of the portraits, the style of their dress and grooming obviously goes back to the middle of the previous century. Other groups of men are from earlier in the Twentieth Century. The portrait in the center shows a group of men in the contemporary era. About a dozen men are in the portrait. Some of the men are sitting in chairs in front, and others are standing behind them, dignified.

Looking closely at the portrait one might have noticed one of the men sitting off to the side. He was lean of frame with gentle contours of face, and deep eyebrows. He looked in his late Forties. He was in fact the man who had been looking out the window of the embassy in Moscow.

Next to it is a large clock on a shelf. The hands of the clock reads a few minutes past nine o'clock.

In the passenger cabin of the Stratoliner, we see the same man sitting in comfortable seat by himself byside the window where the curtain is pulled closed, as it in the other nearby rows, which are empty. His gold wristwatch says ten minutes past nine.

Down on the street level of Wall Street, far too small to be seen from the aircraft, men in wool coats and hats walk briskly along the sidewalk towards their destinations, some stepping out of automobiles with drivers, and taxis, and others coming up from the subway, and walking extra fast, as if trying to catch up with the others.

One of the men, who is carrying a leather attache case, approaches the front entrance of the building at Wall Street and Pearl, the one with the gargoyles on the top. He turns into the entrance and goes into the lobby. A close inspection would have revealed him as one of the men standing in the back of the portrait next to the clock. As he enters the buiding, we see the address as 63 Wall Street.

Meanwhile out in the wooded suburbs of Greenwich, Connecticut, where a few late commuters are still waiting on the train station, up in the hills beyond the station,  a graceful mansion sits among the trees and hedges, the door opens and a man---also one of the ones standing in the portrait, in his mid forties, with light hair, a large forehead,  pinched-up eyebrows comes out of the front door also carrying a leather case and with several folded newspapers under his arm. He walks in relaxed fashion along the path towards the garage, where a uniformed driver is wiping the windshield wipers of a late model sedan. The driver greets him as the man approaches, without stopping his work. The man with case smiles and says something back to him. One would have noticed that they had a very relaxed relationship, and had been comfortable with each other for a while, and that the man with the case felt at ease talking to him, and vice versa.


With the driver at the wheel, they come down past the train station. The man with the case sits in the back reading one of the folded up newspaper. Looking at one,  he grimaces a bit, as in in distaste. The newspaper is the Boston Globe.

The headline is several weeks old now. The news is old. But he must bring in the paper anyway, in case a copy of it is needed. He looks at the headline.

Kennedy Says Democracy All Done

Pinch Coming in U.S. Trade Loss
Ambassador Asks Aid to England Be Viewed as “Insurance;” Begs America Wake Up, Give More Power to Mobilize Industry. By Louis M. Lyons

Joseph P. Kennedy was sitting in his shirtsleeves eating apple pie and American cheese in his room at the Ritz-Carlton. His suspenders hung around his hips...

Skipping down past the fold he reads

“Hitler has all the ports in Europe, you see. Never forget that. The only reason the English haven’t taken over the Irish ports is because of American public opinion.

If We Get In, Democracy Ends
 
“People call me a pessimist. I say, 'What is there to be gay about? Democracy is all done.’”
“You mean in England or this country, too?”
“Well, I don’t know. If we get into war it will be in this country, too. A bureaucracy would take over right off. Everything we hold dear would be gone. They tell me that after 1918 we got it all back again. But this is different. There’s a different patter in the world.

 


"Idiot," he mutters to himself, scowling at the words on the page. His driver asks him if he said something. His face immediately changes to a pleasant smile and he waves it off.

"Some people just can't help shooting their mouth off," he said.

His driver nods as if  he knows exactly what he means.

At that moment,  on the high floor of the building guarded by gargoyles, inside the conference room, the clock among the portraits reads ten minutes past nine o'clock. We see this is also the time on the watch of the man in the back of the car. In the passenger cabin of the plane it is also the time on the watch of the man sitting by himself, beside the window, who appears lost in thought, as if his mind is calculating some very long tabulation.


Just at that instant, through the nearby open door of the cockpit, one of the crew members, whose one watch has stopped, asks the captain for the time, and he tells him "exactly nine o'clock on the dot."