David Woolf walked into the hotel room and threw himself down on the bed fully clothed, staring up at the dark ceiling.
The night felt as if it were a thousand years old, even though he knew it was only a little past one o'clock.
He was tired and yet he wasn't tired; he was elated and yet, somehow, depressed; triumphant and yet there was the faint bitter taste of intangible defeat stirring within him.
This was the beginning of opportunity, the first faint dawn of his secret ambitions, hopes and dreams.
Then why this baffling mixture of emotions? It had never been like this before.
He'd always known exactly what he wanted. It had been very simple.
A straight line reaching from himself to the ultimate.
It must be Cord, he thought. It had to be Cord.
There could be no other reason.
He wondered if Cord affected the others in the same way.
He still felt the shock that had gone through him when he entered the suite and saw him for the first time since the night Cord had left the board meeting to fly to the Coast.
Fifteen days had passed, two weeks during which panic had set in and the company had begun to disintegrate before his eyes.
The whispering of the employees in the New York office still echoed in his ears, the furtive, frightened, worried glances cast as he passed them in the corridor.
And there had been nothing he could do about it, nothing he could tell them.
It was as if the corporation lay suspended in shock, awaiting the transfusion that would send new vitality coursing through its veins.
And now, at last, Cord sat there, a half-empty bottle of bourbon in front of him, a tortured, hollow shell of the man they had seen just a few short weeks ago.
He was thinner and exhaustion had etched its weary lines deeply into his cheeks.
But it was only when you looked into his eyes that you realized it wasn't a physical change that had taken place. The man himself had changed.
At first, David couldn't put his finger on it. Then, for a brief moment, the veil lifted and suddenly he understood. He sensed the man's unique aloneness.
It was as if he were a visitor from another world.
The rest of them had become alien to him, almost like children, whose simple desires he had long ago outgrown.
He would tolerate them so long as he found a use for them, but once that purpose was served he would withdraw again into that world in which he existed alone.
The three of them had been silent as they came down in the elevator after leaving Cord's suite. It wasn't until they stepped out into the lobby and mingled with the crowd that was coming in for the midnight show on the Starlight Roof that McAllister spoke.
"I think we'd better find a quiet spot and have a little talk."
"The Men's Bar downstairs. If it's still open," Pierce suggested.
It was and when the waiter brought their drinks, McAllister lifted his glass.
"Good luck," they echoed, then drank and placed their glasses back on the table.
McAllister looked from one to the other before he spoke. 'Well, from here on in, it's up to us. I wish I could be more direct in my contribution," he said in his somewhat stilted, formal manner. "But I'm an attorney and know almost nothing about motion pictures.
What I can do, though, is to explain the reorganization plan for the company that Jonas approved before the deal was actually consummated."
It wasn't until then that David had got any idea of how farseeing Jonas had been – retiring the old common stock in exchange for new shares, the issuance of preferred stock to meet certain outstanding debts of the corporation and debentures constituting a mortgage lien on all the real properties of the company, including the studio and theaters, in exchange for his putting up a million dollars' working capital.
The next item McAllister covered was their compensation.
David and Dan Pierce would be offered seven-year employment contracts with a salary starting at sixty-five thousand dollars and increasing thirteen thousand dollars each year until the expiration of the agreement.
In addition, each would be reimbursed completely for his expenses and bonused, if there were profits, to the amount of two and one half per cent, which could be taken either in stock or in cash.
"That's about it," McAllister said. "Any questions?"
"It sounds good," Dan Pierce said. "But what guarantee have we got that Jonas will keep us in business once the million dollars is gone?
None at all. But he's completely covered by his stock and debentures."
"You're right," McAllister agreed. "You have no guarantee, but then, neither has he any guarantee about what his stock will be worth if your operation of the company should prove unsuccessful.
As I see it, it's up to you two to make it work."
"But if the study David made is correct," Dan continued, "we won't be halfway through our first picture before we'll be unable to meet our weekly payroll.
I don't know what got into Jonas.
You can't make million-dollar pictures without money."
"Who says we have to make million-dollar pictures?" David asked quietly.
Suddenly, the whole pattern was very clear.
Now he was beginning to understand what Jonas had done.
At first, he had felt a disappointment at not being put in charge of the studio. He would have liked the title of President on his door.
But Cord had cut through the whole business like a knife through butter.
In reality, the studio was only a factory turning out the product of the company.
Administration, sales and theaters were under his control and that was where the money came from.
Money always dictated studio policy and he controlled the money.
"For a million bucks, we can turn out ten pictures. And be taking in revenue from the first before the fifth goes into production."