Arthur Hailey - The Moneychangers

When Alex talked to him, the reporter seemed upset. He explained that just a few minutes earlier he had read on the AP wire of Roscoe Heyward's apparent suicide. Endicott went on to describe his call to Heyward this morning and what transpired. "If I'd had any idea…" he ended lamely. Alex made no attempt to help the reporter feel better.

The moralities of his profession were something he would have to work out for himself. But Alex did ask, "Is your paper still going to run the story?" "Yes, sir. The desk is writing a new lead. Apart from that, it will run tomorrow as intended."

'When why did you call?' "I guess I just wanted to say to somebody I'm sorry." "Yes," Alex said. "So am I." This evening Alex reflected again on the conversation, pitying Roscoe for the agony of mind he must have suffered in those final minutes.

On another level there was no doubt that the Newsday story, when it appeared tomorrow, would do the bank great harm. It would be harm piled on harm. Despite Alex's success in halting the run at Tylersville, and the absence of other visible runs elsewhere, there had been a public lessening of confidence in First Mercantile American and an erosion of deposits. Nearly forty million dollars in withdrawals had flowed out in the past ten days and incoming funds were far below their usual level. At the same time, FMA's share price had sagged badly on the New York Stock Exchange. FMA, of course, was not alone in that. Since the original news of Supranational's insolvency, a miasma of melancholy had gripped investors and the business community, including bankers; had sent stock prices generally on a downhill slide; had created fresh doubts internationally about the value of the dollar; and now appeared to some as the last clear warning before the major storm of world depression.

It was, Alex thought, as if the toppling of a giant had brought home the realization that other giants, once thought invulnerable, could topple, too; that neither individuals, nor corporations, nor governments at any level, could escape forever the simplest accounting law of all that what you owed you must one day pay. Lewis D'Orsey, who had preached that doctrine for two decades, had written much the same thing in his latest Newsletter.

Alex had received a new issue in the mail this morning, had glanced at it, then put it in his pocket to read more carefully tonight. Now, he took it out. Do not believe the glibly touted myth [Lewis wrote] that there is something complex and elusive, defying easy analysis, about corporate, national or international finance.

All are simply housekeeping ordinary housekeeping, on a larger scale. The alleged intricacies, the obfuscations and sinuosities are an imaginary thicket.

They do not, in reality, exist, but have been created by vote-buying politicians (which means all politicians), manipulators, and Keynesian-diseased "economists." Together they use their witch doctor mumbo-jumbo to conceal what they are doing, and have done. What these bumblers fear most is our simple scrutiny of their activities in the clear and honest light of commonsense.

For what they the politicians, mostly on one hand have created is Himalayas of debt which neither they, we, nor our great-great-great-grandchildren can ever pay. And, on the other hand, they have printed, as if producing toilet tissue, a cascade of currency, debasing our good money especially the honest, gold-backed dollars which Americans once owned.

We repeat: It is all simply housekeeping the most flagrantly incompetent, dishonest housekeeping in human history. This, and this alone, is the basic reason for inflation. There was more. Lewis preferred too many words, rather than too few. Also, as usual, Lewis offered a solution to financial ills. Like a beaker of water for a parched and dying wayfarer, a solution is ready and available, as it has always been, and as it always will be.

Gold. Gold as a base, once more, for the world's money systems. Gold, the oldest, the only bastion of monetary integrity. Gold, the one source, incorruptible, of fiscal discipline. Gold, which politicians cannot print, or make, or fake, or otherwise debase. Gold which, because of its severely limited supply, establishes its own real, lasting value. Gold which, because of this consistent value and when a base for money, protects the honest savings of all people from pillaging by knaves, charlatans, incompetents and dreamers in public office.

Gold which, over centuries, has demonstrated: without it as a monetary base, there is inevitable inflation, followed by anarchy; with it, inflation can be curbed and cured, stability retained. Gold which God, in His wisdom, may have created for the purpose of curtailing man's excess.

Gold of which Americans once stated proudly their dollar was "as good as." Gold to which, someday soon, America must honorably return as its standard of exchange. The alternative becoming clearer daily is fiscal and national disintegration.

Fortunately, even now, despite skepticism and anti-gold fanatics, there are signs of maturing views in government, of sanity returning… Alex put The D'Orsey Newsletter down. Like many in banking and elsewhere he had sometimes scoffed at the vociferous gold bugs Lewis D'Orsey, Harry Schultz, James Dines, Congressman Crane, Exter, Browne, Pick, a handful more.

Recently, though, he had begun wondering if their simplistic views might not after all be right. As well as gold, they believed in laissez-faire, the free, unhampered function of the marketplace where inefficient companies were allowed to fail and efficient ones succeed.

The obverse of the coin were the Keynesian theorists, who hated gold and believed in tinkering with the economy, induding subsidies and controls, calling it all "fine tuning."

Could the Keynesians be the heretics, Alex wondered, and D'Orsey, Schultz, et al, true prophets? Perhaps. Prophets in other eras had been lonely and derided, yet some lived to see their prophecies fulfilled. One view Alex shared in totality with Lewis and the others was that grimmer times were close ahead. lodeed, for FMA they were already here.

He heard the sound of a key turning. The outer door of the apartment opened and Margot came in. She removed a belted camel's-hair coat and tossed it on a chair. "Oh God, Alex. I can't get Roscoe out of my mind. How could he do it? Why" She went directly to the bar and mixed a drink.

"It seems there were some reasons," he said slowly. "They're beginning to come out. If you don't mind, Bracken, I don't feel like talking about it yet." "I understand." She came to him He held her tightly as they kissed.

After a while he said, 'Tell me about Eastin, Juanita, the little girl." Since yesterday Margot had masterminded arrangements concerning all three. She sat facing him, sipping her drink. "It's all so much; coming together…"

"Often things seem to happen that way." He wondered what else, if anything, There would be before this day was done. "Miles first," Margot began. "He's out of danger and the best news is that by a miracle he won't be blind.

What the doctors believe is that he must have closed his eyes an instant before the acid hit, so the eyelids saved him.

They're terribly burned, of course, like the rest of his face, and he'll be having plastic surgery for a long time." "What about his hands?" Margot took a notebook from her purse and opened it. 'The hospital has been in touch with a surgeon on the West Coast a Dr. Jack Tupper in Oakland. He has the reputation of being one of the best men in the country for surgical repair of hands.

He's been consulted by phone. He's agreed to fly here and operate the middle of next week. I assume the bank will pay."

"Yes," Alex said. "It will." "I've had a talk," Margot continued, "with Agent Innes of the FBI. He says that in return for Miles Eastin's testifying in court, They'll offer him protection and a new identity somewhere else in the country."