The Last Days of Night(90)

Two other men stood by the mirrors. They fixed their loosened neckties as Morgan relaxed on the back chaise. He closed his eyes as if enjoying this brief and singular moment of peace.

Paul stood at the mirror, purposefully pulled his own tie out of place, and then feigned difficulty at righting it. He examined the part in his hair, making sure no strand had fallen astray.

The two strangers seemed to feel that whatever conversation they’d been having before J. P. Morgan walked in would best be continued elsewhere. They exited, a backslap sealing their conspiracy. The door closed behind them. Paul had his chance.

Paul quickly moved to the door and flipped the bolt.

He had just locked himself into the men’s lounge, alone with J. P. Morgan.

Morgan heard the metal bolt snap into place and looked up at Paul.

It would be scant minutes before either Morgan’s absence aroused unwanted interest outside or the locked door attracted a passing servant’s concern. Paul had very little time.

“If you’re planning to rob me,” said Morgan, still seated, “I should inform you that my pockets are empty.”

His utter nonchalance indicated that he was afraid of very little in this world. What private fears he might harbor certainly did not include strangers in white bow ties who made vaguely threatening advances at costume galas. The look of Paul, locked door or no, did not appear to concern Morgan in the slightest.

“My name is Paul Cravath.”

“That’s nice,” said Morgan.

“I am a partner at Carter, Hughes, and Cravath.”

“Your parents must be so proud.”

“I am the lead attorney for George Westinghouse in his lawsuits against Thomas Edison.”

“Oh, pity. Perhaps they’re not so proud.” Morgan stood. “Your name did sound familiar. I’m going to leave now.”

He took a step toward the door. Paul stepped forward as well, making clear that he was putting his own body between Morgan and the exit.

“I have a proposition for you,” said Paul.

“I have an office,” said Morgan.

“It’s confidential.”

“Oh my.”

“Thomas Edison is costing you money.”

“You’re costing me money. There’s business to attend to out there.”

Morgan stepped again in the direction of the door. Again Paul made clear that he would not be moving aside.

“I used to keep a pistol on me, you know,” said Morgan. “I am going to give my security boys quite an earful about convincing me not to carry it.”

“The war between Thomas Edison and George Westinghouse is going to drive them both broke.”

“And?”

“And as you own sixty percent of the stock in the Edison General Electric Company, I propose that this is an even bigger problem for you than it is for me.”

“I might suggest that your biggest problem right now is what my friends are going to do to you when I get out of here.”

“You and I have the same problem. And I propose that we work together to fix it.”

Morgan didn’t say a word.

“Edison and Westinghouse are dueling to the death over their respective slices of a pie that is only this big.” Paul formed a small circle with his fingers. “But working together, we could take equal shares of a pie that is this big.” Paul expanded his circle threefold. “A partnership between the two companies—a licensing arrangement—would eliminate the burden for consumers of having to choose which of our incompatible products they wanted. A/C, D/C…it wouldn’t matter. You could sell our current. We could sell your bulbs. Everyone wins. Let’s stop putting the future of these companies in the hands of the courts. Let’s stop leaving it to the vagaries of newspaper opinion and the shifting winds of the free market. Let’s put the important decisions back in the boardroom where they belong.”

Morgan slipped his hands into his pockets. He pursed his lips.

“Competition,” argued Paul, “does no one any good. A friendly monopoly, on the other hand…”

Morgan smiled. Paul was speaking in his native language.

“You’ve got some hustle in you.”

“It takes one to know one.”

“I’m not much of a hustler, Mr. Cravath. Whatever you’ve been told about me, I think the reality is far less dramatic than people like to say. You know who’s a great hustler? Thomas. Or your friend Mr. Westinghouse. I’m just a simple businessman.”

“The most successful one in the world.”

“It’s the thing about businessmen. There is nothing of which we despair so much as a free market.”

It was Paul’s turn to smile.

“Off the top of my head,” said Morgan, “I can think up a half dozen critical difficulties with this scheme. But the most clearly insurmountable is a simple one.”

“What?”

“Thomas Edison.” He took a thoughtful sip of his Scotch. “I don’t know what you’ve told Westinghouse, or even what you might, with that silvery tongue, be able to convince him of. But I can assure you that Thomas will never go along with this plan.”

“I know,” said Paul.

“He despises Westinghouse.”

“I know.”