The Last Days of Night(95)

“I need a favor,” Paul said.

“We need to know what is happening. I wrote to Westinghouse, who said that he is aware of whatever it is you’re up to. This is unconscionable, young man.”

“I’m sorry, but this maneuver must remain a secret. Soon enough you’ll know why. At the moment, Westinghouse and I need you to sue someone.”

Carter looked at Paul for a long moment. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“Fetch Hughes. There’s a lawsuit we need you to bring, and we need you to do it right away. Do this, and you’ll no longer need to attend to Westinghouse’s bankruptcy. Instead you may attend to his victory.”

“Oh yes?” said Carter. “And whom exactly would you like me to sue?”

“I actually don’t care. Anyone. As long as his attorney is Lemuel Serrell.”

Paul told him what he needed to know. And nothing more.

—

By noon Paul was waiting anxiously at the Western Union offices on the southern tip of Broadway. He focused his nervousness by pacing along the seams of the black-and-white marble blocks beneath his feet.

Finally the boy behind the counter tapped at the copper bars that shielded him from the general public. He gestured to Paul, who came near.

“We’ve a message for a Jonathan Springborn,” said the boy.

“Thank you,” said Paul as he took hold of the narrow slip of paper that the boy handed to him.

The message was from “Morgan,” no first name or initials listed. And it was very short.

“Received urgent message from TE. Tesla alive. In Chicago. Full weight of EGE and Pinkertons sent to locate. Please advise.”

Paul’s plan was working. So far.

“I’d like to wire a message back to this sender,” said Paul to the boy, who dutifully took out his pen.

“Train to Chicago takes thirty-six hours, stop,” said Paul. “Then thirty-six back. Stop. We have three days to finish. Stop.”

“Seven cents,” said the boy after he quickly tallied up the words.

“It’s worth a lot more than that,” said Paul as he fished in his pocket for the coins.

—

Later that afternoon, Paul took the Saugus Line to Lynn, Massachusetts. It wasn’t a long trip to the small town, nestled near the coast just ten miles north of Boston. He emerged from his train to find the central square covered with a thick layer of snow. Paul’s carriage cut lines through the snow as it carried him to the largest of the great factories that ringed the village.

Eight separate four-story structures extended for what looked like an acre in each direction. Smoke plumed from stone stacks above each one. Paul found the executive offices in the largest of the buildings.

THOMSON-HOUSTON ELECTRIC COMPANY was etched in wide type above the doorway.

A series of secretaries passed him back through the hallways, until finally he reached a rear office.

Inside, Charles Coffin leaned against his desk. He’d been waiting for Paul’s arrival all morning, and gave no pretense of having been busy with other affairs.

“Mr. Cravath,” said Coffin. “I had rather suspected I’d never see you again.”

“I had rather hoped for the same.”

Coffin smiled. “You really dislike me, don’t you?”

“You betrayed me and you betrayed Westinghouse and you did so against all of your better technical and scientific judgment. What do you think?”

“That no one likes a sore loser.”

Doing business with this man made Paul furious. But Coffin’s duplicity had become the very quality that Paul now required.

“You’ve agreed to meet me,” said Paul. “So I take it you’ve spoken with Mr. Morgan.”

“I received a letter,” replied Coffin. “It beseeched me to hear you out.”

“I can’t quite imagine Mr. Morgan doing much ‘beseeching.’ But I’m glad you’ve acquiesced nonetheless.”

“He said you had a business proposal for me. And that this proposal should stay far from the ears of Thomas Edison. Under normal circumstances, of course, I would have told you to go to hell. But if you’ve involved Morgan, whatever you’re doing must be quite serious.”

“I’ve come to ask you a very simple question: How would you like to be the new head of EGE?”

Coffin tried very hard not to show how stunned he was. He looked down at his polished shoes.

“That’s quite an offer,” said Coffin.

Paul shrugged nonchalantly. Morgan was wearing off on him.

“And what about Thomas Edison?”

“He’s outlasted his usefulness.”

“To whom?”

“To Morgan, for one,” said Paul. “And perhaps to the world as well.”

Paul paced the soft carpets as he continued. “You are running quite a little company here, aren’t you? Thomson-Houston has a profit ratio triple that of EGE and quadruple that of Westinghouse. Morgan has noticed. So have I. Edison and Westinghouse, they’re scientists. But you, Mr. Coffin, have proven yourself to be a businessman. A shrewd one.”

“And what would be the play of a shrewd businessman in this situation?”

“He’d know in which direction the wind was blowing. And he’d arrange his sails accordingly.”