Paul struggled to fight the dizziness.
She’d already told him that he needn’t worry about the presence of Henry Jayne, who was in Philadelphia with a sick relative. For an affianced couple, they spent little time together. Was that how it was done among the rich? He didn’t think he could bear to be in the same room with the man. And he certainly didn’t want to have such a meeting take place with his hand softly touching Agnes’s hip.
He felt her warm and even breath on his neck. He felt the muscles along her back tense and release with the rhythm of their dance. Paul knew that he wasn’t only doing this for Westinghouse. He didn’t need to win only to punish Edison. He needed Agnes to see that he was as worthy as Henry Jayne.
“Edison is thirty feet behind you,” she whispered. “While our man is ten feet over there. Come on.”
Agnes pressed at Paul’s hands, urging him through the crush of partygoers. They approached a circle of five chattering men in perfect white collars and long black tails. None was under the age of fifty, and all boasted the comfortable waistlines of lives well lived. At the center, Paul caught the eye of a large man, the only one of the lot without a beard. Instead, a thick brown mustache provided a striking contrast of color across his face. The hair parted across his head was a chalk white. His cheeks looked as if they had never once been forced into a smile.
It was J. P. Morgan, the man he had come to see.
Capitalism has worked very well. Anyone who wants to move to North Korea is welcome.
—BILL GATES
THE SONG CAME to a stop with a long and satisfying bow stroke from the violins. The guests clapped absentmindedly, their graciousness as instinctive as a cough.
Agnes was studying Morgan’s circle. “They look relatively drunk,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Wait here.” She pulled free of Paul’s grip. Before he could ask any questions, she had stepped away and dived into the middle of the group.
“Mr. Routledge!” she cooed to one of Morgan’s associates. “How was Brussels?”
Paul watched as Agnes maneuvered herself into the men’s conversation. They were rabbits to her fox. Paul heard their sudden laughter, saw their jockeying for position as each tried to impress the beautiful woman shimmying gaily before them. Paul stood mutely to the side of their conversation, uninvited and straining to listen surreptitiously.
In under a minute, Agnes had slipped her body into their circle in such a way that Morgan was cut off from the center. It was so subtle as to be not at all rude, and yet Morgan’s isolation was unmistakable.
Paul understood then what she was doing. If he had been impressed before, he was now doubly so. Morgan was not accustomed to being ignored. Paul began to sense boredom in the old man’s stance.
Morgan stepped back from the group with a glass of Scotch in his hand. He walked across the dance floor, Paul following close behind. Morgan received a series of nods and smiles from the people he passed, but none seemed to interest him. He walked into the rear hallway and through the door of the gentlemen’s lounge.
Paul waited ten seconds before following him in.
The lounge was long. Marble countertops lined one side and a row of toilet stalls, likely stocked with the new chain-pull design, lined the other. On the far wall, a chaise provided a comfortable perch for the weary. When Paul entered, Morgan was reclining onto the chaise, still clutching his glass.
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.