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PALGRAVE STUDIES IN
LITERATURE, CULTURE AND ECONOMICS
The Fictions of
American Capitalism
Working Fictions and
the Economic Novel
Edited by
Jacques-Henri Coste · Vincent Dussol
Palgrave Studies in Literature,
Culture and Economics
Series Editors
Paul Crosthwaite
School of Literatures, Languages & Culture
University of Edinburgh
Edinburgh, UK
Peter Knight
Department of English and American Studies
University of Manchester
Manchester, UK
Nicky Marsh
Department of English
University of Southampton
Southampton, UK
This series showcases some of the most intellectually adventurous work
being done in the broad field of the economic humanities, putting it in
dialogue with developments in heterodox economic theory, economic
sociology, critical finance studies and the history of capitalism. It starts
from the conviction that literary and cultural studies can provide vital
theoretical insights into economics. The series will include historical
studies as well as contemporary ones, as a much-needed counterweight to
the tendency within economics to concentrate solely on the present and to
ignore potential lessons from history. The series also recognizes that the
poetics of economics and finance is an increasingly central concern across
a wide range of fields of literary study, from Shakespeare to Dickens to the
financial thriller. In doing so it builds on the scholarship that has been
identified as the ‘new economic criticism’, but moves beyond it by bringing
a more politically and historically sharpened focus to that earlier work.
The Fictions of
American Capitalism
Working Fictions and the Economic Novel
Editors
Jacques-Henri Coste Vincent Dussol
Université Sorbonne Nouvelle - Paris 3 Université Paul-Valéry Montpellier 3
Paris, France Montpellier, France
© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer
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Acknowledgments
v
Contents
vii
viii CONTENTS
Part IV Coda 333
Index357
Notes on Contributors
xi
xii NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS
Gilded Age and the Progressive Era, especially in California. Her research
interests focus on the transformation of economic culture, the history of
business partnerships, and the history of the economic professions.
Stephen Shapiro teaches in the Department of English and Comparative
Literary Studies at the University of Warwick (UK). Author and editor of
several books, his most recent publications include Pentecostal Modernism:
Lovecraft, Los Angeles and World-Systems Culture (with Philip Barnard);
Neoliberalism and Contemporary American Literature (edited with Liam
Kennedy); and World Literature, Neoliberalism, and the Culture of Discontent
(edited with Sharae Deckard). He is currently working on a longer study,
The Cultural Fix, Capital, Social Labor-power, and the Long Spiral.
Guillaume Tanguy is Lecturer in English at University Paul Valéry—
Montpellier III, France, and a member of EMMA EA741. He wrote his
PhD dissertation on W. D. Howells. He has had articles published on
Howells, Crane, Hawthorne, Wharton, and Norris, and is editor of a spe-
cial issue of Profils américains on W. D. Howells (2009). His field of
research is American realism and naturalism. He is also interested in late-
nineteenth-century war writing.
Sina Vatanpour is Assistant Professor of American Civilization at the
Department of Applied Languages, University of Lille in France. His
research has focused mainly on the meaning of money in American litera-
ture and film. He has edited a book on money, L’Argent, and had several
articles published such as “Money: The Token of Cultural Memory and
American Ethics in Frank Capra’s Film Making Philosophy,” “Money,
Language and Identity in Paul Auster’s City of Glass and Ghosts,”
“Textual Space and the Jewish Self in Paul Auster’s Selected Novels
and Films,” and “Body and Soul: Image and Meaning in Iraq War Films.”
List of Illustrations
xv
CHAPTER 1
1
Its central economic relevance is analyzed by Durand (2017). For its more discursive and
literary dimensions, see Shonkwiler (2017) and Topia (2017, pp. 30–31) on “the Financial
imagination”; Jameson (2010, 2011) on the “financialized imagination”; or Haiven (2011);
Haiven and Berland (2014) on “Finance as Capital’s Imagination.”
1 THE FICTIONS OF AMERICAN CAPITALISM: AN INTRODUCTION 3
growth was adhered to until 2008; the financial bubble burst and all that
had seemed solid vanished into thin air.
When governments and financial institutions rescued a threatened capi-
talist system by taking over bad debts and bailing out a number of hand-
picked sinking banks, the semiotic and reflexive substance of economic
value turned more political. Massive amounts of money were created and
injected into the economy through stabilizing plans, quantitative easing
and forward guidance. The exposure of “the fictiveness of fictitious capi-
tal” that crystallizes into liquidity (the capitalist dematerialized abstraction
of value), and in the power of granting credits and canceling debts, was a
shock for the mainstream economists believing in the substantive value of
money and for the staunch advocates of a self-regulated financial market.
This exposure acted as a reminder that fiat money is devoid of intrinsic
value, even though it is the fundamental collective institution and social
link in market economies (Aglietta 1976/2016; Orléan and Diaz-Bone
2013; Orléan 2014). The crisis also revealed the hidden market/state
nexus presiding over its own invisibility, and uncovered its institutional
and political stability (Cossu-Beaumont et al. 2016).
On the theoretical front, the 2008 crisis evidenced the constructivist
intentions behind economic models, their rhetorical, political and perfor-
mative orientations (Morgan 2001; Butler 2010), which were not overly
concerned with factual truth. It acted as an epiphany, revealing that “th[e]
[e]xisting economic order was no more than the implementation of a uto-
pia” and its “tutelary theory a pure mathematical fiction” (Bourdieu
1998). Had not Milton Friedman (1953) provocatively argued that the
realism of assumptions does not matter as long as the predictions derived
from them are correct? That was when economics, queen of the more
objective social sciences, became an “unrealistic discipline” challenging
science’s rational quest for truth, with a contrasting counterfactual
approach that turned its models into virtual works of fiction (McCloskey
1990, 1998; Frigg 2010; Boyer, infra). Economists’ reliance on a “phi-
losophy of ‘as if’” (Vaihinger 1924; Appiah 2017) was made plain, justify-
ing McCloskey’s description of the profession as “tellers of stories and
makers of poems” (1990, p. 5).
4 J.-H. COSTE AND V. DUSSOL
2
Is a Theory of Capitalism Possible?
3
See Boyer (2015); Boltanski and Thévenot (1991); Jessop (2001).
1 THE FICTIONS OF AMERICAN CAPITALISM: AN INTRODUCTION 5
Slave narratives can be read as so many attempts to expose the contradiction in the
6
white city of democracy and the terrorists, despots, barbarians, and other
enemies of civilization. One cannot, at once, claim to be superhuman and
then plead mortal error. I propose to take our countrymen’s claims of
American exceptionalism seriously, which is to say I propose subjecting our
country to an exceptional moral standard. (p. 9)
For the United States, more so than for other countries, fiction and narra-
tive were never the exclusive preserve of literature.
A rapid, standard characterization of American capitalism “proper”
would list for its main features the labor/capital opposition; the con-
stant tugs-of-war between free traders and protectionists, the Jeffersonian
and Hamiltonian paradigms, actor and institutions (those being ultimately
inseparable as a market/state nexus); and so forth. A pioneering work of
Regulation Theory (Aglietta 1976/2016), focused on the development of
US capitalism from the Civil War to the Carter presidency. Aglietta sug-
gested that the American variety of capitalism actually relies on constrain-
ing structures, conventions and mediation mechanisms for its smooth
working. We argue that ideological and theoretical fictions, regimes of
expectations and to some extent creative fiction (see the third section of
the present book) should be counted among these mediation mechanisms.
The invalidation of the pre-2008 dehistoricized globalist vision of a
post-national world (with a benign American empire for a leader) proved
unacceptable to many Americans, because it amounted to no less than a
cultural dismantling. With the end of America’s post-war hegemonic gov-
ernance of the world-system (Wallerstein 2003, 2004; Zakaria 2008), the
national myth of exceptionalism was badly frayed.
Although the economic climate in the United States has improved to a
substantial extent, since the financial crisis, the short-term and long-term
responses to the financial crisis have left their mark: the ruthlessness of the
neoliberal system first prompted social movements and a radical critique of
a pervasive economic reason extending to all aspects of the social fabric
(Duménil and Lévy 2013). In the longer term, the crisis, paradoxically
enough, caused the recrudescence of virulent forms of US imperial nation-
alism and populism. A new fiction was called for: “Make America Great
Again” was the one that prevailed in the 2016 presidential election.
What makes the United States special as a testing ground for a study of
the special relation between capitalism and fiction has to do with U.S.
capitalism’s long-lasting romance with finance. Arrighi (1994) famously
8 J.-H. COSTE AND V. DUSSOL
theorized the United States as embodying the fourth stage in the develop-
ment of capitalism7. In view of American capitalism’s inexorable push
toward financialization, Arrighi also predicted its demise: likewise, Braudel
remarked that “the stage of financial expansion” is always “a sign of
autumn” (quoted in Jameson 1997, p. 6)?8 The Braudelian “autumn met-
aphor” characterizes a transfer of hegemony from the West to the East but
also points toward joint fictional and epistemic shifts that are instrumental
in the transformation of capitalism. In America’s case, it is rather the sec-
ond understanding which applies because financial expansion was never
necessarily a harbinger of the country’s decline. “[A]t the international
level, the United States ascended to superpower status on the basis of its
financial system” (Beckert and Desan 2018, p. 3). An overblown financial
dimension is a structural feature of American capitalism.9 Through an
analysis of mostly fictional narratives, Alison Shonkwiler has underlined
striking similarities between the Gilded Age and the twentieth century’s
final two decades. She writes about Dreiser’s The Financier: “I argue that
through its retrospective view of financial creativity in the historical late
nineteenth century, the text inaugurates a twentieth-century imagination
of capital as a force that exists outside and beyond the ordinary dynamics
of history” (2007, p. 79).10 Both periods considered by Shonkwiler indi-
cate a national inclination to the dehistoricization of capital, and suggest
that, in the case of the United States, “late capitalism” should be
understood both structurally and historically at the same time (Jameson
7
Arrighi (1994) identified four accumulation cycles in the capitalist world-system, each
with its associated hegemonic center: Italian cities in the sixteenth century, the Netherlands
in the seventeenth century, nineteenth-century Britain, and the United States after 1945.
8
In other words, whenever speculation takes over from investment in production as the
main source of profit, an era of capitalism is coming to an end and a new one is inventing
itself.
9
As hinted at by Emerson (1842) who, in “The Transcendentalist,” typifies “The sturdy
capitalist” with these words: “no matter how deep and square on blocks of Quincy granite
he lays the foundations of his banking-house or Exchange, must set it, at last, not on a cube
corresponding to the angles of his structure, but on a mass of unknown materials and solid-
ity, red-hot or white-hot, perhaps at the core, which rounds off to an almost perfect spheric-
ity, and lies floating in soft air, and goes spinning away, dragging bank and banker with it at
a rate of thousands of miles the hour, he knows not whither,—a bit of bullet, now glimmer-
ing, now darkling through a small cubic space on the edge of an unimaginable pit of empti-
ness” (p. 241).
10
Shonkwiler’s more recent book, The Financial Imaginary: Economic Mystification and
the Limits of Realist Fiction (2017), develops this theme.
1 THE FICTIONS OF AMERICAN CAPITALISM: AN INTRODUCTION 9
11
“Almost all of the developments we associate with modernity—from greater religious
toleration to scientific discovery—required the kind of cognitive provisionality one practices
in reading fiction, a competence in investing contingent and temporary credit” (Gallagher,
p. 347).
12
A definition of the concept is found in the next pages.
13
That is linked to the contradiction between the constant creation, accumulation and
valorization of capital—the law of diminishing returns induces an endless quest for boundless
10 J.-H. COSTE AND V. DUSSOL
growth (See Arnaud, infra)—and the struggle over the appropriation/redistribution of sur-
plus value.
14
An early formulation of this view is in Minsky 1974: “the financial system swings between
robustness and fragility and these swings are an integral part of the process that generates
business cycles.”
15
“Confidence” is like “fiction,” a double-faced signifier, asset or liability: a synonym for
“trust or faith in a person or thing,” the reversal of its meaning is inscribed in the compound
“confidence man,” “a person who swindles others by means of a confidence game” (The Free
Dictionary), suggesting that it is of the essence of confidence that it can be betrayed
(Vatanpour, infra).)
1 THE FICTIONS OF AMERICAN CAPITALISM: AN INTRODUCTION 11
Without belief, the system cannot work. As André Orléan (2014) has
shown in The Empire of Value, any financial and monetary system—when
analyzed from a conventionalist and regulationist perspective—has to rely
on trust and a shared structure of beliefs within a community. Economic
value is not bound up with labor, utility or market exchange ties; it is an
extrinsic social force that extends to every aspect of economic life and
shapes perceptions and behaviors. Lionel Shriver’s 2016 novel The
Mandibles: A Family, 2029–2047, with its ironic “In God We Trusted”
epigraph, and which features an economist as a character, has this passage
that seems straight out of Orléan’s work:
That explains Robert Boyer’s and Jens Beckert’s emphasis on the special
relationship between capitalism and the future (infra). The declining role
of banks and the emergence of new financial institutions such as hedge
funds freed from national boundaries, the global dynamics of speculation
and leverage, have increased economic volatility to a considerable extent.
The downturns, recessions and even crashes (in 1974–1975, 1981–1982,
1987, 1989, 200116 and 2008) provide sufficient evidence of the height-
ened risks. Was not the 2008 subprime crash much larger in terms of the
loss of wealth from the declines in stock and home prices than the loss of
wealth before the Depression? Financial capitalism has exacerbated the
openness and uncertainty of the future (Beckert and Bronk 2018). That is
why permanent instability has been the hallmark of the finance-led
American capitalism, and why its intrinsic dynamic (Boyer 2011; Beckert
2015) is tantamount to a constant search for order.
The concept of “expectations regimes,” created by Boyer (2018), clari-
fies the way contingencies are reduced by narratives of a new kind. These
16
Otherwise known as “the dot-com crisis.”
12 J.-H. COSTE AND V. DUSSOL
narratives do not solely rely on “rational expectations”: they are not meant
to anticipate risks and turn them into a tolerable future predicated on
commensurable probabilities. Instead, what characterizes these narratives
is the pre-eminence and predominance of imagination and fictional expec-
tations which activate beliefs and possible scripts (Bloch 1985, 1988;
Koselleck 2004; Beckert 2013). The search for a successful development
path generates counterfactual models, decontextualized abstractions and
imagined worlds that help to invent alternative visions of the future: those
fictions include theoretical modeling, ideological storytelling and the pos-
sible worlds of literature. All three brands of discourse come under Boyer’s
term of “anti-uncertainty devices” (2018).
17
While dictionaries concur on first defining “fictitious” as “what is false and is intended to
deceive people,” no agreement seems to exist about “fictive” which, depending on dictionar-
ies, is given first as a descriptive or a depreciative modifier. Definitions of “fictional” do not
include negative features, relating it most clearly to imaginative invention and artistic cre-
ation. Despite these differences, all three adjectives can refer to what relates to works of
fiction.
18
Gallagher (2006) shows for instance how the novel is the type of fictional narrative “in
which and through which fictionality became manifest, explicit, widely understood, and
accepted” “as, over the course of the eighteenth century, readers developed the ability to tell
[fiction] apart from both fact and (this is the key) deception” (p. 336; 338).
1 THE FICTIONS OF AMERICAN CAPITALISM: AN INTRODUCTION 13
19
The function of American realism as a buttress of capitalism is a question which critics
have repeatedly addressed. See La Berge and Shonkwiler (2014).
14 J.-H. COSTE AND V. DUSSOL
sible worlds has been widely researched (Ryan 1991; Ronen 1994; Lavocat
2016; Gallagher 2018). Modes and genres fluctuate, from exhaustive
attempts to render reality with photographic accuracy to making do with
“reality effects,” or reaching for transcendent veritas.
But there are yet other ways in which literature matters. The truth-value
of creative fiction lies in its “capaciousness”: unlike epistemic constructions
that preclude debate and eliminate dissensus (the very principles of political
life), novels make it possible to include diverging points-of-view. Literary
fiction does not have to conform to the law of non-contradiction, because
different realities or versions of the truth can coexist in a novel (Lewis
1978; Lamarque and Olsen 1994). To that extent, they may then be con-
sidered a form of “representative thinking” in the Arendtian sense (Arendt
1961, p. 241) that achieves intersubjective validity. In this view, the truth
in literary fiction amounts to “an experience of democracy” (Nussbaum
1995, 2010; Stow 2006; Brook and Jewett 2014), more specifically “a
lived experience of the dissolution of the [metaphysical] markers of cer-
tainty” (Lefort 1989). Don DeLillo’s view of the novel as a “democratic
shout” (1991) confirms its political significance.
Why literary, ideological and economic discourses have come to con-
verge on the question of fiction in the past few years is a point worth
exploring. Until not so long ago, we would have said that the phrase “the
critical function of fiction within (American) capitalism” means either that
novelists have performed a useful function in criticizing capitalism or that
fiction (i.e. invention as imagination or lies) is “of major importance” for
the dynamics of capitalism. We gradually came to think that one should
not choose between the two interpretations. What does this shift in our
perception reveal?
What is involved in pointing out that, like fiction, theorizing in eco-
nomics (a dedicated servant of capitalism) relies on “as if” models (Mäki
2002; Morgan 2012, 2014)? In a way, it is just a belated recognition of the
soundness of the Regulationist approach, to the effect that consideration
of things economic should include both hard and social sciences and that
creative literary fiction can be regarded as a valid form of cognition.
Another interpretation of this convergence of discourses consists in read-
ing it as a manifestation of the neoliberal era (Nealon 2012; Huehls and
Greenwald 2017). The now extended understanding of fictionality may
coincide with, and express, the decline in legitimacy and political influence
1 THE FICTIONS OF AMERICAN CAPITALISM: AN INTRODUCTION 15
20
Quantitative economists’ current interest in fiction amounts to a return of the sup-
pressed. (“Marx’s commodity stems from the Balzacian shop,” Rancière reminds us (2010,
p. 164).) A striking illustration of this suspect trend is Robert J. Shiller’s (2017) Presidential
address delivered at the annual meeting of the American Economic Association in January
2017 and entitled “Narrative Economics,” a plea for the expansion of the field of economics
in the form of the quantitative study of the effect of popular, non-factual narratives on an
economy’s health. “We economists should not just throw up our hands and decide to ignore
this vast literature. We need to understand the narrative basis for macroeconomic fluctua-
tions, and to think about how narrative economics ought to be more informing of policy
actions now and in the future,” he writes (p. 10). The centerpiece of the article consists in a
“reading” of “the 1920–1921 Depression, the Great Depression of the 1930s, the so-called
‘Great Recession’ of 2007–2009 and the contentious political-economic situation of today,
[…] as the results of the popular narratives of their respective times” (p. 10). The modeling
of fictions with a view to getting ever closer to zero-error forecasts may be the ultimate
quant’s (quantitative economist’s) fantasy, i.e. actually run against the spirit of political econ-
omy with its complex approach of phenomena, by perpetuating the belief that anything boils
down to a system of equations (Boyer, infra). But Shiller’s attempt is certainly in sync with
the zeitgeist: his research registers the greater “impact of non-factual narratives” “after the
relatively recent advent of modern information technology and social media” (p. 4–5).
16 J.-H. COSTE AND V. DUSSOL
21
Granta magazine’s 2017 Best of Young American Novelists includes two pieces directly
referring to Trump’s election: Mark Doten’s “Trump Sky Alpha” (2019) and Esmé Weijun
Wang’s (2017) “What Terrible Thing It Was.” Trump Sky Alpha is now a full-length novel
published by Graywolf Press.
22
Aspects of Thomas Pynchon’s Against the Day (2006) and Cormac McCarthy’s The
Road (2006) embody modes of this return to the real.
1 THE FICTIONS OF AMERICAN CAPITALISM: AN INTRODUCTION 17
To Conclude, Temporarily
Fiction and fictionality are now common research issues for the social sci-
ences in general, a likely by-product of the unforeseen global financial
crisis of 2008 and the Great Recession that followed. In the wake of the
global storm that hurt millions of people, economists have talked to other
disciplines in the humanities and social sciences, in an attempt to narrow
the gap between theory and the real economy. This involved both acknowl-
edging the place of fiction in economic theory and paying greater atten-
tion to the role of irrational factors in a country’s economic life. This new
attention to the fictional has, maybe not coincidentally, been running par-
allel with a general dissolving of the fact/fiction dichotomy into
pan-fictionalism or post-truth regimes. “Fact-checking” has become part
of the common idiom.
With “fiction” increasingly referring to something other than “novels,”
literature has also seen its status partly redefined as a “boundary object”
(Star and Griesemer 1989) that deserves to be analyzed as “a kind of
symptomatology of society” (Rancière 2004, p. 33). Whether or not fic-
tion (literary or otherwise) partly relieves capitalism of its symptoms is a
question worth exploring again (Zimmerman writes about nineteenth-
23
See Karl Taro Greenfeld’s The Subprimes (2015) to which R. Boyer refers in his chapter,
and also Dee (2015).
18 J.-H. COSTE AND V. DUSSOL
goods in order to make up for lost faith in the economic system and the
neoliberal creed in general.
The belief, informing American capitalism, in the virtual boundlessness
of the national economy is, Pierre Arnaud argues, rooted in the initial
experiencing of America’s space and became a widely shared notion dur-
ing the conquest of the West, which coincided with “the advent of capital-
ism.” The fiction survived the completion of territorial expansion as the
axis of space projected itself onto the axis of time. The future came to
stand for limitless promise for the US economy: a view that neoclassical
economists’ notion of a predictable future had laid the ground for. Despite
recurring crises, the past decades show that American economic actors’
positive valuation of, and trust in, the future never weakened durably:
their reliance on credit endures and a high level of debt remains a positive
signal of dynamism rather than a liability.
Complementing the study of capitalism and futurity variously con-
ducted by other contributors, and basing his study on a corpus of now-
established and iconic “business heroes,” Coste offers a typology of those
fictional discourses of US entrepreneurship that mine the riches of the
past: they range from best-selling autobiographies (spreading across a
“soft epic” spectrum) to more or less sophisticated instruction manuals, or
even incursions into the theoretical, when entrepreneurship becomes capi-
talism’s applied science.
as a vehicle of progress and justice, and his dedication to realism led him
to the painful reconsideration of the worth of his ideal, therefore of his
work. Howells later imagined utopian alternatives but never radical ones;
by and large his oeuvre justifies a view of literary fiction, the “economic
novel” in particular, as having worked as a safety-valve for the excesses of
capitalism from the end of the Civil War to the start of America’s involve-
ment in World War I.
Like Phelps’s The Silent Partner, Frank Norris’s representation of capi-
talism in The Octopus (1901) refers to easily identifiable economic and
sociological theorizing of the Progressive era (on monopoly, mechaniza-
tion and the conflicting dynamics of agricultural/industrial life). Norris
saw no hiatus between science and literature and insisted that fiction must
be about the pursuit of truth. But his protagonist’s wavering, first between
(epic) poetry and partisanship nourished by his reading in political econ-
omy, then from denunciation of capitalism to a form of fascination by it,
dramatizes Norris’s difficulty in attaining a stabilized truth. Ultimately,
Payen-Variéras shows that the theoretical and ideological inconsistencies
of The Octopus should be regarded both as a true record of the time’s con-
flicting economic and political theories and an attempt at making sense of
it, with fiction being the most appropriate heuristic method to approach
such an end.
Economic lessons can be drawn from literary fiction, on condition that
no pre-written teleological narrative distorts the textual data. That is the
point Jason Douglas makes in his study of Theodore Dreiser’s The
Financier (1912). More specifically, Douglas suggests that simply equat-
ing capitalism with the destructive forces of nature blocks the reception of
what The Financier most usefully exposes, that is all the parasitic factors
that jam the smooth running of a free-market economy when “crony-
capitalism” alters the essentials of economic rationality.
William Dow’s chapter on Richard Wright and Ann Petry, two African-
American writers, explores the two authors’ methods for “disarticulating
[…] a racialized capitalism.” Their passion for truth determines their
aesthetic choices, a central aspect of which is their decision to hybridize
their writer’s practice by jointly “doing” fiction and journalism, explicitly
rejecting—in Petry’s case—generic categories. Neither author plays down
the role of fictionality: they see it as part of the rhetorical tools at their dis-
posal. Capitalism creates its own ideological fictions to generate emotional
involvement; truth itself is racialized and generally confiscated by the pow-
ers that be. So, battling it back can be done through fiction too. Dow’s
22 J.-H. COSTE AND V. DUSSOL
chapter keeps a tight focus on the questions of fiction and truth in relation
to race and class.
A paean to entrepreneurial capitalism, Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged
(1957) was written and published during the Cold War, as the “Post-War
Deal” regime saw the triumph of the large-scale organization and
Keynesian planning. Rand imagines a disastrous ending for state-guided
capitalism and its toppling by an oligarchy of entrepreneurs. The book
remains a best-seller almost 60 years after its first publication despite very
unfavorable reviews by literary critics. Exploring the reasons for these dim
views of the work, Vincent Dussol shows that Rand’s harnessing of the
epic and utopian genres contributes to making her novel a stiff and uncon-
vincing praise of laissez-faire capitalism as the embodiment of freedom.
The grand exemplary tale of “pure” capitalism that she meant to tell
appears as the implausible rendering of an economic system, frozen at an
outdated Fordist stage of its history.
Over forty years after its publication (1976), William Gaddis’s JR
remains an unsurpassable rocking of the boat of finance capitalism. Jean-
Louis Brunel’s reading of the massive novel follows the lead of Buci-
Glucksmann’s view of Baroque aesthetics (1994) as “a mimetic of
nothingness” that builds a “clutter” of forms and signs around substantial
“vacancy.” Drawing on this characterization of the Baroque and on
Foucault’s pairing of the madman with the artist as the western cultural
area’s bookends, Brunel examines the modes of capitalist insanity repre-
sented in JR. Like the madman, capitalism does not know difference and
disregards limits, turning illusion into presence, which is the perspective of
speculation and the principle of the Baroque. The essay goes on to show
that the purpose of the artist runs against that of the capitalist: Nietzsche’s
creative destruction stands poles apart from that of Schumpeter. In JR, the
untimely movements of style carry the day against the endless fluctuation
of stocks.
In his essay on capitalist temporality, Beckert returns to Bourdieu’s
opposition between a traditional economy, which deals in “direct goods”
and operates according to well-identified future aims within real time, and
a “detraditionalized” money-based economy which introduces indirection
and turns the future into “a vanishing point.”
Sina Vatanpour’s study of “money narratives” in postmodern works of
fiction—Paul Auster’s City of Glass (1987) and Martin Amis’s Money
1 THE FICTIONS OF AMERICAN CAPITALISM: AN INTRODUCTION 23
In the past decade the surge of capital markets has dominated discourse and
shaped global consciousness. Multinational corporations have come to seem
more vital and influential than governments. The dramatic climb of the
Dow and the speed of the internet summoned us all to live permanently in
the future, in the utopian glow of cyber-capital, because there is no memory
there and this is where markets are uncontrolled and investment potential
has no limit. All this changed on September 11.
But 9/11 was not a watershed moment for capitalism. Pynchon’s 2013
Bleeding Edge constructs 2001 as a critical time of its expansion across the
World Wide Web. The year 2001 is shown by Pynchon to have been the
24
Vatanpour’s “excursion” into British literature is justified by the striking thematic simi-
larities the two novels bear to each other. Additionally, Amis’s protagonist jets back and forth
between the two sides of the Atlantic.
24 J.-H. COSTE AND V. DUSSOL
time when the reality of a take-over by corporate and more obscure forces
of what had been thought of as a continent of freedom, set in. And, in the
same way as the arraignments of capitalism in nineteenth century, eco-
nomic novels often appealed “to some idea, place, or time seemingly
impervious to flux—chivalric love, moral character, gender identity, aes-
thetic harmony, Christian service, country life, and so on” (Zimmerman
2006, p. 410)— Pynchon’s novel points to the pastoral dream as a space
of resistance to stop the bleeding caused by the cutting edges of capital-
ism. The capitalist economy leaves him no choice as to where to locate
such spaces: they are now to be found in refuse, the real and the digital
kind, in open-air dumps or the Deep Web—Pynchon’s original extension
of the literary treatment of waste in American literature.25 Like Maxine,
the fraud investigator and heroine, Bénédicte Chorier-Fryd operates in
both worlds to analyze the sites of pastoral resistance.
Prospects
Concluding this book, Peter Knight’s essay establishes the existence of a
thriving academic field at “The Interface of Economics and American
Literary Studies.” This survey of the representations of the representations
of capitalism demonstrates the fertility of Marx’s initial positing of a direct
influence between economic infrastructure and ideological superstructure.
Generations of academics followed in Marx’s footsteps, variously teasing
out different types of cause-and-effect relationships between stages of cap-
italist development and modes of fictional representation (Lukacs 1916;
Goldman 1965; Macherey 1966; Moretti 2013a, b, 2015; Crosthwaite
et al. 2018). Knight brings out the historical and ideological specificities
of their successive approaches (American studies as a watered-down,
acceptable avatar of Marxist-inspired research), and traces the connections
between them, assessing their merits but also their limitations as when
glittering generalities overreach themselves and finally fail to account for
specific literary objects. Homologies should not be pushed too far, Knight
insists. However, his review of the research findings confirms the indisput-
25
Pynchon’s digital waste comes after A.R. Ammons’s poem Garbage (1993) and Don
DeLillo’s Underworld (1997), in which waste (its past, present and future, its economics,
even its metaphysical meaning) is abundantly theorized and dramatized through various
characters.
Politics too produces waste: “we are now in a political landscape littered with what Alex
Williams called ‘ideological rubble’” (Fisher, 2009, p. 78).
1 THE FICTIONS OF AMERICAN CAPITALISM: AN INTRODUCTION 25
26
Gary Saul Morson, Morton Schapiro (2018) Cents and sensibility: What economics can
learn from the humanities, Princeton, Princeton University Press.
26 J.-H. COSTE AND V. DUSSOL
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30 J.-H. COSTE AND V. DUSSOL
The great detective set his men to work and called up the prison before
leaving New York. As a result of the telephone conversation, the warden
gave up the search for the fugitive in the neighborhood of Ossining.
Ossining is up the Hudson, about an hour’s ride, by train, from the
metropolis. It did not take Nick long to reach his destination.
He found Warden Kennedy in the latter’s office, and listened to a
characteristic account of Doctor Grantley’s escape, which—in view of the
fugitive’s subsequent appearance at the theater—need not be repeated here.
Bradley, the keeper, was still unconscious, and nobody seemed to know
what was the matter with him. Nick had a theory, which almost amounted to
a certainty; but it remained to confirm it by a personal examination.
The warden presently led the way to the prison hospital, where the
unfortunate keeper lay. No second glance was necessary to convince the
detective that he had been right.
The man was in a sort of semirigid state, curiously like that of a trance.
All ordinary restoratives had been tried and had failed, yet there did not
appear to be anything alarming about his condition.
The prison physician started to describe the efforts which had been made,
but Nick interrupted him quietly.
“Never mind about that, doctor,” he said. “I know what is the matter with
him, and I believe I can revive him—unless Grantley has blocked the way.”
“Is it possible!” exclaimed Kennedy and the doctor, in concert. “What is
it?” added the former, while the latter demanded: “What do you mean by
‘blocking the way’?”
“Your ex-guest hypnotized him, Kennedy,” was the simple reply, “and, as
I have had more or less experience along that line myself, I ought to be able
to bring Bradley out of the hypnotic sleep, provided the man who plunged
him into it did not impress upon his victim’s mind too strong a suggestion to
the contrary. Grantley has gone deep into hypnotism, and it is possible that
he has discovered some way of preventing a third person from reviving his
subjects. There would have been nothing for him to gain by it in this case,
but he may—out of mere malice—have thrown Bradley under a spell which
no one but he can break. Let us hope not, however.”
“Hypnotism, eh?” ejaculated Kennedy. “By the powers, why didn’t we
think of that, doctor?”
The prison physician hastily sought an excuse for his ignorance, but, as a
matter of fact, he could not be greatly blamed. He was not one of the shining
lights of his profession, as his not very tempting position proved, and
comparatively few medical practitioners have had any practical experience
with hypnotism or its occasional victims.
Nick Carter, on the other hand, had made an exhaustive study of the
subject, both from a theoretical and a practical standpoint, and had often had
occasion to utilize his extensive knowledge.
While Warden Kennedy, the physician, and a couple of nurses leaned
forward curiously, the detective bent over the figure on the narrow white bed
and rubbed the forehead and eyes a few times, in a peculiar way.
Then he spoke to the man.
“Come, wake up, Bradley!” he said commandingly. “I want you! You’re
conscious! You’re answering me. You cannot resist! Get up!”
And to the amazement of the onlookers, the keeper opened his eyes in a
dazed, uncomprehending sort of way, threw his feet over the edge of the bed,
and sat up.
“What is it? Where have I been?” he asked, looking about him. And then
he added, in astonishment: “What—what am I doing here?”
“You’ve been taking a long nap, but you’re all right now, Bradley,” the
detective assured him. “You remember what happened, don’t you?”
For a few moments the man’s face was blank, but soon a look of shamed
understanding, mingled with resentment, overspread it.
“It was that cursed Number Sixty Thousand One Hundred and Thirteen!”
he exclaimed, giving Grantley’s prison number. “He called to me, while I
was making my rounds—was it last night?”
Nick nodded, and the keeper went on:
“What do you know about that! Is he gone?”
This time it was the warden who replied.
“Yes, he’s skipped, Bradley; but we know he was down in New York later
in the night, and Carter here can be counted on to bring him back, sooner or
later.”
Kennedy had begun mildly enough, owing to the experience which his
subordinate had so recently undergone, but, at this point, the autocrat in him
got the better of his sympathy.
“What the devil did you mean, though, by going into his cell, keys and
all, like a confounded imbecile?” he demanded harshly. “Isn’t that the first
thing you had drilled into that reënforced-concrete dome of yours—not to
give any of these fellows a chance to jump you when you have your keys
with you? If you hadn’t fallen for his little game——”
“But I didn’t fall for nothing, warden!” the keeper interrupted warmly. “I
didn’t go into his cell at all. I know better than that, believe me!”
“You didn’t—what? What are you trying to put over, Bradley?” Kennedy
burst out. “You were found in his cell, with the door unlocked and the keys
gone, not to mention Number Sixty Thousand One Hundred and Thirteen,
curse him! Maybe that ain’t proof.”
“It ain’t proof,” insisted the keeper, “no matter how it looks. He called to
me, and I started toward the grating to see what he wanted. He fixed his eyes
on me, like he was looking me through and through, and made some funny
motions with his hands. I’ll swear that’s all I remember. If I was found in his
cell, I don’t know how I got there, or anything about it, so help me!”
The warden started to give Bradley another tongue-lashing, but Nick
interposed.
“He’s telling the truth, Kennedy,” he said.
“But how in thunder——”
“Very easily. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but it is evident that
Grantley hypnotized him through the bars and then commanded him to
unlock the door and come inside. There is nothing in hypnotism to interfere;
on the contrary, that would be the easiest and surest thing to do, under the
circumstances. Grantley is too clever to try any of the old, outworn devices
—such as feigning sickness, for instance—in order to get a keeper in his
power. All that was necessary was for him to catch Bradley’s eye. The rest
was as easy as rolling off a log. When he got our friend inside, he put him to
sleep, took his keys and his outer clothing, and then—good-by, Sing Sing!
It’s rather strange that he succeeded in getting away without discovery of the
deception, but he evidently did; or else he bribed somebody. You might look
into that possibility, if you think best. The supposition isn’t essential,
however, for accident, or good luck, might easily have aided him. As for the
means he used to cover his trail after leaving the vicinity of the prison, we
need not waste any time over that question. Fortunately, we have hit upon
his trail down the river, and all that remains to do is to keep on it, in the right
direction, until we come up with him. It may be a matter of hours or days or
months, but Grantley is going to be brought back here before we’re through.
You can bank on that, gentlemen. And when I return him to you it will be up
to you to take some extraordinary precautions to see that he doesn’t
hypnotize any more keepers.”
“I guess that’s right, Carter,” agreed Warden Kennedy, tugging at his big
mustache. “Bolts and bars are no good to keep in a man like that, who can
make anybody let him out just by looking at him and telling him to hand
over the keys. I suppose I’d have done it, too, if I’d been in Bradley’s place.”
“Exactly!” the detective responded, with a laugh. “You couldn’t have
helped yourself. Don’t worry, though. I think we can keep him from trying
any more tricks of that sort, when we turn him over to you again.”
“Hanged if I see how, unless we give him a dose of solitary confinement,
in a dark cell, and have the men blindfold themselves when they poke his
food in through the grating.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Nick assured the warden as he prepared to
leave. “We can get around it easier than that.”
Half an hour later Nick was on his way back to New York City.
He was not as light-hearted or confident as he had allowed Warden
Kennedy to suppose, however.
The fact that Grantley had turned to that mysterious and terrifying
agency, hypnotism, with all of its many evil possibilities, caused him
profound disquiet.
Already the fugitive had used his mastery of the uncanny force in two
widely different ways. He had escaped from prison with startling ease by
means of it, and then, not content with that, he had hypnotized a famous
actress in the midst of one of her greatest triumphs—for Nick had known all
along that Helga Lund had yielded to hypnotic influence.
If the escaped convict kept on in the way he had begun, there was no
means of foretelling the character or extent of his future crimes, in case he
was not speedily brought to bay.
CHAPTER V.
Doctor Lightfoot, the actress’ physician, was greatly excited and had just
telephoned to Nick’s house, after the detective had left for the hotel.
The doctor had arrived there about half an hour before, for his regular
morning visit. To his consternation he had found the night nurse stretched
out on Helga Lund’s bed, unconscious, and clad only in her undergarments.
The actress was nowhere to be found.
The anxious Lightfoot was of very different caliber from the prison
physician at Sing Sing. He had recognized the nurse’s symptoms at once,
and knew that she had been hypnotized.
He set to work at once to revive her and succeeded in doing so, after
some little delay. As soon as she was in a condition to question, he pressed
her for all the details she could give.
They were meager enough, but sufficiently disquieting. According to her
story, a man whom she had supposed to be Lightfoot himself had gained
entrance to the suite between nine and ten o’clock at night.
He had sent up Doctor Lightfoot’s name, and his appearance, when she
saw him, had coincided with that of the attending physician. He had acted
rather strangely, to be sure, and the nurse had been surprised at his presence
at that hour, owing to the fact that Lightfoot had already made his two
regular calls that day.
Before her surprise had had time to become full-fledged suspicion,
however, the intruder had fixed her commandingly with his eyes and she had
found herself powerless to resist the weakness of will which had frightened
her.
She dimly remembered that he had approached her slowly, nearer and
nearer, and that his gleaming eyes had seemed to be two coals of fire in his
head.
That was all she recalled, except that she had felt her senses reeling and
leaving her. She had known no more until Doctor Lightfoot broke the dread
spell, almost twelve hours afterward.
She had met the bogus Lightfoot in one of the outer rooms of the suite,
not in the presence of the actress. Miss Lund had been in her bedroom at the
time, but had not yet retired.
The nurse was horror-stricken to learn that her patient was missing, and
equally at a loss to explain how she herself came to be without her uniform.
But Doctor Lightfoot possessed a sufficiently analytical mind to enable
him to solve the puzzle, after a fashion, even before Nick arrived.
The detective had told him that the sight of an enemy of the actress’ had
caused her seizure, and it was easy to put two and two together. This enemy
had doubtless made himself up to represent the attending physician, had
hypnotized the nurse, and then passed on, unhindered, to the actress’ room.
He had obviously subdued her in the same fashion, after which he had
removed the unconscious nurse’s uniform and compelled Helga to don it.
The doctor remembered now that the two women were nearly alike in
height and build. The nurse had dark-brown hair, in sharp contrast to Helga’s
golden glory; but a wig could have remedied that. Neither was there any
similarity in features, but veils can be counted on to hide such differences.
Doctor Lightfoot, despite his alarm, was rather proud of his ability to
reason the thing out alone. He had no doubt that Helga Lund, under hypnotic
influence, had accompanied the strange man from the hotel, against her will.
It would have been very easy, with no obstacle worth mentioning to
interpose. No one who saw them would have thought it particularly strange
to see the nurse and the doctor leaving together. At most, it would have
suggested that they were on unusually good terms, and that he was taking
her out for an airing in his car.
The keen-witted physician had progressed thus far by the time Nick
arrived, but he had not yet sought to verify his deductions by questioning
any of the hotel staff.
Nick listened to his theory, put a few additional questions to the nurse,
and then complimented Doctor Lightfoot on his analysis.
“That seems to be the way of it,” the detective admitted. “A light, three-
quarter-length coat, which the nurse often wore over her uniform, is also
missing, together with her hat. The distinctive nurse’s skirt would have
shown beneath the coat and thereby help the deception.”
Confidential inquiries were made at once, and the fact was established
that the two masqueraders—one voluntary and one involuntary—had left the
building about ten o’clock the night before.
The supposed Lightfoot had arrived in a smart, closed town car, which
had been near enough to the physician’s in appearance to deceive the
carriage starter. The chauffeur wore a quiet livery, a copy of that worn by
Lightfoot’s driver. The car had waited, and the two had ridden away in it.
That was all the hotel people could say. The night clerk had thought it
odd that Miss Lund’s nurse had not returned, but it was none of his business,
of course, if the actress’ physician had taken her away.
It was of little importance now, but Nick was curious enough to make
inquiries, while he was about it, which brought out the fact that a man had
registered at the hotel the morning after the affair at the theater, and had paid
his bill and left the evening before.
It might have been only a coincidence, but certain features of the man’s
description, as given, left room for the belief that Doctor Grantley had really
been at the Wentworth-Belding during that interval.
But where was he now, and what had he done with the unfortunate
actress?
Such as it was, the slender clew furnished by the closed car must be
followed up for all it was worth.
That was not likely to prove an easy matter, and, unless Grantley had lost
his cunning, the trail of the machine would probably lead to nothing, even if
it could be followed. Nevertheless, there seemed to be nothing else to work
on.
The chauffeur of the car might have been an accomplice, but it was not
necessary to suppose so. It looked as if the wily Grantley had hunted up a
machine of the same make as Doctor Lightfoot’s, and had engaged it for a
week or a month, paying for it in advance.
There are many cars to be had in New York on such terms, and they are
extensively used by people who wish to give the impression, for a limited
time, that they own a fine car.
It is a favorite way of overawing visitors, and chauffeurs in various sorts
of livery go with the cars, both being always at the command of the renter.
It would not, therefore, have aroused suspicion if Grantley had furnished
a livery of his own choice for his temporary chauffeur.
The first step was to ascertain the make of Doctor Lightfoot’s car.
Another make might have been used, of course, but it was not likely, since
the easiest way to duplicate the machine would have been to chose another
having the same lines and color.
“Mine is a Palgrave,” the physician informed Nick, in response to the
latter’s question.
“Humph! That made it easy for Grantley,” remarked the detective; “but it
won’t be so easy for us. The Palgrave is the favorite car for renting by the
week or month, and there are numerous places where that particular machine
might have been obtained. We’ll have to go the rounds.”
Nick and his assistants set to work at once, with the help of the telephone
directory, which listed the various agencies for automobiles. There were
nearly twenty of them, but that meant comparatively little delay, with several
investigators at work.
A little over an hour after the search began, Chick “struck oil.”
Grantley, disguised as Doctor Lightfoot, had engaged a Palgrave town car
of the latest model at an agency on “Automobile Row,” as that section of
Broadway near Fifty-ninth Street is sometimes called.
The machine had been engaged for a week—not under Lightfoot’s name,
however—and Grantley had furnished the suit of livery. The car had been
used by its transient possessor for the first time the night before, had
returned to the garage about eleven o’clock, and had not since been sent for.
The chauffeur was there, and, at Nick’s request, the manager sent for him.
The detective was about to learn something of Grantley’s movements; but
was it to be much, or little?
He feared that the latter would prove to be the case.
CHAPTER VII.
A SHREWD GUESS.
The detective had revealed his identity, and the chauffeur was quite
willing to tell all he knew.
He had driven his temporary employer and the woman in nurse’s garb to
the Yellow Anchor Line pier, near the Battery. Grantley—or Thomas
Worthington, as he had called himself in this connection—had volunteered
the information that his companion was his niece, who had been sent for
suddenly to take care of some one who was to sail on the Laurentian at five
o’clock in the morning.
Both of the occupants of the car had alighted at the pier, and the man had
told the chauffeur not to wait, the explanation being that he might be
detained on board for some time.
The pier was a long one, and the chauffeur could not, of course, say
whether the pair had actually gone on board the vessel or not. He had obeyed
orders and driven away at once.
Neither the man nor the woman had carried any baggage. The chauffeur
had gathered that the person who was ill was a relative of both of them, and
that the nurse’s rather bewildered manner was due to her anxiety and the
suddenness of the call.
That was all Nick could learn from him, and an immediate visit to the
Yellow Anchor Line’s pier was imperative.
There it was learned that a man and woman answering the description
given had been noticed in the crowd of people who had come to bid good-by
to relatives and friends. One man was sure he had seen them enter a taxi
which had just dropped its passengers. When interrogated further, he gave it
as his impression that the taxi was a red-and-black machine. He naturally did
not notice its number, and no one else could be found who had seen even
that much.
A wireless inquiry brought a prompt reply from the Laurentian, to the
effect that no couple of that description were on board, or had been seen on
the vessel the night before.
It was clear that Grantley had made a false trail, for the purpose of
throwing off his pursuers. It had been a characteristic move, and no more
than Nick had expected.
The detective turned his attention to the taxi clew. Red and black were the
distinctive colors of the Flanders-Jackson Taxicab Company’s machines.
Consequently, the main garage of that concern was next visited.
Luckily, the man at the pier had been right. One of the company’s taxis
had been at the Yellow Anchor Line pier the previous night, and had picked
up a couple of new passengers there, after having been dismissed by those
who had originally engaged it.
Nick obtained the name and address of the chauffeur, who was off duty
until night. He was not at home when the detective called, but, after a
vexatious delay, he was eventually located.
A tip loosened his tongue.
“I remember them well, sir,” he declared. “The man looked like a doctor,
I thought, and, if I’m not mistaken, the woman had on a nurse’s uniform
under her long coat. I couldn’t see her face, though, on account of the heavy
veil she wore. She acted queer—sick or something. The fellow told me,
when they got in, to drive them to the Wentworth-Belding, but when I got up
to Fourteenth Street, he said to take them to the Metropolitan Building. I did,
and they got out. That’s all I know about it. I drove them to the Madison
Square side, and they had gone into the building before I started away, but
that’s the last I saw of them.”
“Well, we’ve traced them one step farther, Chick,” Nick remarked to his
first assistant as they left, “but we haven’t tracked them down, by a long
shot. Grantley doubtless went through the Metropolitan Building to Fourth
Avenue. There he either took the subway, hailed another taxi, or—hold on,
though! Maybe there’s something in that! I wonder——”
“Now, what?” Chick asked eagerly.
“You remember Doctor Chester, one of the six young physicians who was
mixed up with Grantley in that vivisection case?”
“Of course I do,” his assistant answered. “He has taken another name and
given up his profession—on the surface, at least. He’s living on East
Twenty-sixth Street——”
“Exactly—a very few blocks from the Metropolitan Building!”
interrupted his chief.
“You mean——”
“I have a ‘hunch,’ as Patsy would call it, that Grantley has taken Helga
Lund to Chester’s house. Chester has rented one of those old-fashioned, run-
down bricks across from the armory. It’s liable to be demolished almost any
day, to make way for a new skyscraper, and he doubtless gets it for a song.
He can do what he pleases there, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find that
Grantley had been paying the rent in anticipation of something of this sort.
They undoubtedly think that we lost sight of Chester long ago.”
“By George! I’ll wager you’re right, chief!” exclaimed Chick. “The fact
that we’ve traced Grantley to the Metropolitan Building certainly looks
significant, in view of Chester’s house being so near to it. It’s only about five
minutes’ walk, and a man with Grantley’s resourcefulness could easily have
made enough changes in his appearance and that of Miss Lund, while in the
Metropolitan Building, to have made it impossible for the two who entered
Chester’s house to be identified with those who had left the Wentworth-
Belding an hour or so before.”
“That’s the way it strikes me,” agreed the detective. “And, if the
scoundrel took her there last night, they are doubtless there now. I think
we’re sufficiently justified in forcing our way into the house and searching
it, and that without delay. We don’t know enough to take the police into our
confidence as yet; therefore, the raid will have to be purely on our own
responsibility. We must put our theory to the test at once, however, without
giving Grantley any more time to harm the actress. Heaven knows he’s had
enough opportunity to do so already!”
“Right! We can’t wait for darkness or reënforcements. It will have to be a
daylight job, put through just as we are. If we find ourselves on the wrong
scent, Chester will be in a position to make it hot for us—or would be, if he
had any standing—but we’ll have to risk that.”
“Well, if Chester—or Schofield, as he is calling himself now—is tending
to his new business as a commercial chemist, he ought to be away at this
hour. That remains to be seen, however. I imagine, at any rate, that we can
handle any situation that is likely to arise. If time were not so precious, it
would be better to have some of the other boys along with us, but we don’t
know what may be happening at this very moment. Come on. We can plan
our campaign on the way.”
A couple of tall loft buildings had already replaced part of the old row of
houses on the north side of Twenty-sixth Street, beginning at Fourth Avenue.
Nick and his assistant entered the second of these and took the elevator to
one of the upper floors, from the eastern corridor of which they could obtain
a view of the house occupied by young Doctor Chester, together with its
approaches, back and front.
The house consisted of a high basement—occupied by a little hand
laundry—and three upper stories, the main floor being reached by a flight of
iron steps at the front.
Obviously, there was no exit from the body of the house at the rear. There
was only a basement door opening into the tiny back yard, and that was
connected with the laundry.
The detective decided, as a result of their general knowledge of such
houses, not to bother with the back at all. Their plan was to march boldly up
the front stairs, outside, fit a skeleton key to the lock, and enter the hall.
They argued that, owing to the fact that the basement was sublet, any
crooked work that might be going on would be likely to be confined to the
second or third floor to prevent suspicion on the part of those connected with
the laundry.
Therefore, they hoped to find the first floor deserted. If that were the
case, it was improbable that their entrance would be discovered prematurely.
There was, doubtless, a flight of steps at the rear of the house, leading
down to the laundry from the first floor; but they were practically certain
that these rear stairs did not ascend above the main floor. If they did not,
there was no way of retreat for the occupants of the upper part of the house,
except by the front stairs, and, as the detective meant to climb them, it
seemed reasonable to suppose that Grantley, Chester & Company could
easily be trapped.
Nick and Chick returned to the street and made their way, without the
slightest attempt at concealment, toward the suspected house.
They met no one whose recognition was likely to be embarrassing, and
saw no faces at the upper windows as they climbed the outer steps.
They had already seen to it that their automatics were handy, and now
Nick produced a bunch of skeleton keys and began fitting them, one after
another.