I had not been long at this job when Drexel called me into the president's office.
"Willy," he said, "here's a puzzle. Fellow in Atlanta wants to borrow five hundred grand. Claims he has enough commercial orders to support the loan; but I can't find him in Dun and Bradstreet, or anywhere. Besides, what does he want to come to us for? There are plenty of banks in Georgia."
"Maybe they've all turned him down," I said. "What's his line?"
Drexel tossed a letter across his desk. The letterhead said UNITED IMP, with a Post Office box number in Atlanta. A sheaf of photostats of orders for the company's products was stapled to the letter.
The letter explained that the company manufactured wrought-iron grill work. They had been swamped with orders; hence they needed the loan to expand. The letter went on:
You are doubtless aware of the current vogue for nostalgic restoration. All over the South, decrepit mansions are being refurbished as tourist attractions. In many of these houses, the original grillwork has rusted away and must be replaced. Since we command the services of a labor force, on one hand highly skilled and on the other not unionized, we hope to capture a substantial part of the market for our products.
"Of course," said Drexel, "we don't want to get involved in a fight with the goddam unions. If that man in the White house—but never mind; what's done is done. What do you think, Willy?"
I frowned at the letter. "I see some funny things here. What does 'United Imp' mean? What's the 'Imp'?"
"Imperial? Imports? Or maybe impostors?"
"Perhaps it doesn't stand for anything. There's no period after the p."
"You mean 'imp' as in gnomes or elves?"
"Or kobolds or knockers. Then, look how the man signs his name: 'Colin Owens, Magiarch.' "
"Some kind of cult leader, I suppose." Drexel buzzed his secretary. "Miss Carnero, please get your dictionary."
The dictionary did not list "magiarch," but the meaning was plain. Drexel said:
"If he's one of these fakers, telling his suckers they're reincarnations of George Washington, or promising to make supermen of them in one easy lesson, no wonder the Georgia banks turned him down. I think we'd better give him the brush-off."
"Oh, I don't know," I said. "A man can be a nut in one way and a shrewd businessman in another. We ought at least to look into his proposition. Besides, business has been slow around here, and we've got too much cash lying idle. We could charge him the prime plus one-half."
"Prime plus two, more like. But at such a high-risk rate, we'd have to send someone to Atlanta to watch him."
"Well, let's say prime plus one or one and a half."
"It won't be any rate at all unless we know more about the fellow. Tell you what, Willy: You fly down to Atlanta and look over his plant. How soon can you go?"
"Early next week, I guess."
"Fine. I'll write this Colin Owens, telling him you're coming. Think you can handle the job?"
"Oh, sure. Don't worry about me, boss." Famous last words.
At the Hartsfield Airport, two men met me. Colin Owens turned out to be small, slight, and elderly, with silver hair and an English accent. His blue eyes beamed benignly through steel-rimmed spectacles as he introduced his assistant, Forrest Bellamy. This was a tall, lean, dark man in his thirties, with Southern Mountain twang. While Bellamy was polite enough, there was something uncomfortably tense about him.
"I am delighted you've come, Mr. Newbury," said Owens. "Have you been in Atlanta before?"
"No; this is my first visit."
"Then we shall be pleased to show you the sights of the new queen of the South."
"Where are you putting me?"
"We have reserved a good motel room in Decatur. That's on the side of town near our plant."
"Fine. When can I see your plant?"
"There's no hurry about that. First, we shall give you a general orientation tour. Take Mr. Newbury's bag, Forrest."
I was not so naive as to expect an Atlanta of Southern belles in crinolines and parasols. I was, however, surprised by its bustling, up-to-date air, with skyscrapers and freeways sprouting here and there. As I was being whirled through the Memorial Arts Center, the Cyclorama, and other sights, I kept trying to pin down my hosts on their operations.
"Why," I asked, "did you come to us, instead of to a local bank?" Owens and I were sitting in back while Bellamy drove.
"I thought you might ask that," said Owens. After a pause, he answered: "I might as well confess that we tried the local sources but were refused—not, however, for reasons germane to our finances."
"How do you mean?"
"Well—ah—"
"What he means," said Bellamy, "is, we reckon like there's a certain prejudice against us, irregardless of how sound the business is."
"How so?"
"Well, for one thing, Mr. Owens ain't a Georgian. He's not even a native-born American, but a naturalized Englishman."
"Excuse me, Forrest," said Owens. "I am a Briton but not an Englishman. I am Welsh." He turned to me. "I never can get Americans to make the distinction. Go on, Forrest."
"For another, United Imp is, in a kind of a way, a sideline with us. Some folks are ignorant about our main business, so they get funny ideas."
"And what's your main business, if I may ask?"
Owens's faded blue eyes took on a faraway look. "Merely endeavoring to dissuade our fellow men from inflicting needless 'wounds and sore defeat' upon one another, by the application of the ancient wisdom."
"You mean you head a religious sect or cult?"
"What's in a name? The Anthropophili are a benevolent society devoted to the pursuit of truth, peace, and beauty ..."
Owens gripped my forearm, while his guileless blue eyes stared into mine as he launched into a sermon—lofty, earnest, and cloudy. It did not greatly differ from what you can hear every week in a church or a temple—or for that matter at a Vedanta meeting. He spangled his talk with tags from Aeschylus, Shakespeare, and Milton.
My reaction to Owens's preaching was mixed. On one hand, I rather liked this learned old occultist. On the other, I shuddered at the thought of entrusting our depositors' money to him. Still, I tried to view his project objectively.
When we were fifteen miles or so east of Atlanta, Bellamy turned his head to say: "Here's Stone Mountain." On the plain ahead, a huge granite dome loomed up for nearly a thousand feet, like the half-buried skull of some mythical monster. "We got time to take him up before dinner, Master?"
Owens looked at his watch. "I fear not, Forrest. 'The dragon wing of night o'erspreads the earth.' Continue on to the Oecus; Maggie can be quite difficult if we are late for meals."
Bellamy made a couple of turns and drew up in a small graveled parking lot, near a large house shaded by longleaf pines.
The Oecus was a rambling structure, which seemed to have been built by a committee, each member of which had designed one part to suit himself, without reference to his colleagues' plans. No two rooms appeared to be set on the same level. There were spiral stairs in odd places, decorative mosaics of colored glass set in cement, and a couple of amateurish mural paintings of winged beings flapping around a cloudy sky. Sounds of hammering came from one end of the building, and I glimpsed a small group of young men and women in work clothes, nailing and plastering.
"What's the origin of this house?" I asked.
Owens explained: "It was built before the First World War by an eccentric architect. The property was subsequently abandoned and had fallen into disrepair before the Anthropophili obtained the title and restored the building. As you see, the repairs are not quite complete. Would you like a drink before dinner?"