Lyon turned off the set as a pretty blond weathergirl stared somewhat blankly at a meteorological map. Fifteen minutes later they were halfway through the first cocktail when the phone rang. They looked at each other from their respective ends of the couch.
“It’s probably Rocco calling to find out if he did well,” Lyon said.
“No. The welfare mothers calling to say my statement was too wishy-washy.”
They smiled at each other over the rims of their glasses, but the spell was impossible to maintain with the incessant ringing of the phone. “You know,” Lyon said, “I understand that the phone company can put a switch on the box so that you can’t hear it ring.”
“If you take it off the hook it makes all sorts of weird noises,” Bea said.
Lyon reluctantly lifted the receiver. “Yes?”
“Mr. Wentworth?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Houston would like to speak with you. One moment, please.”
Lyon held the lifeless phone in his hand and looked at Bea. “Who the hell is Houston?”
“Houston? Asa Houston,” Bea said. “Houston Company and half the state of Connecticut.”
Lyon shrugged as a sonorous voice greeted him. “Lyon Wentworth,” the voice said and continued without pause, “I’ve just spoken with Chief Herbert and he tells me that you were primarily responsible for identifying those people recently found in the grave.”
“We worked together,” Lyon said.
“I also understand that the man worked for my company,” Houston said. “And if you know anything about my reputation, you know that I have extreme concern over the welfare of my employees … living or dead. I would like to talk to you, say cocktails and dinner tomorrow at six. My home, if that’s convenient?”
“Yes, that would be fine.” Lyon felt that the invitation was offered more as an edict.
“Excellent. We’ll look forward to seeing you.” The phone was silent and Lyon slowly hung up.
“He wants me for dinner tomorrow,” Lyon said. “Forgot to ask him where he lives.”
“I know where it is,” Bea said. “You can hardly miss it.”
Prospect Street in the capital city is a wide tree-lined avenue divided in the center by a shrub- and grass-covered mall. In bygone years the large homes and circular drives with wrought iron fences had been the abode of insurance company presidents and factory owners. In recent years many of the wealthy had made the exodus to exurbia, selling to church and school groups. Only the very wealthy, able to afford the retinue of required servants, remained in the large homes. Houston’s home was directly across from the Governor’s mansion. Several years ago when there was talk of running Asa Houston for Governor, political columnists had jibed that for him a move to the Governor’s mansion would be a comedown.
Lyon turned in the driveway, barely missing a large cement fence post, and as the rear wheels of the small car slithered on the gravel, he braked to a halt behind a large limousine.
“Asa Houston,” Bea intoned in a monotone as if reading from the daily register at the legislature, “Owner of Houston Company and Houston Transportation, and a major stockholder in the Hartford News, Channel 5, and other interests. A Horatio Alger story. Born of poor but honest parents, by dint of hard work and a ruthless manner he rose to the top of the business community.”
“I take it he’s not a campaign contributor of yours?” Lyon said.
“Very funny,” Bea said as they left the car. “As I recall the invitation, he asked you for dinner. When he sees me he’s going to have apoplexy.”
They could hear the door chime in the house interior, and before the resonance was complete the door was opened by a well-tailored butler. “Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth,” Lyon said, and they were ushered toward the living room.
The large double doors of the living room were open, and as they poised in the frame, Lyon could see several couples standing in the center of the room near the fireplace, holding cocktail glasses and engaged in animated conversation. He immediately recognized a retired general, the president of one of the city’s largest insurance companies, the Lieutenant-Governor, and the director of the ballet school, who was currently in heated debate with a stately woman twice his size.
She seemed to appear instantly before them. She smiled, but behind the welcome Lyon sensed the subtle sexuality of a Garbo or Bergman, a look combined with a certain slant of cheekbone and eye configuration that hinted of a hidden understanding. She appeared to be in her late thirties, and yet he knew that in reality she was fifty. Her figure was mature, yet exquisite in its dimensions, the conservative black cocktail dress with its single strand of pearls accenting in good taste the very essence of the woman before them. One of the few women you find who are cool, beautiful, and ageless, while exuding sexuality and intelligence. He felt Bea’s arm slightly tense on his as the woman held out her hand.
“You’re the Wentworths. I’m so glad you could come. I’m Helen Houston. May I call you Bea, Mrs. Wentworth?”
“Of course,” Bea said and Lyon could detect a slight hint of surprise in her voice.
“I can’t tell you how much I’ve admired your work in the Senate. I’m really quite a fan of yours.” She dropped her voice in a tone of mock conspiracy. “Sometimes I watch your press conferences in the kitchen. There are certain elements here that disagree with many of your stands.”
Bea laughed, and Lyon felt her arm unflex as she shook the other woman’s hand.
“Come on, you two,” Helen said. “My husband can’t wait to meet you.” They joined the group in the center of the room, and drinks of their request were delivered while introductions were made. Even among this assemblage, Asa Houston dominated the room. As tall as Lyon, but with broader shoulders, he had a shock of pure white hair and features that had aged with deep character lines. As so many extremely successful men do, he radiated assurance.
“Wentworth,” Houston said with extended hand. “Glad you could make it. You look very familiar. We’ve met?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Lyon replied.
“You have a short memory, darling,” Helen Houston said, taking her husband’s arm. “A few weeks ago he was on the front cover of Connecticut Magazine … in his balloon and holding a bottle of champagne.”
“Every Sunday,” Bea said tiredly.
“Why the champagne?” Helen asked.
“An old ballooning custom,” Lyon replied. “Since we never know quite where we’re going to come down, it’s to be opened and given to irate farmers … or golfers.”
“Since I manufacture airplane engines, let’s hope it doesn’t catch on,” Asa Houston said with a laugh as they went in to dinner.
It was over dessert and coffee that Asa Houston turned to Lyon and asked him about the identification of the bodies. The rest of the diners were engrossed in their respective conversations. Bea at the far end of the table was in an animated dialogue with the Lieutenant-Governor, and the general was patiently explaining to the vibrant Mrs. Houston the make-up of an infantry division.
“How did you get involved in that business?” Houston asked. “I’d say it’s a rather unusual avocation for a children’s writer.”
“Chief Herbert and I are old friends. I suppose you could say that I went out initially as an observer, and then it became a problem in logic.”
“Fascinating. Tell me, step by step, exactly how you went about it.”
Under Asa Houston’s probing, Lyon recounted the investigation. When he had finished, he found that he and Houston were alone in the library, Lyon holding a snifter of very good brandy, Houston coffee.
“As I was saying,” Houston said, “it seems to me that you had a good deal of luck. If your initial supposition had been incorrect, or if you hadn’t had such a far-fetched theory, it would have been an impossible job.”
“You’re probably right, but like a great many other things, the element of luck or fate can’t be discounted.”
Asa Houston leaned back
in his chair and crossed his arms behind his neck. “Meyerson,” he said aloud. “I can’t recall the man. My interest in this whole matter, Lyon, is the fact that the man did work for me, did live right next door to the plant. I’d like to see justice done. If I could only recall the man … but recalling a great many things during that period of my life is difficult.” He tapped his coffee cup. “I didn’t drink coffee in those days. In fact I made a valiant effort to drink the distilleries dry, but they won and I quit. And another thing, when the war started I had a small machine shop with hardly a dozen employees, and I ran a lathe right alongside them. By the time the war ended I had a factory employing over twelve hundred. Those days were a whirlwind. A lot of the details blur, and we had hundreds of employees in and out. Some of them worked a couple of months and moved on, others we hired and tried to train but couldn’t … a blur, a real blur.”
“Well, no one expects you to recall your employees of thirty years ago,” Lyon said.
“Damn it all! I have an obligation to that poor bastard and his family. Just like I have an obligation to my present workers. Are you still going to continue with it?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I’m caught up in it.”
“Well, there is one thing I can do. I’ll call my personnel manager first thing in the morning. I personally guarantee the cooperation of my whole staff.”
“I’d be very appreciative.”
“Oh, by the way, are there any leads … anything further to go on?”
“Yes, a couple of items that I haven’t released to anyone. Mostly speculation at this point, so I’d just as soon not go into them.”
Asa Houston took Lyon’s arm as they walked back to the living room. “It seems to me,” Houston said, “that to this point you’ve done pretty damn well with your speculation.”
“Perhaps,” Lyon replied. “Perhaps.”
Five
The Fox in the Factory.
As he looked through the room-length windows overlooking the factory complex, the idea came full-born to Lyon. Froelich Fox danced along the distant water tank and then appeared on the roof of the foundry, only to scamper along the conduit pipes toward building number three. Undoubtedly he’d have a comfortable lair hidden deep in the recesses of the warehouse. The idea was well-shaped, and Lyon felt the excitement that preceded the actual writing of the book.
He turned from the window and sat down at the large conference table. In front of each place was a legal pad and well-sharpened pencils. He began to make notes at a furious pace.
“You’ve got something,” Rocco said from the other end of the large table.
“Yes, yes,” Lyon muttered without looking up.
“I knew you would, I knew it.” Rocco came around the table and stood behind Lyon to peer over his shoulder at the pad. “Jesus H. Christ,” the large man said. “The Fox in the Factory.”
“Yes,” Lyon muttered again and turned to a fresh sheet of paper.
“Christ, man, we’re looking for a murderer.”
Lyon looked up. “What?”
“Oh, man.” Rocco slapped the leather-backed chair with both hands. A secretary appeared and began to serve coffee from a silver setting and bone china cups.
“Mr. Thompson will be with you shortly,” she said and quietly disappeared.
The board of directors’ conference room was on the third floor of the administration building of the Houston Company. Along one long wall, framed architect’s renderings of the factory were tastefully hung. On two other walls, several of the company’s products were displayed: airplane engines, circuit wire, and calibrated machine tools. The remaining wall opened to floor-length windows that overlooked the panorama of buildings comprising the factory.
Lyon folded his notes carefully and stuffed them in a rear pocket. He turned toward the windows where Rocco stood. “Big mother, isn’t it?” the Chief said.
“Impressive,” Lyon replied. “There’s a strange beauty about a factory, the lines of the buildings, the latent power. Used to be an artist who painted water towers, dynamos, all that sort of thing—can’t remember his name, but it’ll come to me.”
“You know, Lyon, I could be doing something useful, like checking the high school washrooms for pot.”
“We have the same problem here,” the voice behind them said. They turned to be introduced to Willis Thompson, director of personnel and employee relations. “Yesterday we found a young employee at a punch press stoned out of his mind. ‘Chunch, chunk, what bunk’ was all he kept saying.”
“What did you do with him?” Rocco asked in a professional manner.
“Referred him to our employee rehabilitation unit. We have a full time psychologist and family counselor on the staff,” Thompson said.
Lyon judged Willis Thompson to be in his early thirties, slightly myopic, and if school ties were in vogue, his would be Harvard Business School, MBA, 1968. He placed several neat folders on the conference table, and as he talked, he proceeded to align them obsessively.
“I received a personal call from Mr. Houston. He asked that we all give you our fullest cooperation.”
“Thank you,” Lyon replied. “It’s greatly appreciated.”
“As background,” Thompson continued, “I’ve brought some pictures and other information of historical interest. This one shows the factory in 1943.” He extracted a glossy print from one of the folders and handed it across the table.
“It’s sure changed,” Rocco said.
The 1943 picture showed the Houston Company as a hodgepodge of quonset huts, unpainted structures, and a muddy parking lot, the total grouping one-fifth the size of the complex presently visible outside the conference room windows.
“We’ve grown and improved quite a bit over the years,” Thompson said. “In 1943 we had a period of rapid expansion. That point in time when a small plant began to grow into a major industrial factory. You will notice the temporary nature of many of the buildings. Since then, as you can see, we have landscaped the area and provided picnic benches, a recreation area, cafeterias, and of course full medical and dental care. I might say, we probably have the most extensive employee benefit package in the state.”
“Very impressive,” Lyon said.
Thompson held the photograph by its edge and carefully replaced it in the folder. “Unfortunately our records for that period are not very complete. The personnel records were destroyed. Now, of course, everything is microfilmed for permanent and perpetual storage.”
“You must have some employees who were around during that period,” Rocco said.
“Thirty years is a long time ago, and you have to keep in mind that then we were a struggling company. Many of the workers who came here were temporary wartime workers. Many were older men who couldn’t serve in the Armed Forces, that sort of thing.”
“There must be some,” Rocco said.
“Well, yes, of course. Some retired and a few still here. Exactly what do you want?”
“We’d like to talk to an employee who worked here in 1943.”
“Mr. Houston personally asked that we give you our complete cooperation.” He opened another folder and examined it carefully a moment. “Perhaps you’d like to start with Mr. Graves. He’s our senior vice-president in charge of production. He started here in 1942 as an apprentice machinist. A real success story.”
“That would be fine,” Lyon said. “Let’s start with Mr. Graves.”
“Hell, yes! I remember those years. We worked in those days, we really worked—no molly-coddling union to make rules for us. Let me tell you, one day in forty-three I worked around the clock. That’s right, around the clock, twenty-four hours. No office work, either; I was on a machine in those days, a lathe man.”
Jim Graves sat at the opposite end of the conference table, but his robust voice filled the room. As he talked, his expensive suit coat opened to reveal that he wore suspenders, and the aura of the factory floor still seemed to surround him.
“I started here when I was
nineteen. Didn’t know a lathe from a Bullard in those days. Worked right alongside Asa Houston himself in the beginning; then later on Asa had to travel down to Washington to see about the government contracts. But not in the beginning; he worked and set up just like anyone else. That’s where I learned to work, and I mean really work. Not like things are now.”
Lyon took the picture from his pocket. It was a blow-up of the temple picnic, with the serious Meyerson to the far right. He handed the picture to Thompson, who walked around the table to hand it to Graves. “Do you recognize any of the men in this photograph?” Lyon asked.
Graves examined the photograph, took glasses from his coat pocket, donned them and looked again at the picture. “Can’t say that I do. Sure don’t know this guy in the center with the beard. Nobody wore beards in those days; everyone was clean-shaven. Now, we have to put hair nets on some of the guys. Can you imagine—hair nets so they don’t get caught in the machinery.”
“Anyone in that photograph look familiar?” Rooco asked.
“I wouldn’t recognize a picture of myself thirty years old. Besides, all these guys look like foreigners, and look at the funny little caps.”
“Yarmulkes,” Lyon said.
“Oh, Jewish,” Graves said. “I worked alongside a German Jew when I first started here. Serious little guy, used to practice his English while he worked. Always had a book on the bench right next to him, and all day long he’d say words over and over again. Good toolman too. Meyerson was probably one of the best I ever saw, a real stickler on the job.”
“Meyerson?”
“I think so. Yes, Meyerson.” Graves picked up the photograph again and examined it closely. “The one on the end, the serious little guy. That could be Meyerson.”
“What happened to him?”
A Child's Garden of Death Page 8
