by Emma Lathen
“What do you . . . uh-oh! Here comes one of the wild animals now. ... Sure, Klaus, pull up a chair.”
Engelhart was not a mountain lion, thought Thatcher watching the young man’s stiff self-control. It was just possible, however, that he was a beaver.
“Thank you,” Engelhart said. “A brandy will be very welcome after such a long, cold day. Although it was most interesting to see what Macklin plans. Of course, I had been here before with NDW engineers, when we were preparing our bid.”
Dull and deliberate, Thatcher decided, watching Charlie suppress a yawn.
“NDW also made special provisions with regard to the environment. Even now, when we can hope only to do the superstructure work, we have careful procedures outlined in our contract.”
“Back to the birds’ nests,” Charlie murmured.
Across the tiny room, Paul Volpe was huddled over a small table making notes while Hugo Cramer talked.
“The birds’ nests,” Engelhart agreed with a mechanical smile. “I did not realize that Macklin was so sensitive about these ecological issues.”
“Today, everybody has to be,” said Thatcher carefully.
But Engelhart had something to say, and he intended to say it. Clearing his throat, he continued: “For example, I did not get the impression that Davidson Wylie was deeply concerned with birds’ nests, as you say.”
The name brought Charlie’s nodding head up. It also froze Paul Volpe and Hugo Cramer. Only Shute and Simon Livermore, discussing the OPEC fete in Richmond, seemed untouched.
“But of course, now it is not Davidson Wylie, but Paul, who has taken charge of Macklin’s European operations,” Engelhart went on mischievously.
“Volpe is running the London office,” said Thatcher, lowering his voice. “But I do not think Macklin has decided whether he is in charge of all European operations.”
With what appeared to be real amusement, Engelhart replied: “He would not be pleased to hear you say so. He thinks he has already stepped into Davidson Wylie’s shoes.”
Some sixth sense told Paul Volpe they were talking about him. Self-consciously, he concentrated on Cramer’s instructions.
Cramer spoiled the effect. Rising, he rubbed the small of his back to get the stiffness out, then lumbered across the room to loom over Engelhart.
“Still talking business?” he asked genially. “I’ve got a better idea. How about unwinding with a small friendly poker game?”
Thatcher could not tell whether or not he had over-heard Klaus Engelhart.
Engelhart himself hastily jumped to his feet. “I’m afraid you will have to count me out,” he said, abruptly. “I have an important telephone call to make.”
With a bob of the head, he scurried out into the hall.
“Queer duck,” said Cramer, looking after him.
“Is Macklin going to find it easy to work with him?” Thatcher asked bluntly.
“I don’t know,” said Cramer. “Hell, NDW doesn’t even have a contract yet. Engelhart rubs a lot of people the wrong way. If he and Paul can’t meet without tangling, I’m not so sure there’s going to be a contract.”
Paul Volpe swung around to face them. “Klaus sounds worse than he is, Hugo. If you’d just leave him to me, I can handle him.”
“Like we saw this afternoon,” Cramer replied.
“That was no sweat,” Volpe insisted. “Anyway, we’ve got to have NDW. They’re the best in the business.”
“Macklin’s the best in the business,” Cramer reminded him.
“All right, all right,” Volpe said. “But we really need NDW. Everyone will tell you that.”
Cramer’s patience was running out. “We don’t need anybody,” he said gruffly. “We sure don’t need a trouble-making little bastard like Engelhart. What’s the matter with you, Paul? Didn’t you see what he was doing? He was trying to needle you about your promotion.”
Volpe did not back down. “He really wants to know how much authority I’ve got. And for that matter, I wouldn’t mind knowing myself.”
Cramer had become so angry that Arthur Shute was forced to take a hand. “This is neither the time nor the place to discuss company reorganization,” he said with impartial displeasure. “You both should know better.”
This effectively terminated the bickering, but it did not end the quarrel. Volpe and Cramer relapsed into a sullen silence that threatened to engulf the whole room.
It was Simon Livermore who rescued them all. Imperturbably, he resumed the conversation he had been having with Arthur Shute. “As I was saying, I expect both my boys will insist on visiting Noss Head during their next vacation. When I stopped by to visit them in Surrey, they were thrilled to hear where I was going. The younger one is at the age where he cannot imagine anything more adventurous than drilling for oil.”
Arthur Shute wanted to keep the ball rolling. “And you did say your older son is going to Oxford next year, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I hope he’ll be at my old college,” said Livermore.
Paul Volpe was too young to appreciate the lubricating effect of small talk. He shoved back his chair as noisily as possible. “I’m turning in,” he announced curtly, before stalking out of the room.
His duty done, Simon Livermore was ready to call it a day. “I think I’ll follow his example,” he said decorously. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
This left four men, each with his own thoughts. Charlie Trinkam spoke his aloud.
“I like Livermore’s officer-and-gentleman style, don’t you?”
Nobody replied.
Because, as John Thatcher recognized, nobody was thinking about Simon Livermore.
Chapter 17
The Independents
In Scotland Macklin was tackling the Noss Head project with platoons of technicians, the latest computing equipment and a budget large enough to satisfy many small nations. Back in London, Betsy Volpe, with one notebook and a ballpoint pen, was mounting a campaign that was almost as complex. She was proposing to move an American household, complete with appliances, furniture, potted plants, recreational gear, pets, and Lenox china, from Rome to London. She dismissed as trivial changes in language, currency, and national habits. Here, as in every other city in the world, the chief obstacle to relocation was going to be the real estate agents.
“I wouldn’t call it large,” one of them was saying to her with an ingratiating smile. “Rather, I would call it ample. Ample accommodation for entertaining, for house parties, for—”
“There are six rooms more than I want,” Betsy interrupted.
“With spacious grounds,” he continued.
“That would need two gardeners full-time.”
“And a splendid view of the park!” he concluded triumphantly.
“From the attic.” Betsy was collecting her belongings and rising. “I’m afraid it won’t do.”
So far the day had produced houses rich in Old World charm, an antediluvian heating system and one bathroom as far from the bedrooms as possible, strong on compact efficiency, built-in fixtures demanding zany domestic routines, mellow with the memory of departed servants endless stairs, basement kitchens, and lacking in every detail required by the Volpes.
“In other words,” thought Betsy, crossing off yet another name on her list, “just about normal for the start of house hunting.”
Undismayed she examined the Kensington street sign to orient herself and debated alternatives. It was too late in the afternoon to open dealings with the next agency. It was too early to return to her hotel for dinner and her nightly task of dividing the Volpe belongings into movables, salables, and discards. It was too far to...
In the midst of these reflections, the teasing doubt that had kept her stationary clarified itself. She checked the sign again. Two years was a long time. But surely the first or second turn on the right led to the Wylie apartment. If so, Betsy Volpe had no intention of wasting a golden opportunity.
Within 15 minutes she was tripping into the building, a
small parcel in her hand and a self-congratulatory smile on her face. Really, it couldn’t have worked out better if she had planned the whole thing. What was more natural than that the wife of Davidson Wylie’s assistant should pay a courtesy call on Mrs. Wylie? She could offer Francesca condolences and good wishes. She could stay for tea. And, in order to make sure that tea was offered, she was bringing the cakes with her.
From the moment the doorbell was answered, this simple script had to be revised. Tea was a lost cause. Francesca was already carrying a tinkling glass. Almost without asking, she supplied Betsy with a good three fingers of Scotch as soon as they were seated. And before Betsy could establish her brand of cozy, all-girls-together intimacy, Francesca was well along the road to the much franker woman-to-woman variety.
Their first exchange set the ground rules.
“Oh, Francesca,” Betsy murmured softly, “I was so upset you left Houston before I could see you. I wanted to tell you how sorry Paul and I are about Dave.”
“That is very kind of you,” Francesca replied promptly. “And, of course, I too am sorry that David should have been killed. But I know I do not have to hide from you that everything had been over between David and me for some time.”
“Well, Paul did mention that you were having trouble,” Betsy faltered. It is never easy to have one’s condolences dismissed, however politely.
Francesca refused to play on this level of half-truths. “Come now,” she reproached her guest. “You must have known that David moved out of here months ago.”
“Naturally Paul had to know where he could get in touch with Dave.”
“And that I filed for divorce,” Francesca continued remorselessly.
The conversation was not proceeding as planned. Betsy had become the defendant while Francesca flourished her skills as cross-examiner. In an attempt to break the pattern, Betsy Volpe moved into generalities.
“That was all common knowledge at Macklin,” she agreed with a rush, “but, after all, couples often run into a bad patch and manage to get together again. I’ve known quite a few wives who decided to divorce and then changed their minds. Sometimes just the threat of a breakup is enough to start people doing something serious to save their marriages. We always hoped that you and Dave would work things out.”
“Ah,” Francesca sighed, infusing her words with immense world-weariness, “but David and I were long past that stage. There is a point of no return, you understand, and it is not difficult to recognize. When all anger is gone, there is nothing left to save. I can truthfully say that it has been over a year since David was able to inspire any interest in me whatsoever. All the little hurts, the foolish jealousies, the unreasonable grievances”—Francesca’s hand fluttered in illustration—“they had evaporated in the sunshine of my indifference.”
Wisely, Betsy did not attempt to pursue Francesca into the ether. “One of the other ways of recognizing that turning point is when your interest shifts to another man,” she said, bringing them back to earth with a thump.
“Yes, yes, what you say is true.” Francesca’s agreement was slow and judicious, as if she were examining a novel hypothesis. “As a matter of fact, I have become interested in other men.”
“Hugo Cramer says you’re going to marry that German,” said Betsy flatly.
“These men!” The rich laugh was a masterpiece of lazy, good-natured tolerance. “They are all the same, so confident about everything. Hugo Cramer knows what I am going to do, Klaus Engelhart is equally positive, probably your Paul is too. In the meantime I am all confusion and self-doubts. Is is they who are the little children, or are we?”
This philosophic query was destined to retain unanswered. Betsy’s jaw tightened, but then she stopped short. She was allowing herself to be hypnotized by Francesca’s Madame Récamier act, in spite of the fact that Francesca was sitting upright wearing a tawny brown pant-suit with a crisp shirt. Another two minutes and they would be lost in the underbrush of an interminable discussion about the sexes. She choked on a genuinely appreciative giggle.
“Don’t try to fool me, Francesca,” she said, on surfacing. “You haven’t been uncertain what to do about a man since you stopped wearing pigtails. Maybe you’re not going to tell me, maybe you’re not going to tell him, but you know all right.”
Far from being offended, Francesca seemed to regard this speech as a compliment.
“That’s better,” she said approvingly. “Next time, don’t try to ask me questions by telling me what Hugo Cramer says. And to spare you unnecessary trouble, my intentions about Klaus Engelhart are not ready for publication.”
“I’ll bet your timetable has been disrupted,” Betsy speculated shrewdly. “Your divorce wouldn’t have gone through for months, always assuming you and Dave really did split. Has it occurred to you that that may be what sent him round the bend?”
Francesca frowned. “On the few occasions we met, David gave no evidence of going round any bend. I suppose that it’s possible I overlooked something. I find quarreling about property settlements tends to absorb my attention.” Her eyes slid to her guest in silent appraisal. “But why am I telling you what I thought? After all, you have seen more of David than I, recently.”
“Actually,” Betsy said with precision, “it is Paul who has been seeing him.”
Francesca’s lips curved. “And men can be so blind,” she lamented. “So Paul noticed nothing?”
“Paul thought Dave was all wrapped up in trying to deliver Noss Head.” Betsy struggled against disloyalty for a moment before surrendering. “For heaven’s sake, Francesca, you know perfectly well that Paul admired Dave so much he would have been easy to fool. He wasn’t suspicious, he wasn’t even normally critical.”
“Perhaps not. But David was not surrounded exclusively by admiring fans, you know.”
“Don’t you believe it! Dave was more of a salesman than you’re willing to admit. He sold Hugo Cramer a song and dance about Europe requiring a special touch. He did such a job on Simon Livermore that there’s been trouble ever since. First, Livermore didn’t want to deal with Hugo, and now he’s edgy with Paul.
Good God, Dave even sold the whole British government on Macklin!”
“And me?” Francesca asked with a halt-smile.
“You married him, didn’t you?” Betsy said crossly.
“That was quite some time ago. I meant during the past few months.”
“You said it yourself. You’ve been concentrating on real estate in Houston.” Betsy made it sound like a dereliction from duty.
Francesca shook her head, mildly reproachful. “There is something in that. But still, you must admit that it’s odd David seems to have hoodwinked so many people so completely.”
“What’s odd about it?” A demon of perversity gripped Betsy. “People were seeing him in offices, talking to him about business. In that atmosphere they weren’t likely to ask themselves if he was planning to stage a fake kidnapping. Once David moved into his own place, nobody was seeing him with his hair down. It was probably at midnight, after he put his feet up and had a few drinks, that you could tell he was planning to slip the leash.” The relevance of these words to her own situation suddenly struck Betsy. “And while I’m on the subject, would you mind if I threw the rest of this stuff out and had a glass of water instead?”
“Oh, I think I can do better than that.” But Francesca did not permit the production of a glass of orange juice to deflect her. As if there had been no interval she went straight on: “If that was the case with David, he certainly covered his tracks. I went through his apartment yesterday—with the kind permission of the police—and you would think he only had two subjects on his mind. Noss Head and divorce.”
Betsy’s eyes were alert. “The police? You mean here, in London?”
“My poor child, did you think we had left them behind in Houston? We may have had a kidnapping in Istanbul, a ransom in Switzerland, and a murder in Texas, but the one man Interpol knows about lived in London. A
nd the officer I spoke with was very interested in the fact that, at the moment, all David’s associates are here—his wife, his superior, his subordinate, his customers, and his rivals.”
“Those are just the ones they know about,” Betsy protested. “Why don’t they look for those men in Istanbul, or the girl who picked up the money?”
Francesca was staring into the depths of her whiskey as if pondering a crystal ball.
“I imagine they are,” she said dreamily. “I can see some very persistent men asking questions all over Istanbul and Zurich, Athens and Rome. I hear that they even brought over that Swiss banker who paid the ransom, to see if he could recognize me.”
“You!” Betsy heard the incredulity in her own voice and tried to justify it by blurting: “But that was supposed to be a girl!” Then she blushed fiery red to the roots of her hair.
This social maladroitness failed to fluster her hostess. “Real girlhood may end quite early,” Francesca said drily, “but attempts to reproduce it artificially have been known.”
Betsy was beyond the stage of offering apologies. In her opinion, Francesca was already getting the lion’s share of satisfaction from the encounter. “So the police let you search Dave’s apartment?” she asked pointedly.
“It would be more accurate to say that they let me stand there while they searched. They couldn’t very well keep me out of the place, because I am executrix of David’s will.” She shrugged lightly. “But they were damned if they were letting me run loose there, not until they put everything through a sieve. And much good it did them. All they got for their pains was David’s elaborate calculation of the current worth of our Houston land and a pack of canceled checks proving no unusual payments in the last year.”
Only an expert would have realized that, as Francesca delivered this information, she was waiting for some reaction. Certainly Betsy, her forehead wrinkled, her thumb compulsively rubbing a roughened fingernail, had no attention to spare for these fine details.
“But that’s nonsense,” she said at last. “Dave had lots of expenses. He was hiring accomplices and cars, he was buying submachine guns and false identity papers. It must have cost him thousands. You can’t tell me he did it all on credit.”
