by Barbara Paul
“Harry Rankin,” Castleberry answered for Strode. “The first mate on the Burly Girl.”
Bruce turned over the envelope and looked at the address.
“She’s not there anymore,” Castleberry said hurriedly. “And she has a new name.”
Bruce gave a barely perceptible nod, as if expecting something like that. He read Mrs. Rankin’s statement through twice. “She’s willing to swear to this in court?”
“Yes, she is,” Castleberry answered. “Would you like a notarized letter from her saying so?”
Bruce ignored him and went back to read parts of the statement again; he’d not once looked at Castleberry the whole time. After a few moments Bruce put the papers back in the manila envelope. “So. Because of someone who used to be named Estelle Rankin, I must sell you my shares in House of Glass? Is that it?”
“That’s about the size of it,” Strode said. “Let’s keep it friendly, Bruce. A quick deal and we’ll be out of each other’s hair.”
“Oh no, it’s not as simple as that. It also involves making an enemy.”
That didn’t bother Strode. “I make enemies every day of my life. You’re just today’s.”
Bruce looked amused. “Oh, that’s the way it is, is it? I’m merely a minor obstacle to be dealt with, of temporary significance only. I see you have no use for subtlety. Don’t bother trying to intimidate me, Strode—that never works in this office. I ask you to think again before proceeding with this.”
“Not necessary. I want those shares and I will have them.”
“We have nothing to do with each other, Strode—let’s keep it that way. It’ll be to your benefit as well as mine. I’ll buy that letter from you. Fifty thousand.”
Strode looked annoyed. “You know damn well House of Glass is worth a lot more to me than that. Why are you so determined to hang on to those shares?”
“I don’t give a hoot about House of Glass, other than as a minor investment. But I care even less for the thought that what’s mine can be so easily stripped away from me.”
“Better get used to the idea, then, because that’s exactly what’s going to happen. You’re no fool, Bruce. You know I’ll use that letter against you if you block me. I’m not just blowing smoke. I’ll get you. I’ll send you to the gas chamber and not lose any sleep over it.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Yes,” he said slowly, drawing it out, “you would do that, wouldn’t you?” The words you bastard hung unspoken in the air.
Then Bruce stood up and moved over to the window overlooking the West Basin; there was no carpeting on the floor, but still he made no noise when he walked. Castleberry retrieved the envelope Harry Rankin’s letter had come in and put it back in his briefcase, leaving the rest of the papers on the desk.
They waited.
At last Bruce turned from the window. The other men could see no change in him; his facial expression told them nothing. He looked straight at Strode and said softly, “It seems you have me.”
Castleberry looked relieved; Strode did not. “It’s a straightforward business deal,” the latter said. “You have something I want, I have something you don’t want made public. A swap.”
“What guarantee do I have you won’t use those papers against me anyway?”
“None, other than my assurances.” Strode tried his lupine smile and got no response. “Look, Bruce, I’m not interested in doing the police’s work for them. The originals will be yours as soon as you sign the transfer papers.”
“And the Rankin woman’s new name and address?”
“No. Silence is part of my deal with her.”
“I want her name and address,” Bruce insisted.
“Sorry, I can’t be party to … whatever you might have in mind. But you don’t have anything to fear from Mrs. Rankin. She’s kept quiet for seventeen years. If she was going to do anything, she’d have done it by now. When I drop the matter, so will she.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed into an icy gaze. “Would you accept a guarantee as thin as that?”
“If I had no choice.”
“I see. I’m to take your word for it not only that this woman will keep quiet but you will too, you and however many of your people know about it.” He waved an arm in the direction of the bodyguard standing by the door, still ignoring Castleberry. “I wouldn’t call that much of a guarantee.”
Strode returned his icy stare. “You prefer the alternative?”
Bruce spread his hands on the desk and leaned his weight on them. “No, I do not prefer the alternative.” The two men were locked in eye contact, excluding the others in the room from their private battle of wills. Finally Bruce said, “Your terms are abominable, Strode, but I see I have no choice but to accept them. I presume you’ve already prepared the transfer papers?”
At Strode’s nod, Castleberry dipped into his briefcase again and came up with a legal paper.
Bruce gave it a cursory glance and dropped it into a desk drawer. “I’ll want my attorney to look it over. If it’s a standard form, then we’ll arrange another meeting. I will not send you my shares and wait for you to get around to mailing me the originals of that letter and the Rankin woman’s statement.”
“That is satisfactory.” Strode stood up. “I’ll expect to hear from you soon.” Without another word he turned and walked out of the office. Castleberry and the guard followed, as did the guard who’d stationed himself outside the office door.
Castleberry couldn’t contain himself. On the way to the limousine, he kept congratulating Strode. “We should have tried him first! He’s not a fool like those other two. He knows when it’s time to deal.”
Strode didn’t share his enthusiasm. “What an icy son of a bitch he is. Did you notice, Castleberry? No protestations of innocence—not one. He didn’t lose his temper or complain it wasn’t fair or threaten to get me. He assessed the situation and made his decision, period.”
“You mean it was too easy? But he saw he didn’t have any choice.” Castleberry opened the limo door for Strode. “He’s not like Joanna Gillespie or Jack McKinstry. Bruce isn’t the kind of man to get emotional and have a temper tantrum.”
“That’s what I mean,” Strode said, getting in. “Cold-blooded bastard.”
Their route took them past a string of loading docks. Big yellow cranes were at work lifting and moving, and once the limo had to stop to allow one of them to maneuver its way past. “I once owned part of the company that makes those things,” Strode mused when the limo started moving again. “About thirty years ago.”
“Lawton-Moore,” nodded Castleberry, who knew all his boss’s investments past and present. “Slow growth.”
“I probably wouldn’t think so now,” Strode smiled. “Nothing moved fast enough for me in those days.”
Castleberry was prevented from answering by the heart-stopping screeeeech that automobile tires make when a car’s brakes are slammed on suddenly. The limo’s passengers pitched forward. Before the screech had died out there came a thunderous crash and the sound of crumpling metal. The limo was still bouncing from the impact when one of the bodyguards was out of the car, gun in hand. The other guard pushed Strode to the floor and threw himself over him. No one spoke.
After a few moments the first bodyguard was back, dragging a man in coveralls with him. “It was the crane arm,” the guard told the others in the limo. “Fell right across the hood—smashed it flat. I’ve got the crane operator here.” He turned to the man in coveralls. “And he’s going to show me exactly how this accident happened—isn’t he?” The man nodded dumbly; he was terrified of the gun the guard was still holding. The guard dragged him away.
The other guard got off of Strode and helped him back to his seat. When Castleberry’s heart left his throat and went back to where it belonged, he stepped out of the limo to survey the damage. Seen up close, the crane arm was huge. The engine was indeed smashed flat; but the windshield, which had popped loose at the bottom, didn’t have a crack in it. It was that close.
Another few feet and the limo driver would be dead. Another few yards …
Castleberry wrestled the front door open and helped the driver out. The man was white with fear and shaking, but other than a small cut over one eyebrow he was unhurt. “Thank god you’ve got good reflexes, man,” Castleberry said earnestly. “If you hadn’t stopped in time, we’d all have been killed. Mr. Strode isn’t going to forget this. You’ll be taken care of.” He wasn’t sure the driver even heard him.
About a dozen men had run up to the accident site and were busy saying Are you all right? and Christ, will you look at that? and other similarly helpful things. Castleberry went over to where the crane operator was showing Strode’s bodyguard what had happened. A chain had slipped off its cogwheel, he said, causing him to lose control of the boom. He’d felt it slipping and tried to swivel the boom away from the limo but the controls hadn’t responded fast enough. He sure was sorry, Mister, but there wasn’t nothin’ he coulda done to stop it.
The teeth on the wheel were badly worn; it was easy to see how the chain could have slipped off. “Don’t you ever get your equipment inspected?” the bodyguard demanded.
“Sure we do,” the operator said, “and on a regular basis, too. There wasn’t nothin’ wrong the last time it was checked. You can ask my boss.”
“Who is your boss?” Castleberry asked. “I don’t mean your supervisor—I mean who’s your employer?” The name the operator gave was not that of Richard Bruce, Castleberry was relieved to hear. He asked the guard to find a phone and call a cab. Then he went back to speak to the limo driver.
The man had gotten over his shock and was now the picture of gloom and doom. “Not the Rolls,” he moaned. “Not the goddamfuckin’ Rolls. My boss’ll kill me!”
“No, he won’t,” Castleberry said, “not when I finish talking to him. In fact, he’ll probably give you a raise. And remember, you’ll be getting something from Mr. Strode. I’ll make sure he understands you saved his life.” The driver actually smiled at that. “I’ve sent for a cab. Do you want to come with us, or …?”
“I have to stay with the Rolls. You’re not going, are you? I have to report this.”
Castleberry handed him a business card. “Tell your insurance investigator we’ll be happy to talk to him at any time. But right now we must get back to New York. Don’t worry—I’ll call your boss as soon as we get in.”
The cab eventually arrived. Strode was silent all the way to the airport, and Castleberry and the two guards took their cue from him. Even the cab driver picked up on the tension and kept his mouth shut.
Only when they were airborne did Strode finally speak. “He tried to kill me,” he muttered. “The son of a bitch actually tried to kill me!”
Castleberry took a deep breath. “Mr. Strode, I don’t think he did. It was just what it appeared to be—an accident.” He explained about the worn teeth on the cogwheel.
Strode made a derisory sound. “Of course he’d want it to look like an accident. Don’t be naïve, Castleberry. That crane was meant to smash me.”
“But how could he set up something like that in so little time? From the time we left his office to the time the boom fell on the limo … it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes.”
“He had it set up ahead of time—just in case he needed it. All it took to get it going was a phone call.”
“But how did he know which route we’d take?”
“How do you know that crane was the only one waiting for us?”
“But the operator doesn’t even work for Richard Bruce!”
“Uh-huh. You’re taking his word for that, are you?”
Castleberry had no answer. Anyone would be a little paranoid after what had just happened, but it seemed to him that his boss was assuming too much. “Mr. Strode, why would he try to kill you before he got hold of the evidence you have against him? That wouldn’t make any sense. But I could have Pierce investigate the crane operator if you like.”
“Do that.” Strode turned his head and stared out a window. The subject was closed.
When they got back to New York, Strode’s secretary told him that both Jack McKinstry and Joanna Gillespie had called agreeing to sell their shares of House of Glass.
A. J. Strode was taking the day off.
He sat in the upstairs library of his big house, staring out a window without seeing anything. The place seemed empty with Katie gone. He didn’t count the staff or the security guard who sat staring at a bank of television monitors. Or the outside man who checked windows and doors and manned the front gate. They weren’t personal; Katie was. She’d left her mark on every room in the house, indulging her decorating skills as well as her acquisitive instincts. Strode had found himself an art collector during Katie’s tenure; she’d made some good buys, he’d been told. She’d gradually replaced almost every piece of furniture in the place; the leather lounger he was sitting in had been one of her purchases. She might as well have spray-painted Katie was here on the walls.
Thank god she was gone.
The son of a bitch had tried to kill him. The other two had threatened, but Richard Bruce had actually done it, or tried to. He didn’t waste time on threats, that one. When Strode had started his pursuit of House of Glass, he’d needed only one stockholder to agree to sell. Now he had all three of them, right where he wanted them. Bruce’s attorney had approved the stock ownership transfer papers and the shipowner had requested a meeting, just as if nothing had happened. But with the other two at last giving in, Strode was now in a position to pick and choose.
Not that it would help the seller any. Strode wanted, without exception, to ruin all three of them. He wanted to hurt them. These people were killers, for god’s sake, and they were all mad at him. Not that he’d expected anything less, but he hadn’t anticipated how blatant they’d all be about it. But it didn’t matter now; he had them all in the palm of his hand.
He’d choose one, make the deal, and then turn them all in; it was the only way he could protect himself. He’d send the file folders with their painstakingly acquired and damning evidence to the police. He’d tell the Los Angeles police what Richard Bruce had done, he’d tell the Boston police what Joanna Gillespie had done, he’d tell the French police—in Toulon, was it?—what Jack McKinstry had done. And he’d make sure the newspapers got the story. All the newspapers, not just his. He’d make sure their pretty lives would never be the same again, what was left of them.
Bruce ought to get the death sentence, in California. But he might not; it depended on the judge. Or wait a minute—the Burly Girl had gone down in Hawaiian waters; wouldn’t Bruce be tried in Hawaii? As to McKinstry … Strode had no idea what would happen to McKinstry. He knew nothing of the French system of justice. But Gillespie would plead mercy killing and be out again after serving a few years. That’s what would happen.
Strode scowled at the picture he’d just conjured up. No. A thousand times no.
It wasn’t enough.
He got up from the lounger and stood at the window staring down at one of the servants sweeping the patio. He raised his eyes to the street, oblivious to whatever was there. A small boy holding on to his mother’s hand looked up and waved; Strode didn’t see him. Ruining those three just wasn’t enough. He wanted to get them, really get them, and get them in a way that all three would understand how hopelessly outclassed they were when they tried to play hardball with A. J. Strode. Get them so they would know they had been got.
Strode leaned both hands on the windowsill, pressing his forehead against the cool pane of glass. He stood like that for a long time. When at last he’d decided, he called Castleberry at the office and told him to come over.
One of the downstairs rooms was maintained as a small conference room; it was there Strode met with Castleberry. “I’ve reached a decision,” he informed his assistant. “This House of Glass business is going to be settled this weekend, one way or another.”
“You’ve decided?” Castleberry asked with inter
est. “Which one?”
“I won’t know until the weekend’s over.”
Castleberry blinked. “How’s that? What are you going to do?”
Strode placed the palms of his hands flat on the small conference table, savoring the telling. “I’m going to get all three of them together this weekend. I’m going to give each one a copy of the contents of the file we have on him—and her. I want them to see exactly how much we’ve dug up.”
“They won’t love you for that.”
“Then I’m going to tell them I need only one block of shares to give me control of House of Glass,” Strode went on. He laughed. “And I’m going to leave it up to them to decide which of them sells to me. I set the price, but they choose the seller. They decide. And here’s the stinger, Castleberry. The two that don’t sell get the privilege of seeing their names on the front page of Monday’s newspapers. Those two will be made to understand I’m sending the original files to the police. One survives, two do not. And they get to pick the survivor.”
Castleberry was awestruck. He swallowed and said, “Mr. Strode, that’s … diabolical! Mephistophelian!”
Strode laughed. “Thank you! By god, Castleberry, I haven’t felt this good since we started this business. Those three are going to learn the hard way they can’t threaten me and get away with it!”
Still in something of a daze, his assistant got up, walked around the conference table, and sat down again. “Where will they be meeting?”
“Here. In this house.”
Castleberry shot back out of his seat. “You can’t mean that! You’re going to meet those three right here where they can—”
“No, no—I’m not going to be here at all! I’ll go stay with Tracy. They’ll only think I’m going to be here.”
“But still, bringing those three murderous people together under your roof—”
