The Rich Are Different

by Susan Howatch

  “And don’t forget, Steve,” added Cornelius, with his trick of cutting through the details to the heart of the matter, “it’ll never have occurred to O’Reilly that we might try and record the conversation.”

  “I almost wish it hadn’t occurred to you. Are you sure it’s really necessary to have two nukes, Sam?”

  “I’m playing safe, Steve. One might do the trick, but I couldn’t guarantee it. With two we’ve got less chance of failure.”

  I resigned myself to the inevitable. “All right, go ahead,” I said, and turning to the bar concealed in the bookcase I added, “Drink, kids?”

  Cornelius said he never drank after dinner. Sam said he’d wait until he had everything arranged.

  “If you’re not drinking,” I said to Cornelius as I added a sling of the poison that passed for vermouth to my glass of gin, “you can go and hide that Cadillac. It’s about as unnoticeable out there as an acre of jungle in the Sahara.”

  Cornelius got rid of the Cadillac. Sam connected the microphones. I downed my martini. After that we had to see if we could make the machine work, so Cornelius and I struggled to maintain a conversation while Sam crouched in the closet and twiddled the dials.

  “Keep going!” called Sam as Cornelius and I ran out of small talk for the fifth time.

  “ ‘At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,’ ” recited Cornelius, and he paused to say to me, “Tennyson. The Revenge. One of Paul’s favorite poems.” He continued the recital. It was one hell of a long poem, but at least it saved us the trouble of talking to each other. “ ‘… and he said: “Sink me the ship, Master Gunner! Sink her—split her in twain! Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!” ’ ”

  “Great!” yelled Sam. “I’ve got it! All right, guys, you can relax.”

  It was nine-thirty. I fixed myself another martini. “We won’t close the double doors into the other half of the room,” I said, prowling around with my glass in my hand, “or O’Reilly’s going to get nervous wondering what’s behind them. I only hope to God he doesn’t demand to search the premises.”

  “It’s up to you to put him at his ease, isn’t it?” said Cornelius nastily.

  “Can I have that drink now, please?” said Sam. “Thanks. Gee, I’m nervous! Steve, I wouldn’t be in your shoes for all the oil in Texas! Supposing he tried to kill you?”

  “Thanks for reminding me, sonny,” I said and produced a gun from my briefcase. The little kids boggled at it as if it were a naked lady. Flicking off the safety catch, I laid the gun down carefully in the middle of the desk. “That’s just to stop O’Reilly from getting ideas,” I explained, “but he’s not going to do anything stupid until he’s heard what I have to say.”

  “Is it yours?” asked Sam in awe.

  “No. My brother Matt took it off a drunk in a speak a month ago when the drunk tried to pistol-whip him for winking at his wife.”

  We sat in silence looking at the gun. Finally I told them to take up their positions.

  “Steve,” said Cornelius in a small voice, “is there any gin left?”

  I reopened the bar, poured him a double, showed it the vermouth bottle and handed him the glass.

  He downed the drink in two minutes and disappeared after Sam into the coat closet in the other half of the room.

  Putting away the glasses, I hid all but one of the dirty ashtrays and fidgeted with the communicating doors.

  “I’m going to turn on a small light in here,” I said, moving into the drawing room. “I think it’ll give O’Reilly extra reassurance that nothing’s hidden in this half of the room.”

  They thought that was a good idea. I pottered around some more before sinking into the chair behind the desk which had belonged to Paul. The gun was still glinting in the light as I finished my martini, and everywhere was very quiet.

  I was just wondering whether to fix myself another drink when I heard the tap on the garden doors.

  Walking woodenly to the window, I pulled aside the drape. He was there. For one long moment we looked at each other through the darkened glass, and then I unlocked the doors to let him in.

  III

  “All right,” he said. “Where is it?”

  For one bad moment I thought he meant the recording equipment.

  “Where’s what?”

  “The suicide note.”

  I recovered myself in a flash. “That’s in a safe in the vaults. You didn’t seriously think I’d give you the chance to tear it up, did you? For God’s sake, Terence, sit down and stop acting like a cat on hot coals. I called you here to do a deal, not wipe you off the map. Drink?”

  “No.” He hesitated but finally sat opposite me on the edge of the client’s chair. His skin was stretched tightly over his cheekbones. He had lost a little more hair on top of his head, but otherwise he looked the same. His eyes were as bright and hard as jade on ice.

  “Let me start by saying,” I said, “that Greg Da Costa’s spilled the beans. He never could handle his liquor. He admitted Bruce had asked him to put up the blood money.”

  “That idiotic bastard with his crazy society and crazier schemes! I could have told him he’d be laying his bank account on the line if ever he was fool enough to tangle with Greg Da Costa!”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “He’d already done it by the time I got wind of the lunatic scheme he was dreaming up. God, Bruce Clayton was the most unpractical academic that ever lived with his head in the clouds! I saw right away that if he was ever to get what he wanted I’d have to stage-manage the entire operation.”

  “I kind of figured you took over.”

  “What choice did I have? Anyway, it was a great opportunity. What I liked best about the scheme was that no matter how many of you partners figured out what had happened you wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing, because you knew that if you did you’d ruin the bank. All I had to do was provide a story for the police to swallow and then I knew I could leave it to you to cover my tracks. Steve, I do wish you’d put that gun away. You know damned well you wouldn’t dare shoot me any more than I’d dare shoot you. Anyway, I want to hear about this deal you have in mind. You realize, I hope, that you haven’t got a shred of evidence against me except the uncorroborated word of Greg Da Costa, a man who’d say anything for money?”

  “You’re forgetting Bruce’s suicide note.”

  “You’re lying about that note, Steve! It’s a bluff! Bruce was a gentleman. He was Groton and Harvard and a scion of the Anglo-Saxon Protestant hierarchy that has this country by the balls. He’d never have named a fellow conspirator in that note, because it wouldn’t have been the good stuffy Yankee thing to do.”

  “Uh-huh. So in that case you won’t object if I show the note to Sylvia.”

  The ice began to melt. He fidgeted uneasily. “Let’s keep Sylvia’s name out of this. What is it you want?”

  “A name.”

  He was very, still. I waited. Knowledge flickered at the back of his eyes but was doused at once.

  “Who gave you the keys of the Willow Alley door?”

  He still said nothing.

  “I don’t know how much he paid into that Swiss bank account for you, Terence, but I’ll pay more. I’ll even send you and Sylvia a wedding present from Tiffany’s and give the bride away with a smile.”

  He didn’t even bat an eyelid at the prospect of more money, and suddenly I understood what was going on. “My God!” I said. “It wasn’t just a settlement! He’s paying you an income!”

  “Which is something you can’t afford to do.” He made a quick decision. “Look, Steve, I think we can work this out. You want to get even with this guy, but in fact there’s no way you can touch him without blowing up the bank. I want to keep my income. Why don’t we combine forces to bleed him white? Wouldn’t that be a fitting revenge on a man who’d killed for money?”

  I managed to keep my wits about me. I knew I had to pretend to be interested if I was ever going to prise the name
out of him. “That’s an idea,” I said. “I like it. I can’t threaten to turn him over to the law, but I could threaten to tell the other partners and force his resignation from the firm.” Leaning forward, I aimed my voice straight at the microphone and said, “Let’s get this straight. Was this the last man to join the conspiracy?”

  “Yes, we were having a problem over raising the ten thousand Krasnov wanted. I could have managed it but I needed all the money I had to keep me afloat and anyway I was scared the money might be traced to me. Bruce ought to have had the money, but he’d signed away all the money he’d inherited from his father because he didn’t approve of inherited wealth. I was just wondering what to do next when I overheard this row. I was working late and I’d gone into your room upstairs to return a file. You’d already left for home, but you hadn’t stubbed out your last cigarette properly and as the room was full of smoke I opened the windows. Directly below in this office Van Zale had the patio doors open. I think he must have been just about to leave by the back entrance when this guy had caught him and asked for a word. They were quarreling. As soon as I realized what was going on I knew our problems were solved, because a Van Zale partner can always raise ten thousand dollars, even if he happens to be broke at the time.”

  “Then it was either Clay or Martin,” I said, my stomach churning. “They’re the only ones who could come within a million dollars of being broke.”

  “No,” said Terence. “It was one of Jason Da Costa’s men.”

  I was gripping the arms of my chair so hard my shoulders hurt. “Not Walter,” I said. “He’s so old and never quarrels with anyone.”

  “Right.”

  There was a silence while I thought of all that Lewis had concealed behind his Hollywood profile.

  “You’d better talk to him,” said Terence at last. “I’ll signal him to come in.”

  “What!” I shot out of my chair so fast he jumped. “You mean he’s here?”

  “Of course!” He looked surprised. “I was in a hell of a panic when you threatened me with the suicide note, and I called him up right away. I was afraid Bruce had named us both, but this guy reassured me that Bruce would have mentioned no names.” He got up, drew the drapes slightly and flicked the lightswitch on and off three times.

  My scalp crawled. Sweat streamed down my back, and as I stood rigidly by the desk I heard the Willow Alley door swing shut across the patio.

  Reluctant footsteps dragged their way across the flagstones. The drapes billowed as the doors were pulled apart.

  I opened my mouth, but Lewis’ name froze on my lips.

  “Oh, no,” said my voice. “Oh, no, no, no.”

  For the partner wasn’t Lewis. It was everyone’s friend, Charley Blair.

  IV

  “He would have ruined me as he ruined Jay Da Costa,” said the man who had bought Paul’s murder. “I saw what he did to Jay. I knew what he was capable of. It was a question of survival, Steve. My whole life was on the line.”

  I groped for the edge of the desk and leaned against it. O’Reilly was still at the door by the light switch. Charley was at the other end of the room with his back to the drapes. With a jolt I remembered the microphones, and clumsily I offered him my chair—his chair—behind the desk which he had been using since Paul’s death. “Sit down, Charley. I don’t understand—you’ll have to explain. …” As I talked I was edging around the desk over the spot where Paul’s blood had streamed from his body. The client’s chair was beside me, but before I could sit down I saw the gun still glinting on the desk and realized I had my back to O’Reilly. I spun around. He hadn’t moved.

  “Come over here, Terence, and take the client’s chair. You might as well have a seat.”

  All three of us were at last grouped around the hidden microphones. O’Reilly and I were separated from Charley by the desk and I was at the fireplace. I wanted to keep on my feet so that I could be quick off the mark if I had to be, so to look comfortable I put my elbow on the mantel and lounged against it. I wanted to pick up the gun but thought Charley might interpret it as a hostile gesture and I didn’t want to destroy the cozy confessional atmosphere. So the gun went on sitting on the desk and I tried to pretend it was just part of the furnishings, nothing to get worried about, just a little piece of Wild West nostalgia to remind us all that New York was a wide-open town.

  I took a good hard look at both men but was prepared to bet neither of them was armed. I glanced back at Charley. His eyes were bloodshot and his full cheerful good-natured face was sunken and shadowed. His hands writhed endlessly together. I guessed he had been drinking ever since O’Reilly had called him.

  “I was broke,” he said to me.

  I still couldn’t take it in. I thought of his estates in Bar Harbor, Palm Beach and rural New Jersey, the yacht in which he traveled daily down the Hudson from Englewood to Wall Street, his private railroad cars, his fleet of Rolls-Royces, his army of children who had been educated at the best schools in America and Europe.

  “How did it happen? How could it ever have happened, Charley?”

  “I made a mistake back in ’24,” he said. “The Florida land boom. I invested heavily in real estate there, but the bottom fell out of the market, the contractor of the new town I was sponsoring discovered difficulties in draining the swampland, and the builder ran out on his contract. I kept putting more money in to save what I’d already invested and I wound up losing three million dollars.”

  “Three million dollars …”

  “But I was still all right,” said Charley quickly. “I raised the money, took out some mortgages. And then I saw a wonderful chance to get it all back. Do you remember Kramer?”

  “The pool operator? Oh my God, Charley—”

  “But he was doing wonders at the time, Steve! I was all set to pull in a fortune—I’d taken out a big loan in order to play—and then the swine pulled the plug on the pool before I’d sold out. Of course I couldn’t say anything. He’d got a bad name by that time and I didn’t want my reputation to be tarnished. You know my reputation on the Street, Steve. I’ve always been so proud of my reputation. Anyway, I gambled again on the market …”

  It was painful to listen to him. My eyes kept watching his twisting hands.

  “… but then I really got burnt and I had to come up with more money fast, so … Well, I’m the treasurer of the yacht club. I got hold of some of their bonds and used those bonds to raise the money I needed.”

  “Did the club owe you money?”

  “No.”

  “You mean you—”

  “Yes. I embezzled the bonds. I know it was a terrible thing to do, but I was desperate, Steve, and then—oh, God, when I think of the next few months … The money I’d embezzled wasn’t enough. I was falling behind in paying the interest on the debts I’d run up, and of course I couldn’t possibly have confided in my wife and suggested we lower our standard of living. Anyway, the market was booming by that time, and I knew that if only I had two hundred thousand I could make everything come right. So I … I …”

  “You went to Paul.”

  “Yes. I didn’t expect him to ask any questions. After all, we were both gentlemen and I’d stood by him all through the Salzedo affair. But he did ask questions. Then I made a terrible mistake. I thought if I came clean he would be sympathetic, but as soon as he heard about the yacht-club bonds he refused to help me—and not only that, but he asked for my resignation.” He was trembling with emotion at the memory. “He asked for my resignation,” he said as if he still couldn’t believe it. “He called me a criminal. My God, he was the criminal, not I! All I needed was a little money to put my affairs in order.”

  “But if the yacht-club business had ever come to light—if you’d gone on putting good money after bad … Of course Paul had to put the bank first, Charley! His first loyalty had to be to the bank!”

  “No,” said Charley. “His first loyalty should have been to his own kind. We all have to stick together. It’s the code
of our class, and Paul was breaking that code. By refusing me the money he would have ruined me, because without his help I knew I had no chance of getting back on my feet. He would have destroyed my whole life, my family, my reputation—”

  “So you bought his murder.”

  “Yes, but you see, Steve, it all worked out. After the profits were redistributed I recouped my losses, put back the bonds and paid off my debts.”

  “You killed him, Charley.”

  “No, the others did that. They would have killed him anyway.” He licked his lips. “Steve, that’s past now. We really mustn’t go raking it all up, and you know what an asset I am to the bank. I’m so popular, you see, and I have such a wonderful reputation.”

  That was when I knew for certain he had released his grasp on reality. He couldn’t conceive that his precious reputation had already led him to the gutter.

  “You’re going to resign, Charley,” I said. “I’m not working alongside Paul’s killer any longer.”

  O’Reilly leaned forward sharply in his chair. “Steve, have you forgotten what we agreed?”

  “Agreed?” said Charley, quick as a flash. His glance darted between us. “You mean you’ve changed sides?”

  “Steve knows the truth. I’ve got to protect myself.”

  “You’ve double-crossed me!”

  “For Christ’s sake, Charley,” said O’Reilly, and in his contemptuous use of the Christian name instead of his former respectful “Mr. Blair” I caught a sickening glimpse of Charley’s long fall into degradation. “Use your brains. There’s only one way you can stop Steve from going to the partners and forcing your resignation, and that’s to pay him. Now, Steve and I have worked out this plan—”