The Dryden Note

by Henry Hollensbe

  “On the contrary.”

  Sloan called Harding next. “I’ve been out of touch. I thought I ought to give you a status report.”

  “I appreciate that, Professor. Shoot.”

  “The team has moved to Wilmington. The du Pont folks are treating us very well. I don’t think we’ll need a month.”

  “You’ll just move on earlier, then?”

  “Assuming General Electric will take us early.”

  “Excellent. Now what of your activities in Atlanta?”

  Sloan reprised his conversation with Celia Morgan.

  “Mini-adventures?”

  “I tried to press her, but she said they’d wait until we meet. I’ll call you Wednesday morning to let you know.”

  Chapter 22

  June 29, Atlanta.

  At 5:15 the next morning Webb was parked seventy-five yards from 17 Twopenny

  Lane, watching his wristwatch.

  At 5:30 there was a flash of light off the house’s doorframe. A tall, dark haired

  woman left the doorway. The light from the doorway was extinguished, then the flash of

  the Mazda’s courtesy light illuminated a young face.

  He looked at his watch. 5:35.

  The clock in the bank lobby indicated 11:00. A woman at a customer’s table was wearing a blue dress. Gambrelli’s description had prepared him for a pretty woman, but the woman in blue was much more than pretty. He marched straight toward her, hand outstretched.

  Celia looked at the hand, then looked at Webb’s face. “We can dispense with the niceties, Mr. Webb. I agreed to meet you this morning in order to get you off the telephone Sunday. My having to make such an agreement in order to have privacy to deal with my grief is proof positive of your boorishness. If you have a speech, make it.”

  Webb hesitated, then squared his shoulders and said, “I am an employee of ICP. The Company has discovered an old debt it wants to repay. In nineteen oh-three the Company’s Directors didn’t pay...”

  “I’ve heard all this, Webb. Pete gave me the same pitch.”

  Webb nodded.

  “He gave me some gibberish about accountants and the up-coming year-end. He

  followed that with a side offer of fifty thousand dollars. When that offer failed, he tried one hundred thousand. No sale. My friend and I let him take us to dinner.” “I see.”

  “And then yesterday, minutes after my grandfather’s funeral, my lout of a cousin pressed me to sign the ICP paper.” She stared at Webb. “Are you getting all this?”

  He nodded.

  “OK, now you tell me what you have on your mind.”

  Webb smiled and said, “I think you’ve pretty well covered the ground.”

  “So I’m free to go?”

  “Unless more cash has an appeal.”

  “What if I said you for a million dollars?”

  He extracted a sheet of paper from his coat pocket and handed it to her. “Sign this and have it notarized—by a notary who really knows you. Meet me here in thirty minutes. You give me that piece of paper and I’ll hand you a cashier’s check for a million dollars. Drawn on this bank. Good this day.”

  She looked at him quizzically. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Perfectly.” The man’s eyes shone with excitement.

  Celia handed the piece of paper back to him. “No chance, Mr. Webb. Not a chance in the world.”

  She walked way.

  He watched her appreciatively. He wished she’d taken the million dollars.

  Webb left word with Evonne he had lost his sale and was proceeding in the other direction.

  “Still in St. Pete, Dan. I can’t for the life of me see how we are going to be able to do business with these people. They don’t have any money and half of them are crooks.” The Chairman sighed, “But that’s not why I called. It’s Stan and this Morgan family business. He’s not getting it done. He did a good job in Miami, but he’s botched the holdout woman. Wait. We encrypted?”

  “Yes.” “OK. From what he says, I don’t think there’s anything to do but take her out of the game.”

  There was no response.

  “I want you to prepare a backup plan.”

  “Me?”

  “Wake up! You’re not going to take a vacation in the middle of this, are you?”

  “Uh, no. No, sir.”

  “As soon as I get the details of Webb’s plan, I’ll evaluate it. Then I’ll decide whether to go with his plan or yours. Got it?”

  McQuade didn’t respond.

  “Understand, McQuade?” Mangrum snarled.

  “I do. When do you expect to have the details of his plan?”

  “He’s to FAX them to me in Helsinki. I’ll review his ideas, then call you.”

  Webb decided it didn’t make sense to go after the top performers on the newspaper’s list of DUI convicts. There would be too many MADD supporters and police gunslingers watching the real celebrities. He settled on one Ephraim Skinner as his best candidate, but learned Mr. Skinner’s liver had given up. Mr. Roscoe Deere was his second choice. Mr. Deere had been convicted of driving under the influence eleven times since 1973. His driver’s license had been taken from him long ago, he had spent a total of four months drying out at DeKalb County’s expense, and he had been fined three thousand three hundred dollars. However, none of these measures had kept Mr. Deere from drinking and driving. His last two arrests had been as a result of automobile accidents. No one had been hurt in either of them, so there had been no punishment—other than two meaningless additions to his arrest record.

  The article described Roscoe Deere as: ‘male, age 62, a retired shipping supervisor, Azalea Brands, Inc., a distributor of wine and spirits’. Deere was a serious prospect. The door at 17 Twopenny Lane was open when Sloan approached, but there was no one in the doorway. After a moment, a middle-aged woman appeared.

  “Professor Sloan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Won’t you please come in?”

  “Thank you. Sloan stepped into a foyer straight out of Southern Living Magazine.

  “Celia will be right down. She just got home.” The woman seemed unsure as to what to do next. “Would you care to be seated?”

  “Thank you”. He followed her into a sitting room that was another page from a decorating magazine.

  He seated himself at the end of a blue-and-white figured sofa, while the woman sat on the extreme edge of one of two wingback chairs opposite the couch. She leaned toward the professor, waved her hands toward the furnishings, and spoke in a hushed voice. “Do you like the house? This is my house.” She pursed her lips and said, “No, it’s not my house. It will be my house, now that Daddy’s gone.” Sloan remained silent. After a moment, the woman continued. “I’m Cynthia Morgan.”

  “How do you do?”

  “Celia does all the decorating, of course.”

  “I see.”

  Cynthia Morgan stared at Sloan, but said nothing more.

  The wait for Celia Morgan was mercifully short. There was a series of quick steps on the stairway he had seen from the foyer. Sloan stood. A beautiful woman strode into the room. She offered her hand as she approached him. She was tall, perhaps five feet, nine inches. Dark brown hair. The eyes were very pale blue. Sturdy shoulders and nice chest. No jewelry and apparently no make-up.

  “Hi, Professor, I’m Celia Morgan.” She gripped his hand. “Please sit down. A drink?”

  “No, thank you,” he said, as he took his seat again.

  “Well, you’ll have to wait until I fix something for myself. An eleven-hour day deserves a drink.” She turned toward a drink cart.

  “I’d like to change my mind about the drink.”

  “Good sign,” she said. “G and T OK?”

  “Just right for this weather,” he said.

  She delivered his drink, then took the other wingback chair.

  “So, you still haven’t signed any ICP documents?”

  “No, but I had a date this morn
ing with a most interesting fellow regarding the

  release. We talked about what he’d give me for my si gnature.” She raised her eyebrows, waiting for Sloan to ask the expected question.

  “Three thousand.” He cocked his head and paused.

  The woman shook her head.

  “Five thousand?”

  “More.”

  “Ten thousand?”

  “I was offered fifty thousand in Rome, then a hundred.”

  “Really? A hundred thousand dollars?”

  “By whom?”

  “An Italian ICP agent.”

  “Hmm. And this morning’s offer was better?”

  “One million dollars.”

  “You turned that down?”

  “Wouldn’t you? I figured if they’d give a million today, there’s no telling what they might give tomorrow.”

  A wide smile spread across his face. “Good for you!” He leaned far back in the couch. “Hmm. Hmm, OK, would you care to share the details of your ‘mini- adventures’?”

  After fifteen minutes and a fresh gin-and-tonic, she had told him the details. “Now, I want to know why I should not be considered an idiot for refusing the million dollars?” Forty-five minutes and a third gin-and-tonic later, Sloan had described everything. “Hard to follow,” Celia said, “but what does it all mean?”

  “Indeed.”

  They turned to look at Cynthia, who was sobbing.

  “It means it’s all starting again!” She ran from the room.

  Celia followed her aunt. “I’ll be right back.”

  Celia returned ten minutes later.

  “I’ve given her half a Valium. Dr. Ross prescribes them for the odd problem time.” She hesitated. “I don’t think she was ever the best-balanced personality around, but I was born after the incident, so I can’t be sure.”

  “The incident?”

  She paused, appraising him. “Somehow, it seems all right for me to talk with you— never mind that I just met you.”

  Sloan chuckled. “I’m the good guy.”

  She looked at him quizzically. “OK.” She hesitated. “OK, now understand these are mostly my Mother’s observations and memory, not mine.”

  Sloan nodded.

  “In late 1966, Cynthia’s brother—my father’s brother—my Uncle Will—was killed. His car stalled on a railroad crossing with a train approaching. He stayed with it, trying to get it started.”

  “I’ve heard the bare-bone facts.”

  She glanced at him, then continued. “Will is supposed to have found some papers that made him think ICP owed the family a lot of money.”

  “What papers?”

  “We’ve never known.” She paused. “Cynthia may know something about it. She blames herself for Will’s death. Mother says she’s never returned to whatever her normalcy was before the accident. She hasn’t ever, from that day to this, talked about the incident.”

  Sloan nodded.

  “No one knows what is going on in her mind. Part of her is elsewhere.”

  “Hmm. Anything else?”

  “No. Grandpa looked into the death, but found nothing.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Cynthia never married or worked. Grandpa was well off, so she didn’t have to.”

  Cynthia reentered the room. “I know what’s going on! It’s happening all over again!” She stared at Sloan. “Will got killed last time and now Daddy and who else will die?”

  Celia smiled at her aunt. “Be calm, Cynthia. I’ll get you another...”

  “Sit,” Cynthia said. It was an order.

  “You’re the one who’s stirred up the hornet’s nest this time, Professor, so listen to me.” Sloan sat back. “In March of 1966, I was having dinner here for my brother, his wife and Teddy Patterson, a sometime beau. It was cold that day and I had made a pot of Grandma Morgan’s oxtail soup. We were all in the kitchen. Nancy Anne said the name of the soup. I told her and that it was one of my Grandmother Morgan’s favorites. Will began to bray: ‘No, no, it couldn’t be,’ he said. ‘Grandma Morgan never in her life made any such soup.’ I said she had made it many times. Will didn’t know saffron from sassafras.

  “Well, I found Granny Morgan’s Soups of the North Georgia Mountains, located the page, and handed the book to Will.

  “He began leafing through the book. Pretty soon he gave a whoop and stood up. He came over to the stove where the three of us were standing and stuck two sheets of paper and an old envelope under my nose. He said me if I’d ever seen them before. I said no, but they could have been in the book and I wouldn’t necessarily have ever seen them.

  “He commenced questioning me about the book—where it had been, how long I remembered seeing it at the house, and on and on. I told him I was sure it had been Granny Morgan’s—her name written on the flyleaf—and it had been in that kitchen as long as I could remember.”

  Sloan looked at Cynthia. “Is that cookbook still in the kitchen?”

  “Was the last time I looked.”

  “You want to look?” Celia said.

  “Please,” Sloan said.

  Sloan and Celia walked through the foyer to a long hallway and an old-fashioned kitchen beyond.

  “Soups of the North Georgia Mountains,” Celia murmured.

  Sloan found the book on the top shelf. Celia opened it to the flyleaf. “Property of Daphne Morgan, March 22, 1906.” She riffled the pages from the back. There was nothing in the book but the printed pages.

  Celia led Sloan back to the living room. Cynthia was still sitting with her eyes closed. In pantomime, Sloan said Celia if Cynthia were asleep. She shrugged her shoulders.

  “It seems to me,” Sloan began, “the two letters I mentioned earlier, those FAXed to us from Congressman Harding, may be what your Uncle found in the cookbook.”

  Celia nodded.

  “As I mentioned earlier, the letter from Daphne to her parents refers to a note. If there was a note, where is it?”

  “I’ve never even heard of the letters,” Celia said, “let alone any note.” She faced Cynthia. “Do you know anything about a document, a ‘note’, Great Granny had received from ICP?”

  Cynthia did not seem to hear.

  “Cynthia?”

  Cynthia opened her eyes. “Hush. I’m thinking.” She pressed her fingertips against her forehead. “No, but there might be something in Granny’s little tin box.”

  “I don’t remember any little tin box.”

  “It’s in that old, humped-back steamer trunk in the attic.”

  Celia led Sloan to a door at the end of a second floor hall. Inside, she twisted an oldfashioned light switch. The stairway was narrow and steep. Spider webs stretched across the stairwell. A small light bulb at the top of the stairs provided pale light.

  The attic, low and truncated by the slope of the Georgian roof, stretched across the entire length and breadth of the house. There were four small dormer windows on the street side, the panes darkened by spider webs. The lights of the house across the street produced only a glow.

  Celia pointed to the left. “The trunk should be over there.” She pulled a quilt from the top of an oldfashioned steamer trunk. “This is probably it,” she said, then began to cough. “Ugh, the dust!” she exclaimed.

  Sloan walked past Celia to the antique. “Let me.”

  He pulled the chest from the wall and laid the lid back.

  Celia began removing clothing and books until she found a metal box the size of a dictionary. “Shall we work on this downstairs?”

  “Yes.”

  Sloan refilled the old trunk and closed the lid.

  Celia placed the tin box on the cocktail table. Cynthia opened her eyes at the sound. “That’s it.” She smiled at Celia, then left the room.

  Celia opened the box. “Let’s see what’s in there.”

  There were several envelopes, all of which bore the return address of Peter R. Morgan, M.D. Celia passed the envelopes to Sloan one by one. All of the envelopes contained letters and
notes.

  “I see,” Sloan said, after he had reviewed the contents, “this is a sort of filing system.”

  “Filing system?”

  “Yes, a monthly grouping. Look at the envelope you just gave to me—the lower lefthand corner?”

  “Capital S.”

  “September.”

  Celia spilled the contents onto the coffee table. “Six letters, all dated in September, 1903.”

  Sloan shuffled through the envelopes still remaining. “More monthly envelopes, with letters in each, all from your great grandfather Peter.”

  Celia slumped back into the deep pillows of the couch. “Nothing there.”

  “Afraid not.”

  “I don’t know what I was expecting. Some sort of explanation of all of this.”

  Sloan was gathering the envelopes, when he said, “Wait—too many ‘A’s.” He handed the third enveloped marked ‘A’ to Celia.

  “What do you see that I don’t? It’s just an ‘A’. August or April.” She handed the envelope back to him.

  He handed the envelope back to Celia. “We’ve already seen the April and August envelopes.”

  The envelope had been resealed. Celia held it to the light, then tore off an end. There was a letter with very faded script.

  May 18, 1903

  Miss Dryden, It has come to my attention that you are a person of low character. While you have been able to mask your faults from me in the past, I have discovered you are the sort of person with whom neither my staff at the University nor I can afford to maintain contact. I believe you would be well advised to mend your ways and think about your responsibilities to your family, your community, and your Maker.

  The employment office at the University will contact you to explain your services are no longer required in my office or anywhere else at the Georgia Institute of Technology. Your final paycheck will be mailed to you in due course.

  Finally, I am also removing myself entirely from the question of whether Cement Products, Inc., may or may not owe any money to you.

  Sincerely,

  Lawrence B. Armbrewster, Ph.D.

  Tears were forming in the corners of Celia’s eyes as she said. “I can’t stand the thought that Great Granny ever received a letter like that.” Sloan nodded. They sat in silence until Celia said , “What do you make of all this?”