by Lynda Trent
Neal Thorndyke smiled thinly. “Well see. We’ll see. Dry holes have been drilled before. All the wells that have been brought in have been to the south of your land.” He steepled his white fingertips. “Why do you think I’d be interested in the accident at your well? I heard about it, of course, but accidents happen every day.”
Clare lowered her voice dangerously. “I know Sebe Youngblood didn’t act on his own. Somebody put him up to it.”
“Are you accusing me of something?” Thorndyke’s voice was icy.
“No, you’d only deny it. And I have no proof… yet. But I know he came here a few hours before he tried to blow up the well. You don’t do business in the parking lot. Or do you? I’m warning you. I won’t stand for anybody tampering with my well or endangering my crew!”
“That sounds like a threat!”
“Let’s call it a promise.”
Neal Thorndyke calmly picked up a pencil and tapped it maddeningly on the desk. “Can you afford the publicity?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Only that the police will find no connection between me and this Youngblood person. But I would be forced to tell what I know about you. For instance, your financial problems. How you stand to lose everything if the well is dry. Do you really want that?”
“That’s blackmail!”
“That’s good business. The door is over there. Leave.”
“Be careful,” she said in a tight voice. “If you make one mistake, I’ll be on you. My well is worth risking my reputation for.” Clare glared at him for a few seconds longer, then turned on her heel and left, slamming his door behind her.
Thorndyke shoved aside the papers he’d been working on. The business was already overdue, but he didn’t care. All he was interested in lately was chasing Ryan Hastings away from Regina and taking over the Marshall land before the well could come in. Gulf Oil was literally drilling in his own backyard, but he owned only one small lot. He hungered for Clare’s farm. With all the wealth it could bring him, he could have Regina at his beck and call.
With a scowl, Thorndyke stood and looked out his window.
A building across the street had been torn down for the construction of a derrick. The sites of most of the derricks from the early boom again sprouted steel towers. Neal wanted that wealth for himself. And Regina Wharton. She was the epitome of all he desired in a woman. Before Hastings had come to town, she had been totally his.
It would be an easy matter to have Hastings killed now that the boom had brought in hordes of unsavory characters. Because he and Ryan Hastings had no dealings with each other, it would be doubtful anyone would suspect the bank’s president had arranged the geologist’s death. Especially if the killer were paid in cash and met with a fatal car crash. Doubtful, but not positive. Thorndyke had no intention of gaining Regina and the oil-rich land, only to have to spend the rest of his life in Huntsville State Prison.
As he watched, a truckload of drilling pipe rolled down the street. With the sudden need for supplies, pipe was in great demand and not easily obtainable. Thorndyke smiled without mirth. Hastings would have a hard time proceeding without equipment… and deep wells required a great deal of pipe.
Chapter Nineteen
Neal Thorndyke shouldered his way past some half-drunk roughnecks and into the dusky air of the Cowboy Lounge. Carefully, he scanned the room, his expressionless eyes narrowing to slits to peer through the smoke. He saw the man he was searching for and made his way through the crowd, threading his way between the sweaty bodies and the drink-begrimed tables. He sat down beside the man and ordered a beer. ”Your note is due on that boiler, Harvey,” he said conversationally.
The grease-stained man merely glared at him. Finally, he replied, “Since when do you do the bank’s collecting, Thorndyke? I figured you never left that slick office of yours.”
Now, Harvey, that’s no way to talk. I thought maybe we could work this out, man to man.” Thorndyke showed no outward sign of trepidation, but his stomach was knotted tightly. Harvey Petrie was an enormous man and was known to have a temper like a buzz saw. He was one of the many independent drillers who had flocked like carrion crows to plunder the now pool of wealth below Kilgore. If was also known that he had few scruples about how he came by either money or his drilling supplies.
Harvey Petrie took a swallow of beer from his bottle and let the air hiss out between his yellow teeth. “What do you have in mind?”
Neal gave him his most comradely grin. This would require delicate handling. “I hear there’s a big demand for pipe with all this drilling going on that folks can’t get enough of it.”
“That’s right. Same’s true of all the equipment. So?”
“So if a man was to come onto, say, a truckload, he could pay, off his debt and still have some to put in his pocket, couldn’t he?”
“Sure. I don’t reckon you happen to know where pipe is growing wild around here, do you?” Harvey Petrie guffawed.
“No, but I know where you can get a load for nothing.”
Petrie elavuated the banker. “Ain’t nothing free these days.”
Thorndyke took another drink before he answered. “If a truck driver were coming out of Houston, he’d be likely to come along the Henderson Highway
, wouldn’t he?”
“Probably.”
“That’s a lonely stretch. Lots of road. Not too many people in through there. Most of the truckers stop at that cafe in Seven Oaks for a cup of coffee, don’t they?”
“Maybe.”
“If a person just happened to be waiting around, he might just drive away with a truckload of pipe and nobody would know the truth of it.”
Petrie looked at Thorndyke as if he were out of his mind. “Now why on earth would any driver be stupid enough to let his truck get away from him like that?”
Neal smiled. “Money.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of green bills. “There’s enough there to more than pay for a load of pipe. You use it to pay off the trucker. Tell him you have a buyer and that the two of you can make a handsome profit. Then take the pipe to Tyler or Henderson and sell it… but not here in Kilgore and not to Ryan Hastings or Joe Talmidge. You and the trucker split the cash. He goes his way and you go yours.”
“What about you? Where do you come in?”
“Think of it as an extended loan. When your well comes in, you can pay off the bank and everybody will be happy.”
Petrie stared from the banker to the money. “Any truck?”
“No, no, there’s one catch.”
“I thought there might be.”
“I want you to stop the load meant for the Marshall well, just north of town. I don’t want that shipment delivered. I’ll find out which outfit is doing the supplying and when the next delivery is expected.”
Petrie again took the banker’s measure. A slow grin split his face. “You got it.”
“And of course you never talked to me about it,” Thorndyke cautioned him. “You never even saw me.”
“I never laid eyes on you before in my life,” Harvey Petrie grinned, the money buried in his huge hand.
Neal nodded and left the Cowboy Lounge. The money he left behind had come from the bank’s vault and not his own pocket. He hoped he had chosen his tool well, but he felt Harvey Petrie could be trusted. Greed spoke a universal language and made unlikely brothers of its victims. The money would be back in the vault long before it was missed.
Clare hung up the telephone and turned triumphantly to Marla. “It’s all settled. The oil transport company will advance me the money to pay off the bank as soon as the well comes in.”
“Great. I thought they would.”
“I had much rather owe them than Neal Thorndyke,” Clare added. “I just hope it doesn’t take much longer.”
“Surely it won’t! Wells are coming in all around you. Gulf has even started one on my place. and it’s further north than yours.”
“We’ve had so many problems. S
everal of the crew quit last week for no reason. Ryan replaced them, but it caused a slowdown.”
“When is your note due?”
“The last of June.”
“This is only April. You have plenty of time. By the way, what ever happened to that good-looking geologist of yours?”
“Ryan? He’s been working pretty hard, especially while they were short handed.” Clare tried to sound causal, but she found it difficult.
“I think he’s handsome. And the way he was looking at you when you were over at our house for dinner. Lord, if Tom ever looked at me like that, I’d melt on the spot!”
“Ryan is very special,” Clare said. “Sometimes I’m afraid I care too much about him.”
“Nonsense. Turn loose all those old mind tapes and let yourself get close to him.”
Clare smiled. “You sound like you’ve been reading psychology journals again.”
“It shows, huh? But they may be right. You look like the perfect couple to me.”
“Not to change the subject or anything, but do you think it’ll rain?”
“I can take a hint. Let’s go see if Betty remembered to buy Cokes this time.”
As Clare followed Marla to the kitchen, she told herself she could trust Ryan. He wouldn’t be taken in by Regina’s flashiness as Elliot had been. But she wondered if the well were really the reason she had seen so little of him lately.
Clare stood among her oil paintings in the sunken lobby of Houston’s Hyatt-Regency Hotel and smiled. Thanks to Cliff Anderson’s contacts, she had been invited to present a one-woman show in one of the city’s most prestigious locations. Yet, while she was very grateful to Cliff, she knew she’d never have been asked if she hadn’t had the talent. This made her feel very good.
On the theory that an exotic artist gets more attention than a mousey artista theory that had proved itself to be true time and againClare had let her hair grow until it now hung in luxurious dark waves well past her shoulders. She wore a Grecian style gown of lemon silk that perfectly set off her mysterious gray eyes and gave her a slightly foreign look. Earlier in the day, she had been interviewed and photographed by reporters from both The Houston Chronicle and The Houston Post. Publicity for artists was hard to achieve and she hoped her flamboyant appearance would earn her a place in one or both papers.
Graciously, Clare explained to an overstuffed woman that yes, these were original paintings, done from five sketches; and no, she did not work from photographs. The questions of the people who wandered in off the street amused Clare, and she understood more and more why most artists refused to attend their own showings. As the woman moved away, Clare heard a thin man explaining to his companion that the symbolism of Clare’s paintings was quite evident to the metaphysical eye and that her metaphorical message was poignant. Clare wondered what he meant but felt it would not be politic, as the creator, to ask.
Behind and above Clare, the glass elevators soared to dizzying heights in the ceilingless lobby. Row upon row of rooms stacked up, one on top of the other, to the floor of Spindletop, Houston’s high revolving restaurant and club. Thoroughly bored, she was watching the ascending elevator and trying to guess at which floor it would stop.
“If you’re a good girl, I’ll take you for a ride in it later,” a deep voice whispered in her ear.
“Ryan!” she gasped. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Kilgore!” Clare couldn’t keep the note of welcome from her voice, but she glanced over his shoulder to see if he was alone. No matter how she might philosophize, she couldn’t bear it if Regina were with him.
“We can talk about it later. Are you staying here?.”
No,” she said before thinking. “That is, I thought I might go home tonight.”
“Drive all that way by yourself after a full day’s work? I have a better idea. Stay with me and I’ll drive you home in a few days.” He had lowered his voice to a very intimate level that made her tremble.
“And your car? Shall we tow it behind us?” she bantered to cover her traitorous emotions.
“I flow down.”
“Oh.” Seeing Ryan for even one day was a heavenly prospect to her. And he had not brought Regina. “In that case, I’d love to.”
“You’re a sucker for air travelers, aren’t you, kid?” he said in his worst Bogart imitation.
She laughed. “Actually, I only want a strong back to help me load my paintings into the car. The show closes in half an hour.”
He lifted a glass she had put down near one of the easels. “I’ll get you another… ” he sniffed the clear liquid that remained. “What is that?”
“Ginger ale, with a mint leaf, but don’t spread it around. I’m being exotic.”
“You can take the girl out of the country,” he intoned, “but ginger ale is forever.”
“Is that supposed to make sense?”
“Only after you’ve had a gin and tonic. I’ll prove it to you. Be right back.”
Clare watched him walk toward the cocktail lounge that was in a portion of the sunken and carpeted lobby. His broad shoulders and narrow hips moved with a catlike grace and his hair gleamed like a cap of gold. Clare wondered why even the sound of his voice thrilled her. Surely she had more control over her emotions than this!
Only then did she realize he hadn’t told her why he’d come to Houston. Was there more trouble at the well? Had he come to tell her that he was involved with Regina? Both possibilities seemed equally catastrophic. But if he wanted Regina, why had he suggested that Clare stay with him? A topsy-turvy dread filled Clare that this time Regina would be the wife and Clare would be the mistress. Her palms grew moist.
They ate dinner at the Brownstone, an elegant restaurant which had once been a stately home. Clare had been concerned that her elaborate dress would be out of place, but she blended perfectly with the elegance of Oriental carpets, tapestries and antiques that filled the old house. They were served in the room that overlooked the grotto-blue pool and fountain behind the building. To their right was the brick arched room which was separated for private dining parties by black, wrought-iron gates. Their silverware and china was unique to their own table and not like the services on any other table in sight.
“This is marvelous,” Clare exclaimed. “How did you ever discover this place?”
“It was recommended to me by a friend. The food is actually as good as the surroundings.”
A tall woman with black hair began playing softly on a concert grand at the other end of the room. Candlelight glinted in the mirrors and crystal; the deep wine-reds and blues of the chairs, couches and wall hangings deepened to velvety richness. Clare sipped her wine and felt a similar glow spread through her body. Ryan was so thoroughly a romantic, she mused. Candlelight and soft music was his element. For the first time, she wished she could tell him who she really was and why this meant so much to her. But, of course, that was impossible.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, taking her hand in his.
“I was only enjoying myself. Most especially I was being glad you came down.”
“I’m glad I got to the Hyatt-Regency in time to catch you before you left. Incidently, I liked your paintings. Did you get a good reception?”
Clare nodded. “I’m half afraid to see the reviews in the paper, but the people generally liked what they saw. I sold several.”
Ryan let Clare order for herself a detail she appreciated after the disastrous dinner with Cliff Anderson and Raoul Gutierrez in Dallas. As they ate, Ryan seemed unusually quiet, and again Clare felt a twinge of fear.
As before, he had taken a room at the Warwick. Clare experienced a feeling of homecoming as they entered their suite. This room, like their former one, was done in delft blue and cream, in French Provencial style, but this one had a sitting room as well as a bedroom.
“We’re moving up in the world,” she commented. “Two rooms. One for each of us.” She was nervous and afraid to let Ryan begin to talk. He looked so serious. “A hotel w
ith a telephone in the bathroom can’t be all bad.”
“Clare, I have to talk to you.” He led her over to the couch and pulled her down beside him.
“You look so serious. What’s wrong?”
“I got a phone call this morning. The man we had dinner with when we were here before? The one that agreed to back the well? He was killed two days ago. His lawyer called me. The police say it was set up to look like a robbery, but they have reason to suspect it was premeditated murder.”
“How terrible,” Clare gasped, not yet aware of the implications. “That poor man!”
“He’d only partially transferred his share of the backing money to the syndicate. Now all his assets are frozen.”
Clare began to feel cold all over. “What does that mean?”
“It means we have to either find another investor very quickly, or suffer a costly delay. Our payroll is large and we’ve had a lot of costly problems. We won’t be able to continue long without more money.”
Clare stared at him.
“Would one of your friends back us?” he asked. “I’ve called everyone I know of here and in New Orleans, and no one is able to make a commitment on such short notice.”
“All my friends,” Clare said slowly. “Marla is the only one I’d feel comfortable to ask, and she’s drilling her own well. She can’t help us.”
“Well, what about you? I know you’ve already invested quite a bit, but we could lose it all unless something is done fast.”
“Me?”
“Of course. After all, it is your well. I’ve put all I can into it myself. Will you take up the share we’ve lost?”
“I… I can’t,” Clare stammered. “It’s out of the question.” Now, more than ever, she wanted to tell him the truth about herself. To blurt out that she had barely enough money to live on and that the strain of just making ends meet was almost more than she could manage. But she couldn’t. So many small deceits lay between them. If she confessed that she was destitute, Ryan would know she’d lied to him, and often. Worse still, he might think she was trying to marry him for his money! Clare snapped her mouth shut.
