Chapter Twenty
Leyton Drisdale leaned forward in order to move the Montblanc fountain pen on his desk two inches to the right and then sank back again into the sumptuous embrace of his reclining leather chair to continue listening to his companion. He was a meticulous man and the aesthetically-displeasing position of the pen had been annoying him for some number of minutes, so much so that he had been unable to concentrate on the torrent of words that had been streaming forth, undammed and unchecked, from his client. Now that the pen had been returned to its rightful location, and he was once again able to achieve the peace of mind which comes from the simple harmony of familiar objects, he was able to give the speaker his full attention. It proved to be good timing: an important question was being asked of him.
“So you have no idea who this woman Medea is?”
“No, none whatsoever,” answered Drisdale.
“Except that she intends to kill me?”
“Yes, except that,” Drisdale agreed.
The framed picture on the wall, to the right above his client’s head, appeared to be slightly skew-whiff. Strange that he hadn’t noticed before. Either that or the man in front of him was sitting with his head cocked, throwing out the natural symmetry of the room. As a construction engineer, Drisdale would have expected him to have had more perception about such matters: just as well he had not been consulted in any matters regarding the design of Drisdale’s own office suite. Although it could not be denied that he had worked marvels with the Wendelson Building: everyone had said so.
“And this is the same woman who killed Marcel Chin?”
“It would seem logical to assume so,” confirmed Drisdale.
“Any ideas why?”
Drisdale scratched the side of his head before answering the question. “I think that it might be a case of Posnik’s Syndrome?”
“And in English that is?”
“Posnik was the architect of St Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow. Legend has it that Ivan the Terrible ordered him to be blinded so that he would never be able to replicate his design for anyone else or build another structure so beautiful.”
“I see.”
A momentary silence descended on the austere room, both occupants apparently lost in quiet consideration of the analogy that Drisdale had drawn. Indeed, this might have been an entirely verisimilitudinous assessment of the reason behind Jake Carver’s sudden loss of loquaciousness but, as for Drisdale, the actuality was that he was desperately racking his brains trying to recall the opening lyrics to the Bob Dylan song, All Along the Watchtower, for no other good reason than that he had heard the tail end of the song on some passing stranger’s car’s CD player that morning, and he couldn’t get the ear worm out of his head. Oh, it was so annoying, he knew the words were so familiar, and yet they just wouldn’t come to him. He would kick himself as soon as he heard them: if only he could be allowed a few minutes quiet reflection he was sure that the lyrics would come back to him.
Carver interrupted Drisdale’s meditation, “I suppose there is no question that this will is actually legal?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I was asking...”
No, it was no good. He was going to have to ask. He simply wasn’t going to be able to get through the rest of this meeting without knowing.
“What’s the opening line to All Along the Watchtower?” Drisdale blurted out, interrupting Carver’s repeated question.
Carver looked at him as though he were a madman. “Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry. I just have to know.”
“I was in the middle of asking...”
“I know. I really am sorry. I just have to know.”
“There must be some way out of here,” supplied Carver, looking annoyed, his teeth clenched, behind thin, angry lips.
Drisdale clicked his fingers together and breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief, “Of course. How could I not remember.” He suddenly sang in a passable imitation of the master’s deepest growl, “There must be some way of out of here, said the joker to the thief.” He looked pleased with himself, his head nodding in time to the song, as he continued, “There’s too much confusion, I can’t get no relief.”
“If you’re finished, perhaps we can return to the matter in hand,’ said Carver, controlling his voice admirably, not allowing the annoyance he was feeling to exhibit itself. “This may not be so important for you, but for me it appears to be a question of life and death.”
“For me too,” said Drisdale under his breath.
“What was that?” Carver asked suspiciously.
“I said, for me too,” Drisdale repeated, more audibly. He removed the reading glasses that he habitually wore when at work, and rubbed a hand across tired eyes. It had been a manic four weeks since Garnet Wendelson’s death, with the prospect of ‘much confusion’ and ‘no relief’ in the foreseeable future too, “I’m sorry,” apologised Drisdale, his professional manner reinstated again, “I haven’t explained the totality of Mr. Wendelson’s final bequests. Perhaps when I do, the situation will appear a little clearer to you. Before I start, though, I would like someone else to sit in on our discussion, if you have no objections, of course?”
“Who?”
“Martin Meek, Mr. Wendelson’s...”
“I know who Meek is. What do you think, I’ve had my head stuck in the sand this last month? How could I fail to know...”
“And do you have any...?”
“Objections? I should say I do. The police still don’t seem to be sure that he didn’t do for the old man himself. As far as I am concerned he could very well be the miserable bastard who has landed me in this sorry mess.”
“I was only hoping that he could throw some light on Mr. Wendelson’s state of mind...”
“State of mind!” The expression only served to further inflame Jake Carver’s barely controlled temper. “I can tell you everything you might need to know about his state of mind. He was quite clearly as mad as the proverbial hatter. Out of his tree. Off his log. I can find plenty more descriptions for you if you want, but they all add up to exactly the same conclusion. The old man was barking at the moon.”
“Mr. Meek tells me that he was planning to change his will.”
The big construction engineer slumped back in his chair, clasping his head, “Well that’s just great,” he said, sarcastically, “And what good does that do me? Zilch. Nix. A big fat zero.” Carver relented, the fight apparently knocked out of him: like Drisdale he was mentally and physically exhausted by the bizarre course of recent events. “Okay, bring him in. What does it matter now, anyway.”
Leyton Drisdale leant low over an intercom system fixed on top of his desk, and pushing a button, breathed into it, “Carol, perhaps you would have Mr. Meek step inside.” While he and Carver waited for the new arrival, Drisdale found himself unconsciously humming to himself the rest of the words to the Dylan song.
No reason to get excited, the thief, he kindly spoke,
There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke.
But you and I, we’ve been through that, and this is not our fate,
So let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late.
A hesitant knock at the door, followed swiftly by the sight of Martin Meek’s bandaged head, did not allow the lawyer to reach the end of the song. Drisdale extended an arm, not as an invitation to shake hands, but to indicate for Meek to take a seat next to where Jake Carver was currently sunk, one long leg hanging over the arm of his chair. When Martin had settled himself in the particular receptacle, Drisdale said, “Now if we are all sitting comfortably, perhaps I can begin.”
••••••••••
Leyton Drisdale’s ensuing monologue recalled the fateful fishing trip that he and Garnet had taken all those years before: despite the intervening passage of time, the events of that week were still clear in his mind, conscious as he was, that they constituted the most serious
professional error of judgement on his part of his now long, and relatively illustrious, career. He had been young at the time, he attempted to justify to himself, a high flyer earmarked for the top, perhaps a little too eager to lean that extra inch backwards in order to satisfy the unorthodox whims of an influential client, and there could be no doubting that that was exactly what Garnet Wendelson had been: a rich meal ticket to success. Besides, what else could he have done? Garnet Wendelson was the man who wielded all the power: he would have found a way to achieve his crazy wishes, whether he, Drisdale, had assisted him or not.
“So to summarise the main content of the will,” Drisdale said, “The freehold of the Wendelson Building which, in purely monetary terms, was by far and away Mr. Wendelson’s greatest asset at the time of his death, plus the two refineries in the Carolinas, including all of the current outstanding business, goodwill, machinery, etc., the New York apartment, and properties on Rhode Island, in the Hamptons and Atlantic City, and, of course, the greater quantity of his capital, excluding one or two minor bequests which I will come to later, will all transfer to you, Mr. Jake Carver.”
The statement was not news to anyone seated around Drisdale’s desk and so there were none of the surprised gasps and indignant exclamations that seem traditionally to accompany the reading of such a controversial last will and testament. Martin Meek nodded his head, slowly, as though in deep thought, although with the white bandage which concealed his recent injury still wrapped around most of his hair like a makeshift turban, he also gave the impression of a heavily tranquillised patient let loose for the day from his mental ward, rocking back and forth, in blissful and complete ignorance of his present surroundings. The biggest beneficiary of the document that Drisdale still held, had his arms folded behind the back of his head, his eyes closed, staring unseeingly up towards the ceiling. It was Carver though who broke the uneasy silence.
“And the proviso. You haven’t mentioned the big proviso.” His voice exhibited the boredom of one who already knows the answer to a question asked. The reading of Garnet Wendelson’s will was a formality that had to be observed, but the contents had been too inflammatory - not to mention potentially fatal - to remain undisclosed until now.
Leyton Drisdale resumed his oration, “The provision upon Mr. Carver inheriting the greater part of Mr. Wendelson’s fortune is that the Wendelson Building must remain the tallest building in the world in perpetuity.”
This was new information for Martin Meek. He stopped his rhythmic rocking and asked innocently, “But aren’t there already plans for a new tall tower in Jakarta?”
Carver laughed harshly, swinging his arms down from their former position of repose, such that he was now leaning forward in his chair, his knees almost touching the wooden desk in front of him. “Plans? It’s already more than three quarters built. Completed before the middle of next year. Then there is another going up in Caracas, and two more planned in Shanghai, not to mention the countless other structures which are currently just dreams in ambitious architects’ minds. As Garnet himself knew only too well, the desire to build ever higher, well, it’s like the need to run quicker, to break new world records, or to fly around the world faster, it doesn’t just stop when you reach a certain mark. It may seem at a particular moment in time, that there is a natural limit beyond which further progress is impossible, but when you reach that limit, it is only human nature to want to go one step beyond.”
“So,” Martin asked, ‘What does this mean in terms of your inheritance? And why did Mr. Wendelson choose to leave all of his money to you, in any case? I don’t understand it. He hardly knew you.”
Leyton Drisdale intervened, “If you will let me finish, we are coming to that point.”
“Mr. Carver was not actually mentioned by name in Mr. Wendelson’s will, indeed they would not even have known of the existence of one another at the time that Mr. Wendelson made his wishes known. The money was to be left to the construction manager who completed work on a building, which was to bear Wendelson’s own name, and which would allow him to stand higher in the sky than on any other manmade earthly structure.”
“Was that the exact wording of the will?”
“More or less. I remember that it took quite a lot of ironing out, so that there could be no dispute about the identity of the future intended individual. And it is my opinion that Mr. Carver is the man who fits Mr. Wendelson’s criteria.”
“Lucky me,” said Carver sarcastically.
“But why?” Martin persisted. “I still don’t understand. As a great big thank you for building his blessed building? It’s a bit excessive, isn’t it? Wasn’t the agreed salary sufficient? I don’t want to be seen to be mealy-mouthed here, but I worked for the man for ten years. Put up with his tantrums, his demands, nursed him when he was ill, pushed that bloody chair of his I don’t know how many thousands of miles during that time. Did he make any small stipend for me? I can’t believe that he left everything to...” Martin pointed vaguely in Carver’s direction.
Drisdale answered, lawyer cool, “I don’t believe that any provision was made for either his current, or any of his previous, attendants.”
“He was talking about changing his will, you know. Right at the end. He said that what he had done was... what word did he use? Evil. That was it. I didn’t know what he was talking about at the time, but I can see now. Too fucking right it was evil. What am I supposed to do now?”
“Perhaps if we can all just remain civil for a little bit longer, we may actually all be able to help out one another here.” Drisdale replied, “You, quite justifiably Mr. Meek, think that you have been - what is your British expression? - hard done by. Is that right?”
“Quite so.”
“I think, if you will listen on, you may decide that you have not been quite so hard done by, as Mr. Carver here.”
“I...”
Drisdale interrupted the young Englishman, “Please, let me continue. You asked earlier why Mr. Wendelson should choose Mr. Carver to be his beneficiary when he had very little acquaintance with him. The crux of the matter, is that he did not choose Mr. Carver specifically, he chose a construction engineer, and a premier construction engineer at that. Now Mr. Wendelson’s will was only validated by the actual completion of the Wendelson Building, and it is clear that having achieved his goal of constructing the world’s tallest building, the last thing that Mr. Wendelson wanted to see was any upstart, what shall we say, Johnny-come-lately, I rather like that expression, muscling in on his turf - isn’t that another expression that you British use? - and constructing something even taller, which would forever consign the building that bears his name to the status of an also-ran. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” said Martin.
Drisdale resumed his explanation, “So what does he do? He’s not going to live forever. He’s not going to be able to continually build higher, and higher, structures. Okay, so you do the next best thing. You stop anyone else building anything taller.”
“How?”
Drisdale struck his hand against the thick batch of papers he continued to hold, “This amounts to a pretty impressive attempt at doing just that.”
“You think so?” said Carver, sceptically.
“Well don’t you?” answered Drisdale, challengingly. He turned to address Martin Meek once more, “I’m sorry, myself and Mr. Carver have already been through these documents several times, but I know that a lot of this is new to you. Let me explain, in simple terms, what Mr. Wendelson has set in motion.”
“Thank you.”
“He’s built for himself the world’s tallest building.”
“Agreed.”
“He dies - it’s not for us to speculate here and now, the whys and wherefores that surround hs death, let us just say that he dies.”
“Absolutely.”
“He leaves all his money to a construction engineer on the provision that the Wendelson Building r
emains the tallest stucture on this fair planet of ours, or put another way he is paying a demolition expert to make sure that nothing is ever built higher.”
“That sounds like blackmail?”
“Well yes, I suppose it is in a way.”
“But what is to stop Mr. Carver here taking all of the money, and then not carrying out Mr. Wendelson’s wishes? I mean he can’t seriously be expected to halt every major skyscraper project around the globe.” Martin was aware of the engineer and the lawyer exchanging a knowing glance as he asked this question; there was obviously still more that he did not know.
“Ah,” said Leyton Drisdale, his elbows resting on his desk, his hands held before him, the fingers interwined, “Mr. Wendelson thought of that too. He added a... I suppose you could call it a codicil. A little protection of his own.”
••••••••••
“So you have no idea who this woman Medea is?”
“No, none whatsoever,” answered Drisdale.
“Except that she intends to kill me?”
They were back at the point where Carver and Drisdale’s conversation had commenced.
“Only if you fail to prevent the Wendelson Building from remaining the world’s tallest structure. If you manage that you have nothing to worry about.”
“So I can be a rich man and alive both at the same time. Forgive me for not exactly sounding overjoyed,” said Carver.
“And you think this letter is genuine?” Martin Meek was holding a single, sheet of A5 lined paper, hand-written; the codicil that Leyton Drisdale had described before.
“The murder of Marcel Chin would suggest that the threat should be taken seriously.”
Martin read aloud, “The contents of this letter are to be opened upon the death of Garnet G. Wendelson for the eyes of his lawyer, Leyton Drisdale, only.” He momentarily broke off from his reading, “I feel honoured.”
Carver broke in, bored, “Do we have to go over this again, it doesn’t get any better the more times you read it.”
As a concession to Carver’s request Martin lowered his voice, but continued to read the contents of the unusual missive to himself, “By now the contents of my final will are known, and it will be apparent that my greatest lasting desire is for my own building to remain the world’s tallest, and not just for the short time span of a Sears or a Petronas, but for a generation, and beyond, so that the Wendelson name will be synonymous with superlative for eternity. To this end I have left my fortune to an individual - I know not whom - who, I hope, will also have a vested interest in achieving this same goal, and for one of three reasons: one, pride - he shall be the man who has constructed my fabulous building and, like myself, will wish to bask in the reflected glory of its enduring superiority; two, greed - he shall inherit riches beyond his wildest dreams, both for the purposes of maintaining my wishes, and for the duration that my dream remains a reality; and three, fear - if he wishes to remain alive he must carry out my command. I realise that that final statement requires a small degree of elucidation. I am a realistic man; I am not foolish or sentimental enough to think that any other person would feel a similar strength of feeling towards my building as I have for it myself. It is only human nature that this should be so; we each of us have our own dreams, piddling and insignificant as they may be for some people, but even so no one wishes to piggyback on the ambitions of others, thus it would be irresponsible of me to expect simple pride alone to be a force strong enough for someone to alter the envisaged course of their life. Greed, now that is a different story. For some people, greed would be motivation to do almost anything, and the wealth that I am offering would be an incentive to even the most non-materialistic individual. But what if this man is such an individual? It is possible, I can concede, that even unlimited money would not be enough incentive for my desires to be fulfilled. And so we come to fear. Fear is a very powerful emotion. I should know. I have been scared for so much of my life. Confined to a wheelchair, you learn the meaning of the word dependence, and with dependence you learn the meaning of the word fear. But what are most people fearful of? Change, mainly. And the biggest change to anyone’s life is death. So now we come to my final insurance policy. And here I talk directly to the man who has become the chosen guardian of my dreams. If you do not carry out my wishes you will be killed. Plain and simple. And I will explain to you the mechanics by which this process will occur. I have deposited a sum of ten million dollars in the bank account of a woman, who for your purposes will be referred to henceforth simply as Medea. Medea, as I am sure you have already guessed, is not just any woman. She is a trained assassin and she has instructions to exercise her specialist skills in the event that my aforementioned instructions are not carried out to the letter. Now I am sure that you are thinking, what is to stop this woman from taking this money and not completing her side of the contract. The answer is simple: honour. It is a code which knows no price. Rest assured, if you fail to carry out the instructions of my will, you will be killed. Complacency is not an option. In conclusion, I wish you every enjoyment that my money may bring you, and I sincerely hope that you continue to enjoy it until the end of your long and natural life.” Martin rested a finger against his lips, as though in order to silence himself, as he came to the end of the letter.
“Well?” asked Carver. “Any bright ideas?”
“I can confirm that this is certainly Garnet... Mr. Wendelson’s handwriting.” answered Martin.
“I know, so can I,” replied Drisdale, disinterestedly.
“And the envelope, any clues there?”
“It was posted from the Ukraine.”
“It’s not somewhere we have been to in recent years. I understand that it was somewhere that Mr. Wendelson spent a lot of time before I joined his service.” said Martin.
Drisdale was more accurate with his facts, “He lived there for several months in the eighties. I think more importantly, he returned there briefly only a few weeks after I met him in Florida. I didn’t know what his business was at the time, but this letter arrived shortly afterwards, with instructions that it should be included with the documents that comprised his will.”
“And you didn’t open it before?”
“No, the instructions were quite clear.”
“Even so.”
“Even so nothing.” Drisdale was annoyed to have his professional conduct questioned. “I repeat, the instructions were quite clear.”
It was Carver who volunteered a question next, “I asked you once before, is this will strictly valid?”
“If it went to a court of law, I would have to answer, no, I don’t think that it would stand up to professional scrutiny, but that is hardly the point is it.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know who this woman Medea is, but I can’t imagine from the description of her that she is likely to be swayed from her murderous pursuit by any niceties concerning legality or not.”
“But this contract was taken out a quarter of a century ago. She may be dead now. She...”
Martin Meek’s objections were silenced by two words from Jake Carver, “Marcel Chin.”
Drisdale continued, “It would seem logical to assume from the fact of the recent assassination-style murder of Marcel Chin that Medea is both alive and, how shall I put it, professionally active.”
“What about the name Medea itself? Forgive my lack of a classical education, but is there any clue there? Is there any way of tracing this woman?” suggested Martin.
Drisdale spoke as though he was reading directly from a textbook on Greek mythology, “Medea was the daughter of King Aeetes of Colchis. She was married to Jason, leader of the Argonauts, and aided him in his pursuit of the Golden Fleece and also killed the king who had deprived Jason of his inheritance. When Jason later deserts her for the daughter of King Creon, Medea took her revenge by killing Creon, his daughter, and her own two children by Jason.”
“That last bit wa
s the bit I vaguely remember,” said Martin.
“Euripedes,” said Drisdale.
“I’m sure you’re right. Does it help us in any way?”
“In identifying the woman? I don’t see how. He has never mentioned anyone, to your knowledge, in Ukraine? Someone he has kept in touch with? Have you ever posted any letters on his behalf?”
Martin answered, “No, nothing. Certainly no letters. I would have remembered. He would occasionally mention some aspect of the time he spent there, you know, if he saw some reference to Kiev, or something like that, but no people, no. I think he may have had a friend killed from the fallout after Chernobyl, but I got the impression that he didn’t like to talk about it. He wasn’t the kind of man that needed a confidante, if you understand me. Not that he would have chosen me for one, even if he had.”
Carver was becoming increasingly impatient, “We are wasting our time here, going over the same old ground. It achieves nothing.”
“And so what do you suggest?” asked Drisdale.
“As I see it, we have two options. We either find this woman Medea and... well, I don’t know what we would do with her if we did find her, but since we don’t have the first idea where to start looking the dilemma is not very likely to present itself, is it.”
“And the second option is?” Martin prompted,
“I start to blow up a lot of very tall buildings,” Carver answered, facetiously.
••••••••••
“Well, gentleman, it has been interesting having this conversation, but I think I will leave you now. I don’t see that I can be of any more help to you, and none of this really involves me any longer, does it,” said Martin Meek, pushing back his chair, and making preparations to depart.
Jake Carver opened his mouth as though to voice a protest at the apparent desertion, but was silenced as Leyton Drisdale stood up and made a gesture towards the door, indicating that Martin was free to leave. Martin had made three steps across the brightly varnished, wooden parquet flooring, with another three remaining between him and the door to Drisdale’s office, when the lawyer managed to halt him in his tracks.
“We have reason to believe that Mr. Carver may not be the only potential target that Medea has her sights set upon.”
Martin turned around to face the lawyer, “Oh?” He felt his bowels loosen momentarily, an instinctive reaction to the anticipation of bad news.
“This is told to you in complete confidence, you understand. The police have not released this information to the press.”
“What?” Martin was aware that his voice had become a high pitched squeak.
“When the location from which the assassin of Marcel Chin had taken her shot was examined, it was discovered that she had left a... I suppose, you would describe it as a calling card. It was actually quite an amusing conceit, if it wasn’t also quite so serious. The item that the police discovered was a prostitute’s advertisement card, you know the kind of thing, I remember seeing them often enough in public telephone boxes when I visited London, and in my few brief days in Pyongyang, it was apparent that as a marketing device it had caught on in abundance there too. The woman who was offering her services, and apparently a particularly unique brand of S&M it was too, also went under the pseudonym of Medea.” Drisdale held up his hand to stem any possible interruption, “And yes, before you ask, the local police have thoroughly checked out this classics-obsessed dominatrix and are satisfied that she has nothing to do with the actual murder.”
“And what does this have to do with anything else?” asked Martin.
“On the reverse of the card, were written, or rather were lightly indented, as though they had perhaps been written on a sheet of paper resting on top of the card, five names. This may have actually been a slip on the part of the assassin. The police are working on the assumption that the names were hand-written by the killer, and that she was perhaps not aware that she had left this particular clue at the scene of the crime.”
“Absent-mindedness?” enquired Carver, sarcastically.
“If not that, then the alternative is no more palatable,” said Drisdale, “Anyway...”
“Anyway,” interrupted Martin, impatiently, “Tell us who were the names.”
Drisdale smiled thinly, “I think you already know. At the top of the list is my seated friend here.” He indicated Jake Carver. “Next was Marcel Chin.”
“And we all know what happened to him,” broke in Carver.
“In third place, I myself have the honour of being included amongst such distinguished company,” continued Drisdale, “Next was a woman, as yet unidentified, called Maria Gomez.”
“A Latino?”
“Presumably. And last, but by no means least...”
Drisdale did not need to complete his sentence, Martin did it for him with one frightened syllable, “Me.”
“Would you like to take your seat again?” Drisdale asked, facetiously.
Martin almost collapsed into the offered leather embrace, “But... but, I don’t understand. Why?”
“That was one of the questions that we were hoping that you could help us with,” said Drisdale. “Perhaps Garnet provided Medea with a different agenda to the one he has detailed to us. For myself, and I am only guessing here, you understand, it is possible that my own sword of Damocles is negated by my successfully acting as executor to Mr. Wendelson’s estate. If I had been tempted to... stray from Mr. Wendelson’s stipulated wishes; if I had done what my rational mind has been urging me to do ever since I drew up the confounded document in the first place, which was to tear it into small shreds and pretend that it had never existed, perhaps then I would have met with my own assassin’s bullet. Perhaps I still will.”
“But what about me?” asked Martin, pathetically; fear reducing his sophisticated adult sensibilities to the egocentric concerns of the child. “What is it that Garnet wants me to do?”
Carver and Drisdale were both silently shaking their heads. Finally Carver said, “All we can do is wait, and see.”
“That’s fine for you. You know what is required of you. How can I live knowing that some innocent action I make may be the very thing that Garnet has deemed will be my last?”
“It is an interesting question,” said Drisdale, talking as though the matter was of purely academic, theoretical interest to him, “As an example of exerting control from beyond the grave Mr. Wendelson appears to have left us all with an intriguing situation.”
“Intriguing situation!” Martin’s voice rose even higher, “That’s not what I would call it.”
“For once, I am in agreement with you,” said Carver, rising to his feet.
Leyton Drisdale put up both hands in a defensive manner, aware of the offence that his words had caused, bidding for calm to be restored, “Gentlemen, please. We are all feeling a bit... overwrought. Understandably. Perhaps we should call it a day for now. Let’s all go home. Have a chance to think things over in peace.”
Martin looked like he was about to explode into a fresh outburst of invective at the word “peace”, but Drisdale silenced him, effectively wrapping up the meeting, “Jake, I’ll have an interim cheque made payable from Mr. Wendelson’s to your own account, until such time as the amount of the final settlement is agreed. Is five million, okay?”
The sum mentioned could have been five dollars, such was Carver’s lack of enthusiasm. “Fine.”
“And the deeds to the Wendelson Building have already been made over to your name. Go enjoy your building.”
Carver looked at the lawyer balefully, “Are you trying to be funny.”
Drisdale replied in all seriousness, “In the absence of any alternative dictated by the somewhat... perverse circumstances, I don’t really see what else I can be. Take my advice, enjoy your new found wealth while you can. We are all going to die someday. Not all of us have the opportunity to be rich beforehand.”
It was a not entirely convincing pi
ece of advice on which to end the meeting, but it was clear that there was little to be served by extending the current discourse. Carver closed the door behind Martin Meek’s already retreating form, leaving Drisdale alone once again.
He sat back in his chair, allowing himself the luxury of putting his feet up on top of the wooden writing desk. He had no more appointments that day. He could relax. Relax! It hardly seemed the most appropriate word in the circumstances. The picture on the wall was still not hanging exactly straight, but it no longer unsettled him in the way that it had done earlier. He began to hum a tune to himself.
Outside in the distance a wildcat did growl,
Two riders were approaching, the wind began to howl.
Damn it, he’d forgotten the opening lines again.
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