Death Trance

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Death Trance Page 7

by Graham Masterton


  ‘I’m going down to Cotton Row for beginners,’ Randolph said as Charles helped him into his coat. ‘Then I’m lunching at Grisanti’s. As far as the afternoon is concerned, well, that’s open-ended. But you can call Wanda if you need to know where I am.’

  Charles fussily brushed Randolph’s shoulders with a leather-backed brush.

  ‘Listen, Charles, dandruff doesn’t show up on a white jacket.’

  ‘Sir, you don’t have dandruff.’

  ‘Then why are you brushing me?’

  ‘A gentleman’s valet always brush a gentleman before a gentleman go out. That’s the rule,’ said Charles.

  ‘Who makes the rules around here? Me or you?’

  ‘Those are the kind of rules that nobody make. Those are ettykett.’

  Herbert, the chauffeur, was waiting in the semicircular asphalt driveway outside Clare Castle in a silver-grey Chrysler New Yorker. Herbert was another of Clare Cottonseed’s old retainers. He had a face grizzled up like a red cabbage, white hair that was always firmly greased back and a voice as deep and smooth as the silt that poured down the Mississippi. He opened the car door for Randolph and handed him The Wall Street Journal. ‘Sorry about the car, sir. The Cadillac won’t take longer to repair than two or three days.’

  Randolph settled into his seat. ‘You must tell me about that.’

  ‘Well, sir,’ said Herbert as they started off, ‘I couldn’t really explain it. I was heading towards the airport on Lamar, all ready to pick you up, with chilled cocktails sitting in the cabinet, and then just when I was turning on to Airways, the brakes failed and I couldn’t stop her, two and a half tons of limousine. I ended up halfway down the bank, lucky not to turn over.’

  Randoph said, ‘Brake failure. That’s not common, is it?’

  ‘In a Cadillac limousine, sir? They have dual hydraulic master cylinders, tandem vacuum power boosters, ventilated discs in the front, duo servo drums in the back, four hundred twenty-five square inches swept area, believe me.’ ‘What did the mechanic have to say?’ Herbert glanced up at Randolph in the rearview mirror. The mechanic laughed, sir, to my chagrin.’ ‘But he couldn’t say why the brakes failed?’

  ‘No, sir. Not unless there was tampering.’ Randolph shook out his Journal but did not read the headlines. ‘Tampering?’ he asked sharply. ‘Well, sir, it could have been deliberate.’ Randolph looked up. ‘I think I’m missing something,’ he said. ‘Why should anybody have wanted to tamper with my limousine?’

  ‘I don’t like to sound pessimistic, sir, but they do say that Clare Cottonseed has become something of an irritation, especially to Mr Greene and the Cottonseed Association. Whether they’re trying to tell you something, sir, by way of practical action … well, I don’t know about that. But it may be worth bearing in mind.’

  ‘You don’t seriously think that somebody from the Margarine Mafia fixed the brakes on my car, do you?’

  ‘It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility, sir.’ Again those cornflower-blue eyes floating in the rearview mirror.

  Were they stupid or wise? Was Herbert trying to over-dramatize his accident in order to excuse some piece of negligent driving, or had the brakes really failed because Orbus Greene had wanted them to? Could Orbus really have worked himself up to such a pitch of resentment that he was prepared to sabotage factories and kill workers in order to keep total control of the cottonseed market? The newspapers had reported Chief Moyne’s opinion that yesterday morning’s explosion at Raleigh had been ‘unquestionably accidental.’ But then Chief Moyne was a long-standing drinking buddy of Orbus Greene’s from the bad old days when Memphis had been nothing more than a jumble of wharves, warehouses and run-down tenements and the city had been controlled by men who could be distinguished from alligators only by the way they laughed. Whatever Chief Moyne decided about a crime, his forensic department took serious note. So no matter how fair and true the Memphis Press-Scimitar might endeavour to be, it could report only the information the police department had given it.

  Randolph said thoughtfully, ‘You’re the second person in two days to suggest to me that the Margarine Mafia is starting to put pressure on us.’

  ‘Well, sir, that’s the feeling among some of the workers and some of the staff. Maybe it’s nothing but rumour. Maybe it’s nothing but the summer heat. You know what happens to Memphians in the summer, they always go a little daffy. But somebody’s been passing the word, mainly through the union locals. Nothing o-vert, if you know what I mean, but with the implication that it might not be too healthy for anyone to work for Clare Cottonseed. Bad moon rising, if you understand me.’

  ‘Has anybody said that to you?’ Randolph asked.

  ‘Not in so many words, sir.’

  Then how?’

  ‘Well, sir, I was talking to Mr Graceworthy’s driver two or three days back, just after you left for Canada, and he said something that started me thinking. He said, “Have you ever wondered where you might be, Herbert, a year from now?” and I said,

  “What kind of a question is that?” I mean, we’ve known each other five or six years, me and Mr Graceworthy’s driver, why is he all of a sudden asking me that? But he only says, “Think about it, that’s all.” And believe me, sir, I did think about it when the Cadillac went off of the road. A year from now, I thought to myself, I could have been doing nothing at all. I could have been dead meat in a box.’

  Randolph sat back on the deep cushioned velour seat. There seemed no question but that the Cottonseed Association was trying to make clear to him its displeasure, although for the past six months he had been so preoccupied with his own building and business-investment plans, and so isolated from the daily turmoil of Cotton Row, up in his tenth-storey office or out at Clare Castle, that he had completely failed to sense the increasing hostility that must have been building up against him.

  All the same, hostility or not, he still found it hard to believe that anybody from the Cottonseed Association could have been crude enough or violent enough to burn down his factory or to tamper with the brakes of his limousine - not even Orbus Greene for all his grossness, both physical and mental; and certainly not Waverley Graceworthy, the ‘Grand Old Man’ of Cotton Row.

  Yet, apart from Orbus’s rancorous remarks last night up at Raleigh, neither Orbus nor Waverley had deigned to speak to Randolph since the Sun-Taste contract had been signed; and Randolph could well believe that the whole cottonseed industry would breathe a mighty sigh of relief if he were to go out of business, or even if he were to end up embedded in one of the reinforced concrete uprights on Interstate 55.

  He decided to be cautious and for the time being at least, to assume that the Margarine Mafia would much prefer it if he were eliminated. He had seen in the past how quickly a preference could become a reality, especially in a high-keyed city like Memphis. The town had not produced W.C. Handy and Elvis Presley for nothing.

  Randolph reached his desk at one minute past eight and immediately pressed the buzzer for Wanda. Behind him, the Mississippi lazed into the morning studded with steamers and necklaced with chains of cotton barges. Wanda came in with a cup of steaming coffee on a silver tray.

  ‘I’ve been trying to contact Marmie at Lac aux Ecorces,’ he told her. ‘The operator is going to keep on trying, but I would appreciate it if you would advise her that I’m here and that I want to speak to Marmie as soon as possible.’

  ‘Of course,’ Wanda replied. She looked crisp and efficient in a white silk blouse and a tight grey skirt, with a fresh camellia pinned to her lapel. There’s something else,’ she said. ‘I had a call about five minutes ago from Mr Graceworthy’s secretary. She said that Mr Graceworthy intends to pay you a visit around eight-thirty.’

  ‘And what did you say to that?’

  ‘I said that you wouldn’t be here, that you had to visit the families of the men who had been killed up at Raleigh.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She said that Mr Graceworthy was coming anyway and that he really w
ould prefer it if you could wait up for him.’

  Randolph picked up his coffee and sipped it. ‘Brasilia,’ he murmured. He enjoyed being able to identify coffee; it was a knack his father had taught him. Then he said,

  ‘All right. But I’ll wait until eight forty-five, no later.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And, sir? These reports came in … from the chief of police, the fire chief and city hall. They all relate to the accident.’

  The accident, hmm?’ Randolph asked, putting a slightly sarcastic emphasis on the word ‘accident.’

  Wanda frowned at him. ‘You don’t think it was an accident?’

  ‘Everybody I meet seems to be nudging me and winking and telling me different. I’m beginning to feel like I’m the only person in town who doesn’t know he’s got something unpleasant on his shoe.’

  ‘The fire chief said it was an accident.’ Wanda picked up the report and leafed through it. ‘Here it is. “Volatile fumes were apparently escaping from a leaking pressure valve in the wintering plant and spontaneously ignited.”’

  ‘And what does Chief Moyne have to say for himself?’

  ‘“No suspicious circumstances,”’ Wanda quoted.

  Randolph sipped his coffee. ‘No suspicious circumstances. I see. Where are my cookies?’

  ‘You told me not to bring you cookies any more. You said they were fattening.’

  ‘Those little Swiss cookies? I told you that?’

  Wanda nodded and smiled. ‘You said that it was an irrevocable order and that no matter what you said, no matter how much you pleaded, I was never to bring you those cookies again.’

  ‘Well, I irrevocably reverse that irrevocable order. Bring me some cookies.’

  Wanda thought for a moment and then said, ‘All right, two. And that’s your limit.’

  Three.’

  ‘Two, and that’s not negotiable.’

  ‘Okay, two … and try calling the cabin for me, will you, please? Marmie must be back there by now, wherever she went.’

  At that moment Neil Sleaman came in. He was wearing a powder-blue nylon suit, a yellow shirt and a gold-tipped bolo tie.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Clare. I just heard that Waverley Graceworthy has invited himself over.’ ‘So it seems.’

  Neil sat down uninvited. ‘Do you have any idea of what he wants?’

  ‘Do youT asked Randolph. He began to read through the fire chiefs report on the blaze out at Raleigh.

  ‘I guess it has something to do with what Orbus Greene was talking about yesterday, out at the plant.’

  ‘You mean he’s going to threaten me, only more politely?’

  ‘You can see the Association’s point of view, Mr Clare.’

  ‘Can I?’ queried Randolph, looking up. He smacked the fire chief’s report dismissively with the backs of his fingers. ‘This whole thing is one weasel word after another. Listen to this: “Although there is no evidence to suggest that safety regulations at the Clare processing plant were not adhered to, there is room for speculation that the valves in the wintering plant were not up to the standards required or had not been maintained up to the standards required.” What this actually means is that he has no evidence whatever about what happened out there and he’s guessing … only he’s making damn sure that we sound as if we’ve been negligent.’

  Neil inclined his head and nodded as if to say, ‘Well, that could be so, but it isn’t really the main point.’

  Randolph stood up and thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘Why should I harbour any sympathy for the Association’s point of view when it does nothing but slow down expansion and reduce quality? We’ve built ourselves into the second-biggest cottonseed processor in Memphis because our prices are low and our product is good, and I’m not interested in anybody’s point of view if it compromises either of those criteria. And I’m particularly not interested in anybody’?, point of view if I’m being made to accept it by violent means.’

  ‘Sir … surely that couldn’t have been sabotage,’ Neil protested.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re sure because I’m not.’

  ‘Whatever you think of the Association, Mr Clare … they’re all honourable men.’

  ‘What are you, their public-relations officer? Orbus Greene is the tackiest, most devious, most self-serving mountain of human flesh that ever disgraced this city, and as for Waverley Graceworthy -‘

  ‘As for Waverley Graceworthy,’ put in a clear, husky, patrician voice. ‘Waverley Graceworthy is here to pay you his respects.’

  Randolph turned around. Petite, white-haired, dressed immaculately in a grey Cerruti suit that could have been made for a ten-year-old boy, the Grand Old Man of Cotton Row walked into the office, his glasses flashing for a moment in the reflected light from the window, his tiny shoes twinkling. He held out his hand to Randolph almost as if he expected it to be kissed.

  ‘Your dear secretary was nowhere to be found,’ Waverley said. He had been brought up in Corinth, Mississippi, and his accent was as high-stepping and as steel-sprung as the arches of the Hernando de Soto bridge. ‘You won’t object if I sit down?’

  ‘How can I help you?’ Randolph asked. ‘Would you care for some coffee?’

  Waverley perched on the edge of the sofa, supported his withered chin on his liver-spotted fist and regarded Randolph with an expression bordering on amusement.

  Behind his rimless glasses, his eyes were rheumy and bloodshot, but they were acute nonetheless.

  ‘I have come to pay my respects, as I said. I was very distressed to learn of what happened to Bill Douglas and those two workers of yours. Also, to that fine new factory. A considerable tragedy.’

  ‘Well, thank you for your condolences,’ Randolph acknowledged, trying not to sound churlish. Neil Sleaman shifted uncomfortably in his chair, as if he would have preferred not to be there at all.

  ‘I gather that Orbus had a few words to say to you out at the plant,’ Waverley went on. ‘You know something? You mustn’t take too much notice of Orbus. He has a way of expressing himself that tends to put people’s backs up. Remember that he was brought up the hard way, when a man had to be sly, uncompromising and even unprincipled if he was going to survive. Even your father, may his soul rest in peace, was not the paragon of virtue that you can have the luxury of being now that times have changed.’

  ‘Do you want to get to the point?’ Randolph asked.

  Waverley was silent for a while, watching Randolph carefully with those swimming, pallid eyes. Then he sat back, neatly folded his arms and said, ‘You’re causing us considerable grief, you know. Far more grief than your father ever did. Your father could at least be accommodating. Your father understood that in the cottonseed business, the interests of each processing company are intertwined. You, for instance, you may think that you’re an independent, but there’s no such thing. Your prices wouldn’t be low if ours were lower. Your delivery dates wouldn’t be quick if ours were quicker.’

  ‘Then why don’t you cut your prices and speed up your delivery dates?’ asked Randolph. ‘I’m not afraid of competition.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid that things don’t work that way,’ Waverley replied. ‘Some members of the Association are strong, but the strong are far outnumbered by the weak. Most of the processors around here could not stay in business if the Association didn’t fix prices, and that would mean that many of the cotton plantations would go out of business too. We’re talking about the wider picture here, you see. We’re talking about what would happen to this whole district, to Shelby County and DeSoto County, if the Association didn’t take care of its members’ interests.’

  ‘I’m afraid you don’t impress me,’ Randolph growled. ‘You’re thinking about your profits and little else. What’s more, Orbus is sore because he didn’t get the Sun-Taste contract.’

  ‘Orbus has a right to be sore. Brooks is the biggest processor around here and Sun-Taste should have gone to him as a matter of sheer practicality. He could have subcontracted at least two-thirds o
f the supply to some of the smaller members of the Association.’

  ‘At rock-bottom rates, no doubt,’ said Randolph dryly. ‘And besides, Sun-Taste specifically insisted that there should be no subcontracting whatever.’

  ‘You’re always making things difficult, aren’t you?’ Waverley asked mildly. His fingernails picked at a stray thread on the arm of the sofa.

  ‘I don’t have to make things difficult. Things are difficult enough already.’

  ‘Randolph, there isn’t any need for us to argue. I came here today with a proposition.

  I know that the unfortunate fire out at Raleigh has somewhat reduced your ability to meet the demands Sun-Taste has been placing on you. Might I suggest that the Association assist you to meet your requirements … in return for a more cooperative policy on your part in the future?’

  ‘You can suggest what you like. I think I’d rather cooperate with the Ku Klux Klan.’

  ‘Randolph!’ Waverley said sharply. ‘This is not being wise.’

  ‘Well, apparently not,’ Randolph agreed sarcastically. ‘It seems to be common knowledge in .Memphis that the Association is going to start squeezing me out. If not by negotiation, then by vandalism and threats. For all I know, with that fire out at Raleigh and my company limousine going off the road, you’ve started already.’

  Waverley stood up. It was impossible for Randolph to see his eyes because of the silver reflection on the man’s glasses. ‘I resent that,’ Waverley said, his voice gently admonitory rather than resentful.

  ‘You can resent it as much as you like,’ Randolph told him. That’s your privilege.’

  Waverley stood unmoving for a moment, as if he were about to say something. But he apparently changed his mind, nodded first to Randolph and then to Neil Sleaman, and buttoned up his coat.

  ‘You’re causing us grief, Randolph,’ he repeated.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You know what you’ll get in return.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Randolph challenged.

  ‘You’ll get grief of your own, that’s what you’ll get.’

 

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