All three vehicles arrived at almost the same moment – the prowl car, the ambulance and the unmarked cruiser. Sanschagrin identified himself to the uniformed police and then went directly to Abelard, who was standing at the small concrete staircase which led into the house, hands clasped before him in a relaxed posture, more like a curious bystander than an active participant in the unfolding drama.
“Mr. Bush, you should first show the ambulance attendants to the victim and then we can talk,” he said, in a voice that seemed to Abelard to bode no good. He did as he was asked and then stepped back outside.
“This is quite the coincidence, eh? It’s been, what, five, six months since our last chance encounter, Detective Sanschagrin. Does it always stay this warm so late into the fall here in Montreal,” he prattled on, proffering his hand to the dour policeman?
“Our encounters are hardly the stuff of chance, Mr. Bush. Both have been police matters and I, Mr. Bush, as you might recall, am a police detective. I do not normally respond to heart attack calls but when your name came up on this one I could not resist the opportunity to learn how you might be involved. And, yes, Mr. Bush, we are fortunate here in Montreal with what are known as Indian Summers – a sudden warming which could run for as much as a couple of weeks. Please wait here for a moment.” Sanschagrin disappeared into the house.
He very soon emerged again and began to speak to Abelard. “So what incredible accident has brought you together with a corpse, so soon after almost creating one? By the way, the mugger you maimed is now up and about and you, I’m sure, couldn’t care less.” He fell silent and after a moment Abelard concluded that Sanschagrin’s question was not just rhetorical. He would have to answer.
“In the event that you have not read the business press,” an irritating simplicity accenting his words, as though talking to a thoughtless child, “my company and Mr. Hecht’s organization, for some months now, have been involved in a rather nasty takeover battle. Mr. Hecht had agreed to meet with me privately to see how we might bring our disagreements to a happy conclusion.”
“Mr. Bush,” Sanschagrin cut in, “I would have to have left the planet to miss all the dirt on your disagreements with Mr. Hecht. The press we mere morons read has also been covering the story and it has been unkind to your company and to you, in particular. It’s been local drama here and everybody I know has been rooting for Mr. Hecht. He said he would rather bankrupt the company than sell to the VBI slime, a direct quote. So, why would he agree to meet with you if he had no intention of being bullied into a deal?”
“Detective Sanschagrin, you are obviously a little naïve about the ways of business. No, no, no means the price is too low. We agreed to meet because VBI had decided to stop negotiating through the media, which had pushed the price too high and Mr. Hecht knew we would be withdrawing our offer. We felt that in private we could reach a win-win deal.”
Sanschagrin shuffled uncomfortably in place while Abelard treated him like a patent idiot, droning on about how business is carried on. When Abelard had finished his patronizing pedagogy, Sanschagrin said in a bitter tone, “I didn’t buy your victim story last time and I don’t buy your tragic coincidence story this time, but I still have nothing that will stick to you. Something tells me, though, that we will meet again Mr. Bush. Good day.”
Abelard smiled at Sanschagrin and without another word slipped into his car to be driven back to the office. He wasn’t much fussed with Sanschagrin’s veiled threats. He worried more about his mysterious episode of compassion. Fortuitously, Mr. Hecht had not lingered a moment longer. It would have been ruinous for Abelard. During his entire recovery and rehabilitation period he does not recall even once having to deal with such unnatural emotions.
*
The Perfect Human: An Abelard Chronicles Book Page 18