by John Ball
“Still, to go without any clothes at all …”
George let the matter hang there; he was too content with her company just as she was. He guided the car over a rise and the waxing three-quarter moon flooded them with its cool, impersonal light.
Ellen nodded toward a turnoff ahead. “Stop there, will you?” she requested.
George swung the car off the road and onto the gravel of one of the many viewpoint parking lots. He stopped and set the brake.
“I’ve always loved this particular place,” Ellen said simply.
George came around and helped her out of the car. As they walked toward the stone balustrade that guarded the edge, he was close enough to touch her; he didn’t, because he sensed it would not be welcome—at least not yet.
From the ledge on the mountain the view spread out below them was spectacular. Though the moonlight was swallowed up in the atmosphere and showed nothing of the land below, the lights of the city and of Norton Air Force Base spread a jeweled carpet at the feet of the night.
Ellen sat on the low stone wall and turned her head to look down at the spectacle. As she did so, George studied her faint profile and the way she held herself even in repose; new ideas began to stir in his mind about her even though this was only the second time they had met. He lifted his wrist and tilted it so that he could see the hands on the dial.
Ellen noticed him and asked quickly, “What time is it?”
“Five minutes after twelve.”
She rose to her feet. “Another day.”
“Yes, a new day.” He decided to share a small personal thing. “My birthday,” he added.
“Many happy returns,” she said as they walked back to the car.
“I hope so—and I hope in the same company.” He paused, aware he had betrayed his thoughts. “What I mean is, this seems like the best possible way to start the day.”
She looked at him. “How nice of you,” she said with a smile. As he returned it, she stopped suddenly and turned halfway toward him.
“Happy birthday,” she said. She lifted her head and parted her lips slightly.
It was one of the few impulsive things she had ever done. She was not in the habit of allowing herself to be kissed except by very old friends, and then only infrequently.
To George she was at that moment utterly desirable. The touch of her warm lips electrified him; he had to restrain himself from crushing her hard against him.
A car came up the hill and swept the parking area with its lights as it made the curve. George continued to hold her during the moment they were on display and after the car had passed. Then he gently released her and found himself unsure on his feet as he guided her back across the gravel.
When he dropped her off at her parents’ lodge, he did not attempt to kiss her again. He wished her good night and drove back to Sun Valley contented with himself and the world. The next step would be to find out if she could sail a boat; if not, he could teach her.
chapter 12
When Virgil Tibbs arrived a few minutes before eight to keep his evening appointment with Walter McCormack, he found Walter Brown waiting for him at the entrance to the estate. As soon as Virgil pulled his car up before the iron grillwork, the chauffeur recognized him and swung open the gates that guarded the private drive. Tibbs paused to thank him.
“I got orders to let you in,” Brown told him. “How’d you manage to get invited?”
“It took some work,” Virgil admitted. “He did invite me, though, so no one is going to get fired.”
“I know that, but how you got the old goat to give in I can’t figure. Park right up by the door—nobody else is coming.”
As Virgil guided his car up the curving driveway, daylight was still strong on the glittering water and the wind from the west was charged with the salty tang of the ocean. He paused for a moment after he got out of his car to look out over the long coastline and fill his lungs with the fresh, inviting air. Then, regretfully directing his mind back to business, he pushed the bell and waited to be admitted.
Walter McCormack received him in his study; he was seated behind what could only be a wealthy man’s desk and seemed in no haste to rise. He was thin and of slight build, probably in his early seventies. He wore a cashmere coat that was severely cut in a conservative pattern; its narrow lapels emphasized his thin long nose, which divided his face like a hatchet blade. For a quick moment Virgil thought of Lombroso, the Italian criminologist who maintained that a person’s character was revealed in the set of his features. Although that theory had long since ben disproved, Walter McCormack did look the aristocrat, fully accustomed to imposing his will on others. As Tibbs entered the room, McCormack at last rose halfway to his feet and offered a thin hand, which was cool to the touch. “Sit down, Mr. Tibbs,” he said formally.
He waited until his guest was comfortable and then continued as though in the same breath.
“Suppose we come right to the point and save each other a great deal of time. We are both fully aware that the stock option you hold is a device and nothing more. You are a police officer of good repute, but with no outside financial resources. You could not possibly afford to exercise the option that you hold, and it is therefore worthless.”
“Quite,” Virgil agreed without turning a hair.
“Very well. Let me add that when you first called my home had I been told that a police officer wished to see me officially, you would not have needed to resort to ridiculous extremes to arrange an appointment. For this I apologize; my instructions to my staff did not anticipate such a contingency.”
“I’m very relieved to hear that,” Tibbs answered. He folded his hands in his lap. “It’s very seldom that a responsible citizen refuses to see a policeman.”
“Obviously. Now, what can I do for you?”
Virgil opened his notebook; with this man he did not fear the psychological results of doing so. “As you will have surmised, I am investigating the death of Dr. Albert Roussel.”
“Are you the officer in charge?”
“For the present at least, I am.”
“All right, what are your questions?”
Virgil got down to business. “How well did you know the deceased?”
“Very well—over a period of several years.”
“To your knowledge did he have any enemies in this country who might have been waiting for his return?”
“Unequivocally no. I seriously doubt that he ever had an enemy in the world. Dr. Roussel had a rare gift for making himself liked everywhere he went. Also there was nothing in his work to generate hatred.”
Tibbs took a moment to look at a magnificent sea painting that hung over the fireplace. “Is there a possibility he might have anticipated someone else’s patents or research—innocently, of course?”
McCormack shook his head and settled down further behind his desk. “Extremely doubtful. If any parallel work was being done, I am quite sure I would know of it. Dr. Roussel was a highly original research worker who plowed new ground wherever he turned his mind and interests.”
Virgil made a note, writing for several seconds before he resumed the conversation. “May I ask your opinion, sir, regarding the offer to buy out Roussel Rights?”
McCormack gave him a shrewd look. “You aren’t thinking of trying to sell your option, are you?”
Tibbs shook his head, letting it go at that.
McCormack continued, “The offer was originally made with the assumption that Dr. Roussel would continue actively in his research into photographic chemistry. That is of course impossible now. Despite this misfortune, the patents we hold are basic and have a considerable time to run. Each year the royalties paid have increased, and there is no sign of a letdown. Is that sufficient information?”
“I believe so. Since you are the business manager for the company, I presume you can tell me what is now likely to happen to Dr. Roussel’s personal beholdings.”
McCormack thought that over as he rubbed the end of his
nose. “I see no harm in telling you,” he said at last. “The information will be public in a few days, and of course I realize the importance of the job you are doing.”
He shifted and sat up a little straighter in his chair. He remained a small man, but one with an aura of dignity that gave him a measure of strength.
“Dr. Roussel had only one living close relative—his sister Margaret, toward whom he felt very close. However, for very sound reasons she is not his heir.”
Virgil lifted an eyebrow and waited for more.
“Margaret is married and has a daughter, a suitable and proper young woman. I don’t know if you are aware of this, Mr. Tibbs—you probably are—but where major sums of money are concerned, it is quite usual to skip one generation in making a bequest. If I were fortunate enough to have descendants, I would leave my estate to my grandson. It would be understood within the family that my son would use and administer the funds as long as he lived and remained capable. Upon his death my grandson would then take over without the necessity of paying another inheritance tax. Dr. Roussel observed that principle in leaving his estate to his niece. Actually Margaret is a member of his own generation, so the legacy is going down only one step instead of two.”
For a moment Virgil Tibbs remained silent. “Will Miss Boardman have any say concerning her legacy? I put that badly; I meant to ask if her mother will assume full control or if she herself will be consulted.”
This time McCormack did some thinking before he replied. “Knowing the family as I do, I would assume that Ellen will be regarded as the heir and her parents will advise her only if they are consulted. Mr. Boardman is a retiring person who is doing exactly what he wants to do, and the same largely pertains to his wife. They have all the money they want for themselves. They are genuinely happy people who have no desire for world travel or anything like that.”
“People to be envied,” Tibbs said.
“Agreed.”
A maid entered the room with a small box and a glass of water. McCormack took them, swallowed a pill, and handed them back. “What is your choice of refreshment?” he asked.
“Anything cold, if it isn’t too much trouble,” Virgil answered. He knew better than to refuse.
When the girl had left, Tibbs picked up the conversation. “Mr. McCormack, what I have to discuss with you now is confidential.”
“Very well.” The financier nodded.
“You are aware, of course, that there is apparently an even division of opinion among the surviving stockholders concerning the sale of the company.”
“Yes. Mrs. Pratt and Mr. Peterson want to sell; Mr. Holt-Rymers and I are opposed to the idea.”
“Do you know how Dr. Roussel would have voted?”
“I do. He would have opposed the sale.”
“Is this your opinion, sir, or are you stating a known fact?”
“I am stating a known fact. Dr. Roussel wrote to me privately on the matter. I can produce the letter, if you wish.”
Virgil Tibbs felt a great sense of relief; one important fact had been pinned down. He kept his face composed with an effort when he spoke. “For the present, at least, your statement is quite sufficient. Now, another matter. When I called on her, Mrs. Pratt told me that she and Dr. Roussel were to have been married shortly after the stockholders’ meeting. Might that have changed Dr. Roussel’s view of the matter?”
McCormack sat suddenly erect. “I don’t believe it,” he said emphatically. “I’m not questioning your statement, but I can’t accept Joyce’s that she and Albert were to have been married. At one time, many years ago, Albert was quite fond of her—a sort of collegiate puppy-love affair. Later on he completely outgrew that sentiment and she remained, at the most, a friend. She helped organize and finance the company because she knew a good thing, but it was strictly a business matter.”
“You would say, then, that Mrs. Pratt was lying to me?” Tibbs asked.
McCormack answered without flinching, “I can’t interpret it any other way. If Albert had any such ideas, he would have let me know since it concerned the company. I might say,” he added, “that Dr. Roussel and I were a lot closer than many people knew, Mrs. Pratt included.”
The maid re-entered with a tray, which she set beside Tibbs. On it were two Pilsner-type glasses and two plain ones filled with ice, a choice of two imported brands of beer, and an assortment of four bottled soft drinks. When Virgil indicated a lemon-lime mix, she uncapped it and poured it into an iced glass. In deference to his guest McCormack made a similar choice and then waited until they were once more alone.
“Mr. Peterson?” Tibbs asked, knowing he would be understood.
“A brash and careless opportunist. He had an early success based entirely on his football fame; then the going got rougher. He advised several clients badly and they lost money. He came with us after meeting Joyce Pratt at a party and falling a little under her spell. That is, assuming she has one, which is open to question.”
“In my case, definitely,” Tibbs agreed. “Is Mr. Peterson married?”
“Yes, but I believe he is now involved in divorce proceedings.”
“Recently instituted?” Tibbs asked with interest.
“Yes, although the trouble dates back a few years, I understand.”
“Do you consider Mr. Peterson to be truthful and reliable in his statements?”
“I’m afraid I think he would say whatever he felt would do him the most good.”
“Do you know why he went to Europe about three months ago?”
“He said business, but I know of no business he has that would involve him in such a trip.”
“At the risk of appearing irrelevant, where do you customarily hold your board meetings, or other business conferences?”
“Here. Possibly out of respect for my senior status. I send my car for Mrs. Pratt. The others come by themselves.”
Tibbs sipped at his drink. His throat was dry from talking. “You have been most helpful,” he said when he was finished. “Have you any idea who killed Dr. Roussel?”
McCormack leaned back in his chair and thought for a full half minute. “No,” he said finally. “I have a suspicion, but it is an unfair one and I have no evidence whatsoever to support it.”
Virgil took a final drink from his glass and rose to his feet. “If it becomes necessary or desirable, Mr. McCormack, for me to see you again, may I phone you?”
McCormack looked at him evenly. “Of course you can. I am assuming, Mr. Tibbs, that like everyone else you regard my seclusion as arbitrary. Allow me to assure you that it is not.” He stopped and tasted his own drink.
“I keep very much to myself because it has been forced on me. My wife is dead. We had no children. I have no living relatives, as far as I know. I do have a substantial financial holding and this is the source of my difficulty.”
He paused, but Tibbs did not interrupt.
“You would never believe the extent to which I have been plagued by requests and demands for money. Some were worthy, of course, but others were totally selfish. The fact that I am getting old and have no heirs has focused attention on me. People have pushed their way into my home and have even invaded my bedroom at night. I have been subjected to every artifice and subterfuge imaginable; I could write a definitive treatise on human greed. It is unlimited, Mr. Tibbs, and it is sometimes absolutely conscienceless. It will betray anyone and will even resort to murder, as I fear you know all too well. My only defense has been to shut myself away from everyone and forgo the normal pleasures that lie outside my gate. I am well taken care of here and I have provided generously for my staff, although I have not told them so.”
Virgil listened, taking in the full meaning of McCormack’s words. When the older man had finished, Tibbs said, “Thank you for your help. As far as I am able, I’ll respect your privacy. Understanding your reasons, let me say that I don’t think I would care to trade with you. Even if I could—in all respects.”
McCormack understood. “Yo
ur day is coming,” he said. “The restrictions that have been imposed on your people are vanishing, as they must. And you wouldn’t wish to trade your years for mine.”
McCormack rose and for the first time came out from behind his desk. He walked toward Tibbs with a curious stiffness; Virgil glanced at his feet and saw the unbroken smoothness of the shoes that had never been flexed. “Please don’t—” he began.
McCormack waved him to silence. “I lost my legs more than fifty years ago and I have done very nicely without them ever since.” He came over and shook hands. “A railroad train cut them off. I invested the settlement I received and was very fortunate. At such a price I bought my independence.”
Virgil drove home with a curious mixture of emotions. He realized that though he had been warned to expect a ruthless aristocrat, he liked Walter McCormack and for that reason, as well as others, hoped that the financier had been telling him the truth.
chapter 13
Shortly after nine the following morning, which was Saturday, Walter McCormack personally made a long-distance telephone call. A few minutes thereafter his comfortable, air-conditioned black Cadillac purred down his private drive, swung through the gateway, and turned eastward. Almost two hours later it pulled up smoothly under Brown’s expert guidance in the driveway of Pine Shadows Lodge. The chauffeur held the rear door open while the owner emerged. Then, for more than an hour and a half, the financier conferred with Ellen Boardman and her parents.
When the meeting was over, Ellen left McCormack talking with her parents and, pushing open the front door of the lodge, stepped out into the shade of the tall trees. She shook her head and automatically brushed the sides of her hair back into place. She seemed to be almost unaware of her surroundings. She was realizing that being rich didn’t fit into her own picture of her life at all.
It had been impressed upon her that the responsibility had been given to her and she must assume it: there was no doubt that she would have to deal with it. Walter McCormack had offered to guide and assist her, but she still felt quite unprepared for the role of heiress.