The Proprietor's Daughter

by Lewis Orde

  Soon, the need for their haste became obvious. Catarina was expecting a baby, but it was a pregnancy she was fated to complete in tragic circumstances. A month short of full term, she and Roland were involved in a car accident. Catarina’s head hit the dashboard. She lost consciousness. Doctors diagnosed a massive cerebral hemorrhage, caused by the bursting of an aneurysm at the base of Catarina’s brain. Her condition deteriorated, and Roland was faced with a terrifying choice — try to save the child and almost certainly lose the mother, or continue fighting for the mother and probably lose both. Staring numbly at the doctors, he forced his mouth to form the words “Save the child.”

  Half an hour after the baby girl was delivered through cesarean section, Catarina died.

  Roland gave his daughter two names: Katherine after her mother, and Elizabeth after his own mother. He would have more children, in relationships that were doomed not to last. A son and daughter by a woman with whom he lived for several years and who eventually married someone else; another son, by his second wife, a Frenchwoman, who took the boy to live in Paris after the marriage collapsed. But he would never feel as close to them as he did to Katherine. She meant so much more to him than any other child ever could. She was the living link to Catarina, the fruit of what he was certain would forever remain the single great love of his life. And the black-and-white photograph he kept on the drawing-room mantelpiece was his favorite pictorial memory of the time with Catarina. Their relationship had still been carefree then. Her father, unaware of the depth of their feeling, had not yet tried to terminate it.

  “Every time I’ve ever made a wish,” Katherine said, “it’s been the same one — that she were still here.”

  “Your wishes echoed mine.” Roland wrapped an arm around his daughter’s shoulders and squeezed fondly. “You and your mother would have got on like a house on fire, provided you both saw eye-to-eye on everything. She had a will of iron. Death was the only foe she couldn’t get the better of.”

  Katherine rested her head against her father’s arm. She understood how full of contrasts this day was for him. The happiness of his daughter’s birthday coupled with the anguish generated by the anniversary of his wife’s death.

  “The only thing that stopped me from throwing a rope over the nearest tree that day,” Roland murmured, “was you.”

  Katherine shuddered. “Please don’t talk like that.”

  “Kathy, darling, you saved my life. If you hadn’t been there, if I hadn’t had you to worry about . . .” His voice trailed away as another scene was triggered by this day. The memory of a final confrontation with Ambassador Menéndez, the two men fighting in a court of law over the right to bring up Katherine. Roland had won custody of his daughter by beating down the ambassador’s charge that he was an unfit father, and then he’d continued to show what a loving father he was by raising the most beautiful and talented daughter any man could possibly want.

  At last, Katherine replaced the picture on the mantelpiece. She had inherited none of her mother’s gypsy looks. Her own fairness, Roland had told her, came from his mother. Too bad there were no photographs for Katherine to see, to compare; they had all been destroyed when the house had been bombed.

  Franz arrived a few minutes before eight. They sat down to eat, Roland at the head of the long table in the dining room, his daughter and son-in-law on either side of him. Arthur Parsons formally served the meal of vichyssoise and poached salmon, which his wife had prepared.

  “What’s the latest news from the house I built?” Roland asked his son-in-law.

  Franz chuckled at Roland’s description of the Eagles Group. He might have resigned as chairman three years earlier and sold his shares, but he could never forget that he had been the driving force behind the success of the corporation which still carried his name. Franz kept Roland abreast of all developments before they reached the financial pages. “We are contemplating some further expansion in the States.”

  “The Biwell shops?” Roland asked, referring to a chain of discount appliance stores along the East Coast.

  “Yes. The opportunity has arisen to acquire a similar group of stores in the Midwest. Sometime in the near future, we shall be meeting with our American lawyers.”

  Katherine glanced at her father, saw the gleam in his eyes. “You wish you were a part of it, don’t you?”

  “Do I?” Roland seemed amused by his daughter’s assumption.

  “I can see you do. You’re sitting there with your tongue hanging out at the very mention of a major takeover. You miss the life, don’t you? What you’re left with isn’t enough.”

  Roland set down his knife and fork and looked along the length of the table to the French windows leading out to an immaculately maintained back garden. “What I have now — the three Adler’s stores and Eagle Newspapers Limited — runs itself very well. I might attend meetings, spend time in offices, but I’m not really necessary to the workings of those companies. I make the motions, that’s all. It’s like” — he looked from one young face to the other, uncertain that they would be able to understand — “when a child grows up. A father is still a father, but what function does he really have to perform? He can advise, perhaps, but his child is an adult now and no longer really needs any help.”

  “You sound like an echo of Sally earlier today,” Katherine said. “I referred to the way things had been during her day, and she jumped down my throat. Seems I was trying to retire her before she was good and ready. Now you’re regretting having retired yourself.”

  “The scourge of the middle-aged,” Roland joked. “Constantly searching for proof of one’s usefulness.”

  “I’ve got a way for you to be useful.” Without mentioning that she would be spending time at Archie Waters’s home, Katherine spoke of the assignment she’d taken on. “Before I left the office tonight, I did some research on Cadmus Property Company, the building’s owners. I’d guessed that they’d be some small and nasty firm looking for a fast killing, but it turns out that they’re owned by one very big and very respectable corporation, Saxon Holdings.”

  Roland whistled in surprise. “The Wunderkind . . . that was John Saxon’s nickname when he started Saxon Holdings fifteen years ago. Made himself a millionaire by the time he was twenty-five. Moved property around like he was playing Monopoly. Whatever he bought, he always had another buyer for — at a much better price. His secret in those days was buying without ever risking a penny of his own money. Now, of course, he buys for the longer term.”

  “What’s John Saxon like, as a person?”

  “I only met him once, ten years ago. We sat together on some government panel. As I recall, he was exactly what you’d expect a Wunderkind to be. Effusive, charming, perfectly capable of selling freezers in Alaska during January, and central heating in the Congo during the middle of August.” Roland paused while Arthur Parsons removed the dinner plates and refilled the wineglasses from a bottle of Meursault. “From that one meeting, I don’t think I’m really qualified to say what John Saxon’s like. But I can certainly tell you what he is not like. He is not the kind of man to harass a tenant who’s probably paying minimal rent to begin with. Saxon Holdings, Kathy, owns commercial property on the best streets. Luxury residential buildings in Mayfair and Knightsbridge. I would not have thought they’d own a rundown block of flats in some place like Islington. But even if they do, they are not going to risk their good reputation by criminally driving out tenants just to turn a fast profit. Be very careful before you link a man like John Saxon with such a thing.”

  “Do you think it could be happening without Saxon knowing?” Franz asked.

  Roland considered the question. “I suppose it’s possible. The brigadier doesn’t always know what every corporal in the brigade is up to.”

  Katherine and Franz left the house at ten-thirty. After kissing her father good night, she held onto him and asked: “What are you going to do now, Daddy? Sit in the front room and remember?”

  Roland gave hi
s daughter a patient smile. “Can you think of a better way to commemorate this particular day? Kathy, I loved your mother more than I ever loved any woman, and she loved me just as passionately. Because of that, I believe that on this day each year, we can communicate with each other, reach out beyond whatever physical boundaries normally limit us and make contact.”

  Katherine blinked back a tear. It tore right through her to know that after twenty-six years her father remained as devoted to her mother as he had ever been. “Will you give her my love?”

  “I always do, darling.” Roland helped his daughter into the open sports car. “And she always sends you hers.”

  Franz’s Jaguar followed the Triumph Stag down the hill and through the village. After two traffic circles, the road widened into a divided highway. Franz accelerated. The luxury sedan glided past the sports car and pulled back into the inside lane. Katherine flashed her lights, and Franz responded with a clenched-fist victory salute.

  Katherine bit her lower lip. She glanced over her shoulder, changed down, and pulled out. The tachometer needle swung toward the red zone. When she changed up again, the Jaguar was once more positioned comfortably in her rearview mirror. Even her gesture of triumph was more dramatic — with no roof to impede it, her thrusting fist soared up toward the stars.

  They played leapfrog all the way home. Overtaking, cutting in front of each other, flashing headlights, waving fists, and laughing. Katherine knew she should have been cold with the roof down and the wind roaring past her ears, but excitement lent warmth to her body.

  Franz reached home first. Katherine came in right on his tail. They clambered out of their cars and embraced. “Thank God the police were busy elsewhere,” Katherine said. “Otherwise we’d both have spent the night in jail.”

  Still hugging each other, they entered the house. Belatedly, Katherine remembered the lateness of the hour. She raised a finger to her lips, and with exaggeratedly cautious steps they climbed the stairs. In their own room, Franz collapsed backwards onto the bed, arms outstretched, chest heaving with laughter. Katherine fell face-down on top of him.

  “You drive the same way you make love,” she told him “Like a wild man.”

  “I did not notice you observing speed limits.” He lifted his face to kiss her.

  “You make me so happy,” she said.

  “Not half as happy as you have made me.”

  They undressed and made love, exploring with sensations of wonder and surprise, feeling pleasure that after six years there was nothing false or automatic about their movements, nothing jaded about their passion for each other.

  Afterwards, as they lay spoon-in-spoon, hovering between wakefulness and slumber, Katherine said, “Remember that assignment I mentioned I was working on?”

  “The building owned by the company of the Wunderkind?”

  “I’m going to be staying there, a few hours every night. From early evening until around midnight.”

  Franz’s body stiffened. “What is the point of that?”

  “To get a firsthand feel for what’s going on.”

  “How many nights will you be doing this?”

  “As long as necessary.”

  “And the children? Who is supposed to look after the children while you get this feel for what is going on?”

  Katherine turned around to face Franz in the darkness. Although his voice was low, she sensed his displeasure. Franz had many traits that could be considered old-fashioned. In many areas, Katherine was old-fashioned herself. Except when it came to a woman having a career of her own. There, she and Franz differed totally. He could never understand that a woman would actually want to work. He believed that a married woman should work only if financial circumstances dictated it, and then the husband should be ashamed of himself for failing to be an adequate provider.

  “We have a very capable housekeeper,” Katherine said slowly. “Edna will look after the children for the few evenings I won’t be here.”

  “Edna is not the children’s mother. She was hired to run the house, not substitute for you.”

  “Damn it, Franz! Do I complain about those times you work late — even the times you have to go away? Do I accuse you of being a lousy father because of it?”

  “The work I do is important.”

  “What do you think mine is — a hobby? I help people with my work; what’s more important than that?”

  “But you do not need to do it.”

  “I do, Franz. I most certainly do!”

  “Why? Because of your father?”

  “What does he have to do with this?”

  “You are trying to prove yourself.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You are trying to prove that you can make as big an impact in the world as he did.”

  “That’s preposterous,” Katherine responded before turning around again, presenting her back to Franz. She had nothing to prove where her father was concerned. She was his daughter, not his son. Only sons had to fight their way out of their father’s shadow, like Franz had done in Germany. Embarrassing his father’s establishment values by joining Vietnam demonstrations outside American bases. Only Katherine would not bring that up, because Franz’s father was dead, and you let the dead rest.

  A minute passed where no word was spoken, no sound made. Then, “Katherine, I am sorry.”

  Franz’s arms snaked around her. She felt his body pressing, a growing hardness. Still angry, she ignored his overtures. But some of that anger was now directed inward, because Franz had touched raw nerves. If she’d been working on the Express, the Mail, or — God forbid! — Murdoch’s Sun, it would have been a job, nothing more. She would have completed her work professionally, and gone home in the evening. Working for her father was different. She had to prove something, not to her father but to her coworkers. She had to work twice as hard, achieve twice the results, just to be their equal. Nobody ever commented on the relationship — at least, not since seven years earlier when she’d put the show-business writer firmly in his place — but she knew that she was under constant scrutiny for any sign of nepotism.

  And maybe . . . just maybe . . . she was trying to prove something to herself as well. That she was her father’s daughter in more ways than just the color of her eyes and the shape of her jaw.

  Chapter Three

  KATHERINE BEGAN the assignment two days later, on the Wednesday. She left the Daily Eagle early that evening in the company of Archie Waters. Her car and any jewelry she customarily wore were back at home in Hampstead, along with her real identity. She was now Archie’s niece, up from South-end on the Essex coast, staying with her uncle while she found work in London. She wore a cotton print dress, low-heeled shoes, and a raincoat, which had been purchased at Marks and Spencer in Oxford Street. Even her hair was styled differently, pulled back in a ponytail that made her look barely twenty years old.

  Cadmus Court was a squat four-story building backing onto a small park. The approach from the main road was along a short street lined with neat attached houses, each boasting its own carefully groomed postage stamp of a garden. The effect of brightness and order was destroyed as Katherine drew close to Cadmus Court. The outside of the building was a dirty gray, badly in need of paint. Shrubbery was overgrown. The double gates leading to the small forecourt were hanging off their hinges. Beyond the gates were parked two battered, rusty vans.

  “Builders,” Archie explained as he walked across the forecourt. “Vans belong to the builders.” Even as he spoke, Katherine heard the high-pitched shriek of a power saw from somewhere within the building.

  Archie’s home was on the second floor. Katherine followed him up a flight of stairs and then picked her way along a narrow hallway strewn with building materials and garbage. Two young men in overalls came through the doorway of an empty apartment, struggling with an old bathtub. They dumped it right in front of Archie, forcing him to maneuver awkwardly around the obstacle.

  “Better watch where yo
u’re going, grandpa,” one of the men said. “Bath’s big enough to see, isn’t it?” Then, noticing Katherine, the builder rolled his eyes and whistled. Katherine saw Archie’s face whiten with barely suppressed fury. Twenty years earlier, he would have dulled the freshness of these two men by quick-marching them around the parade ground under full pack for a couple of hours. Now he was an elderly man who could do little but accept their insolence.

  Archie rang the bell at the next apartment. The door was opened by a boy in his middle teens.

  “This is my grandson, Brian.”

  Katherine said, “Hello” and smiled, trying hard not to show how put off she was by the first sight of Archie’s grandson. He was a clone of ten thousand other youths. Same clothes: jeans, sleeveless sweater over a striped shirt, heavy welted shoes. Same surly expression stamped across his face. The same belligerent challenge in his dark brown eyes.

  Archie’s voice was sharp. “Brian, where’s your manners? Invite the lady in; take her coat.”

  Scowling, Brian held out his hand. Katherine gave him her coat and entered. Archie showed her around — two bedrooms, large living and dining rooms, a bright kitchen overlooking the park at the rear of the building. He was particularly proud of a varnished display case affixed to the living-room wall. In it were decorations from Archie’s military service in World War II, Malaya, Korea, and Cyprus.

  Katherine ate with Archie and his grandson the pork chops the old man prepared. She was not surprised that Archie could cook; he did everything else. The instant the meal was finished, Brian pushed himself back from the table, stood up, and turned around. Archie rapped on the table with the pipe he had been about to light. “Haven’t you forgotten something, young man?”

  “Excuse me, please,” The request was forced, the words spoken grudgingly.

  “That’s better.” Archie watched the boy leave the room. A minute later, the front door slammed.

  Archie allowed Katherine to help him clean up, then they sat in the living room. “Is Brian still at school?” Katherine asked.