Death Trance (34 page)
Herbert drove out of the driveway and into the glare of the afternoon. 'Your doctor isn't going to be too pleased about this, Mr Clare,’ he commented as they headed towards the William B. Fowler Expressway.
'He's my doctor, not my mother,’ Randolph replied. He leaned forward, opened the cocktail cabinet and poured himself a large glass of Jack Daniel's. Then he opened the Swedish crystal cookie jar and helped himself to three of Mrs Wallace's finest. Herbert's eyes watched him in the rearview mirror. 'I tasted those when they came out of the oven. Some cookies, huh?’
'My secret weakness,’ Randolph chuckled.
He spent an hour out at Raleigh inspecting the rebuilt wintering plant. The factory was back at full production now, and Tim Shelby had it running twenty-four hours a day, with some of the men working double shifts.
'If we don't have any outside help, how long do you think it will take to make up the contract?’ Randolph asked as they sat in Tim's office after the inspection.
'Two months, maybe six weeks.’
'It seems to me you took a long time getting back into full production, nearly a week longer than you first predicted.’
'We had trouble with the valves. Neil had to get replacements for them in Germany. That took up most of the time.’
Randolph swilled his whisky around in his glass. Tim had a friend who gave him a dozen bottles of Chivas Regal every birthday, so there was always a good supply on hand for visiting dignitaries. Randolph asked, 'What exactly was the trouble?’
'I'm not sure. They kept blocking. Neil had one of the fitters from Woodstock working on them.’
'Why didn't your own fitters work on them?’
'Our own fitters were pretty much tied up replacing the pipework and the refrigeration unit.’
'Any trouble there?’ Randolph asked.
'No, sir, just with the valves.’
'Did you ever see the valves for yourself?’
Tim Shelby frowned. 'No, sir, I can't say I did. I'm not sure what you're trying to get at here.’
'I'm not sure either,’ Randolph said. 'Did you know the fitter who Neil brought over from Woodstock?’
'No, sir, he wasn't familiar to me personally.’
'Did any of your staff know him?’
'I'd have to check that out.’
Randolph finished his drink. 'Okay,’ he said. 'I know it's a chore, but would you check to see if any of your people recognized that fitter or knew his name. I'm going to Forest Hill now. I should be back home around four o'clock. Let me know if you've found out who he was.’
Tim Shelby stood up. 'I guess Neil would know who the fitter was. He drove him over from Woodstock himself.’
'Did he? Well, that was considerate of him.’
'I guess he just wanted to make sure we got the plant back into business as soon as possible.’
'Yes,’ Randolph said, 'I guess he did.’
Herbert drove him to Forest Hill Cemetery and there under a May sky that was almost purple, he bowed his head over the graves of Marmie and the children, graves that were still unmarked but that would eventually bear the names of Randolph's wife and the names he and she had so joyously written only a few short years ago on crisp white birth announcements.
He stood for almost ten minutes beside the graves, but after his experience in the Dutch Reform Cemetery in Denpasar, he felt that his gesture was oddly hollow. Marmie and the children no longer inhabited the bodies that lay beneath the ground, although they were here somewhere, maybe close by. He looked around at the rows of surrounding tombstones and wondered if Marmie and the children could see him, maybe even hear him'.
'Marmie?’ he said, clearing his throat. A Tennessee warbler landed suddenly on Marmie's wooden grave marker, ruffled its bright green back and sang
chip, chip, chip-chip-chip
at him.
'Marmie,’ Randolph repeated, 'if you can hear me at all, if you can see me, I want you to know that I haven't forgotten you for one single minute. I want you to know that I've discovered a way to see you again, to touch you again. It won't be long now, no more than a week, and then we'll be together.’
He swallowed. His throat was suddenly dry although his eyes were filled with tears.
'Marmie, listen to me. 1 love you.’
An old man in a fawn cotton suit and an old-fashioned skimmer suddenly appeared from behind a nearby monument. He stared at Randolph for a moment and then at the warbler perched on Marmie's grave.
'You trying to teach that little feller to talk?’ he inquired.
Randolph took out his handkerchief and blew his nose, shaking his head at the same time. The old man came closer and stood next to him, admiring the warbler as if it actually belonged to Randolph and was so well trained that it followed him around.
'He's a cute one, ain't he?’ he remarked.
'I guess.’
'You know what they say about songbirds that fly around cemeteries, don't you?’
Randolph found himself looking at the contrast between the old man's soft, withered neck and his crisp starched collar. 'No,’ he replied. 'What do they say?’
'They say that they sing all the songs that come rising out of the graves when the dead are buried. A song don't die, you see, like a human does. A song comes rising out of the grave and a bird catches it, that's what, and keeps it, to sing again. One day when all the human race is dead and there's nothing but birds left alive, all the beautiful music that was ever written and ever sung will still be heard because the birds will be singing it, although there won't be nobody to listen.’
He paused, sniffed and said, 'What you teaching it?’
Randolph shook his head. 'I'm not teaching it anything, I'm afraid. I only wish I could.’
He returned to the limousine. Herbert was waiting patiently, listening to the Memphis Chicks on the radio. He switched off the game as Randolph approached but Randolph asked, 'What's the score?’
'Hunsaker just struck out.’
'Get me Neil Sleaman on the phone, will you?’
'Sure thing.’
After a short while, Randolph was put through to Neil Sleaman's secretary, Janet. 'Is Neil not there?’ Randolph asked.
'No, sir, I'm sorry, sir. He called a taxi and went out. I don't know where he was going.’
'Janet, could you do me a great favour? Could you call the taxi company and ask where they dropped him off? Then call me back right away?’
'Yes, sir, for sure.’
Herbert started up the limousine. 'Where to, Mr Clare?’
'Home,’ Randolph said.
They had been driving for only three or four minutes, however, when the car telephone bleeped. Randolph picked it up and said, 'Janet?’
'Yes, sir. I just called the taxi company. They said that Mr Sleaman was taken to the Shelby Motel on Summer. He was met there by several other people. The taxi driver recognized Mr Orbus Greene's car, although he couldn't tell if Mr Orbus Greene was there or not. Apparently the car has darkened windows.’
Thank you, Janet. You're quite amazing.’
'My father-in-law used to work for the taxi company, sir.’
'That accounts for it. Send them a bottle of champagne on office expenses.’
'Yes, sir. Domestic or foreign?’
'They're taxi drivers, Janet, not gourmets.’
'Very well, sir, domestic.’
Randolph put down the phone and sat back with a feeling of bitter satisfaction. He had always hoped that Neil would be smarter than that, smart enough to realize that Clare Cottonseed was soon going to grow into one of the greatest names in international business circles and that he was going to grow along with it. Smart enough to understand that Randolph himself, for all of his friendliness and his willingness to trust people whom he probably shouldn't, had an underlying strength that rarely failed him, and a sense of his own value as unshakable as reinforced concrete.
He could only suppose that Neil had succumbed to Waverley Graceworthy's spurious air of Southern tradition and to the promise of payments far more generous than he deserved. It was ironic in a peculiar back-to-front way that Neil should have turned out to be just the kind of cheap wheeler-dealer that he looked like. If anything had given him away, it was those snappy suits and that bolo tie.
Herbert turned the limousine into the driveway of Clare Castle, and there, as Randolph had half-expected, was OGRE 1, Orbus Greene's long, black limousine.
Orbus spread his bulk over Randolph's three-cushion couch. He sat with his feet wide apart, yet they were surprisingly dainty feet for a man his size, and they were smartly encased in two-tone Oxfords of white and brown. His belly nestled in his lap like a schoolroom globe.
As he spoke, he devoured cookies almost continuously, his chubby pink hand moving back and forth from dish to mouth with the sort of flowing, practised gestures that reminded Randolph of a weaver.
'Well,’ he said, glancing up at Randolph from time to time, 'you think you've outsmarted us, don't you?’
'I think you've outsmarted yourselves,’ Randolph retorted, leaning back in his armchair, his eyes flickering from dish to mouth, watching Orbus eat.
T admit that young Neil has plenty to learn,’ Orbus told him. 'He should have realized that Mr Hunter was too valuable an asset for you to announce his whereabouts to a professional minion like himself. He should have realized you were testing him. It's his
manner,
you know. That's the problem with Neil. Too damned greasy by half. You always get the feeling that if you shake hands with him, you'll come away with your fingers all covered with hair oil.’
Randolph sat silent for a while and then stood up. He walked around to the back of the couch so Orbus would find it difficult to turn around and look at him.
'Why didn't you answer the proposal I made for the Cottonseed Association to help me meet the Sun-Taste contract?’
Orbus swallowed noisily. 'That was Waverley's decision.
You must understand, Randy, that Waverley wants your internal organs, and he wants them hanging out to dry on his front fence.’
'Why?’ Randolph demanded. 'Why so badly?’
'Who knows why? He always says it's personal. There isn't any question, though, that he was prepared to tolerate you while Clare Cottonseed was running at a loss, and he was prepared to accept you when you were running at a moderate profit. The existence of one reasonably successful independent company could only help encourage more business for everybody, that was what he used to say. But Sun-Taste was just too much success. If you could get and keep Sun-Taste, it would mean that you were becoming one of the big boys, like Brooks and Gamble's and Dillons. Brooks' last two quarters have been poor-to-disastrous, and so have Waverley's. Well, you know that for yourself. But let me tell you something: the day Waverley heard that Sun-Taste had decided on Clare Cottonseed, believe me, he was hysterical. I mean, he went ape.’
Randolph said nothing but walked around the couch until he was confronting Orbus again. 'So Waverley, for some mysterious personal reason -’
'As well as for a perfectly understandable business reason,’ Orbus interjected.
'All right then. But for some combination of reasons, mysterious and understandable, Waverley wants me eliminated. Not just bankrupted, but six feet under the ground.’
'That's what I've come to see you about,’ breathed Orbus. He picked up the last of the cookies and shoved it in his mouth.
'Would you like a few more?’ Randolph asked.
‘I shouldn't,’ Orbus said.
Randolph rang for Mrs Wallace and then said, 'Where's Neil now? Was he too embarrassed to come here with you?’
'You could say that, but I didn't really want him along. What I'm going to say to you now, I want to be private, and stay private.’
'Go on.’
'Well,’ Orbus wheezed, his voice more high-pitched than ever, 'it is my understanding that you have some sort of evidence that connects Waverley Graceworthy with Richard Reece, and Richard Reece with what happened to your family up in Canada.’
'You know about Reece?’
'Certainly I know about Reece. I've been complaining to Waverley about Reece ever since Waverley first employed him. Reece is a maniac. Reece has no morals at all, good or bad. If you tell him to push somebody's teeth down his throat, that's just what Reece does, and what's more, he waits for the teeth to go through that person's system and come out the other end so he can push them down twice just to show he's done a good job. There's a whole gang of them, all vets, all crazy. God only knows how Waverley got to know them, but they treat him like the Emperor Napoleon.’
Mrs Wallace knocked at the door and Randolph invited her in. He indicated the empty cookie dish and said gently, 'Mr Greene finds your cookies every bit as desirable as I do. Do you think he could have another batch?’
'There are twenty-four to the batch,’ said Mrs Wallace coldly.
Orbus heaved himself around and smiled at her. 'That's okay,’ he told her generously. 'I didn't want too many anyway.’
When Mrs Wallace had gone, Randolph said, 'The fire at Raleigh was definitely sabotage then?’
Orbus nodded.
'And what about my family?’
'They were supposed to be frightened, that's all. Threatened, tied up, robbed. The trouble was, Reece went bananas.’
'Why are you telling me this? You realize that you're implicating yourself in anything up to a dozen deaths? My family, Jimmy the Rib, the three men who died at Raleigh, I.M. Wartawa; who knows how many more?’ Randolph held his fists clenched tight to control himself.
Orbus suddenly asked, 'This room isn't wired for sound, is it?’
Randolph shook his head.
'All right then,’ Orbus said. 'I'm a tough businessman. You know that. I've been head of Brooks Cottonseed for as long as I can remember, and I was mayor of Memphis in the bad old days when this city was nothing but sweat and shit and niggers and gangsters with faces like cans of economy ham. I've done my share of grafting and I've done my share of bullying, and there are plenty of people who wouldn't mind seeing my substantial person floating in the Mississippi face down, along with the unborn babies and the dead dogs. I went along with Waverley when he was hiring Reece simply to lean on people, to hurry up payments and that kind of thing. I approved of that. Now and then one or two members of the Cottonseed Association would get out of line, politically or business-wise, and then Reece and his boys would go around and remind them where their allegiance ought to be. I didn't object to any of that. That's necessary, that kind of enforcement, in this city, even today, even with it all smartened up. But when Waverley went after you, he must have told Reece something a hell of a lot different from what he told
me
he'd said because I don't approve of killing, not anybody, certainly not for the sake of business, and I especially don't approve of killing innocent women and children who don't have anything to do with what their husbands or fathers might have been playing at. I'm a Christian, Randy, you know that; and while there might be no particular commandment against intimidation, there sure as hell is one against murder, which is exactly the name of the game that Waverley's been up to.’
Randolph listened to Orbus with a gradually growing coldness. He had thought alter the funeral that if he could find out
why
Marmie and the children had died, somehow his mind would become more settled and he would be able to accept their deaths more easily. But now that he knew Waverley Graceworthy had ordered them killed for nothing more meaningful than a margarine contract, he felt a frigid rage that seemed to crystallize the structure of his bones and turn his skull into aching ice.
Orbus sensed Randolph's shock and he tried to be sympathetic.
'Listen to this, Randy. Waverley found out from Reece and his boys what you were doing in Indonesia. At first he ordered you killed, both you and this Michael Hunter. I don't know how you managed to get away; Reece was the only witness and you can't say that Reece is exactly the world's greatest raconteur. But whatever… Waverley knows that you can go into some kind of trance where you can talk to people who are dead. He also knows that you need Michael Hunter to help you do it. He's worried that you're going to get Michael Hunter to help you talk to Marmie and that Marmie is going to put the finger on Reece and give you some clues that might just stand up in court.’
Randolph nodded and said huskily, 'Well, that's exactly it. The death trance is real. I've experienced it for myself. You see, I've got plenty of circumstantial evidence, even though one of my witnesses was killed -’
'That black guy? Jimmy the Rib?’
'That's right. But if it comes down to it,
you
can substantiate Waverley's connection with Reece now. That's if you're willing to testify. And all I need do then is to go into another death trance, find Marmie and see what she remembers about the night she was murdered.’
Orbus looked up as the door opened and Mrs Wallace came in with a fresh dish of cookies. 'You're a lady,’ he told her and shook out his handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his face. Mrs Wallace pinched in her cheeks and walked out again without a word. She obviously thought that to offer her cookies to Orbus Greene was the culinary equivalent of throwing pearls before swine.
Orbus resumed eating. 'Obviously, I'd prefer
not
to testify,’ he told Randolph with his mouth full. 'In fact, one of the reasons I'm talking to you now is because I don't want my name mixed up in any of this. If Waverley wants to behave like a homicidal maniac, is that my fault? But, well, let's see how things go. Reece might confess. He can write even if he can't speak. And there has to be somebody, somewhere, who knows that Waverley has been paying Reece for services over and above normal friendly conversations, somebody who might testify instead of me.’
Randolph was going to say something caustic to Orbus about his cowardice but decided against it. Any man who could allow himself to grow to Orbus's size and unashamedly sit and cram cookies into his mouth while he was discussing brutal homicide was obviously far beyond shame. All that Orbus was holding onto now was his blurry sense of right and wrong. It was all right to threaten, but it was wrong to kill. Perhaps Orbus could sense that his heavily laboured heart was close to the end of its efforts and wanted to die redeemed. Randolph did not know, and did not much care either. The only people who would mourn the passing of Orbus Greene would be the proprietors of Memphis's restaurants.
Randolph asked, 'How about a glass of Madeira to swill those cookies down?’
'Well, you don't hear me arguing,’ replied Orbus. Randolph went over to the cabinet and came back with a brimming glass of dark dessert wine; Orbus tasted it and then gulped it down.
'What were you doing at Shelby's Motel?’ Randolph wanted to know.
Orbus wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. 'What I was doing at Shelby's Motel was expecting to collect Michael Hunter.’
'But?’
'Well, you know for yourself, don't you? He wasn't there. Somebody had booked a room in his name - it was you, wasn't it? - but nobody ever checked in. Of course Neil panicked. He realized then that you had set him up.
It would have been funny if it hadn't been so pitiful.’
Orbus ate another two cookies and then said, 'You probably won't believe this, but I've been telling you the truth up until now - even so far as it casts no credit on me - so there's every reason for you to give me the benefit of the doubt. The reason Neil and I went to collect Michael Hunter was to keep him safe from Waverley.’
'Go on,’ Randolph said in a noncommittal voice.
'Waverley, you see, had given special instructions to Reece that Michael Hunter had to be taken alive. Waverley had changed his mind from the time when he wanted him dead. Mind you, he hasn't changed his mind about
you,
he still wants
you
dead. Anyway, Neil and I could think of only one reason Waverley would want to keep Michael Hunter alive, and that was to force him to take Reece into one of these special trances so he could deal with Marmie. You know, deal with her for good and all. You have to believe me, Randy, that man wants to see you buried. Don't ask me why. But I have only to whisper the name "Randolph Clare" within ten feet of that man and he starts to shake like a rabid schnauzer. He hates you like
hell.’’
Randolph said, 'Let me get this straight. You and Neil were going to "collect" Michael Hunter just so Waverley couldn't get him?’
Orbus gave an undulating shrug. 'I'm not discussing motives here, Randy.’
'What you really mean is, you were thinking of playing us both off, Waverley and me, using Michael Hunter as a hostage.’
'This is business, Randy. In business you have to take every opportunity that presents itself.’
'Except that
this
opportunity turned out to be a bluff, and you and Neil Sleaman were left with egg on your face and your pants around your ankles. And now you've come to me sniveling for sympathy and babbling about commandments and Christianity. God Almighty, Orbus, if you really had any guts, why didn't you come and tell me about Reece as soon as you heard that Marmie was dead? Why didn't you warn me then? Reece nearly killed me in Bali. How many tears would you have managed to squeeze out of those fat eyes of yours if Reece had succeeded? If they'd flown me home in a box? How Christian would you have felt about Marmie then? All you're worried about now is your own guilty implication in Waverley's madness and the fact that Michael Hunter and I might very well bring back the evidence that will put you right where you belong, in the state penitentiary.’