The Girl, the Gold Watch and Everything (6 page)

"Don't leap like that, dear one," she said.

"I was just—"

"So naughty," she crooned. "Getting so squiffed. Lying to me. You shouldn't lie to me. You did see Betsy."

"For a minute." He hesitated. "Where my clothes?"

"Right here on the floor, sweet. After we got you up here and you passed out here on the deck, you felt so sweaty and hot and miserable, I took them off."

"Oh."

"I'm really very angry with you. You don't know who your real friends are, do you?"

"I don't feel very good."

"Of course you don't! And you haven't acted very well. Just rest now. You've spoiled it all for us, for tonight. Didn't you know you were spoiling things for your Charla?"

"I didn't know it was—"

"Did you think I'd be so vulgar as to make an appointment? I'm a woman, darling. Maybe there'll be another night. Maybe not. Who can say?"

"The liquor hit me."

The fingertips closed his eyelids, then moved gently across his lips. "Maybe you were exhausted, dear. Maybe poor, stringy, little Betsy used all your resources."

"No! We just sat in a hotel and talked."

"Her hotel?"

"No. Just a hotel. In the lobby."

"And you listened to that poor crazed mind and began to doubt us. Where is she staying, dear?"

"An apartment."

"Do you know the address?"

"She didn't tell me."

"Don't you think you've done enough lying for one night?" w "Really, she didn't tell me. She said she'd get in touch."

"She knows you've moved here?"

"Yes."

"And when she does get in touch with you, you'll let me know, won't you, lover. Immediately."

"Oh yes. I'll do that, Charla."

She sighed. He felt the perfumed warmth of her exhalation against his face. "You have put me off, you know. Just a little. I told you, I have to be a little more than half in love. I think I was. But not now."

"I'm sorry. Please forgive me."

She held his head, eased herself out from under him and lowered his head to the woven plastic of the sun cot. She stood beside the cot for a moment looking down at him. Because of the darkness of the night, he was just able to keep from making some violent, ludicrous concession to modesty.

"I'll try to forgive you, darling. But you really must be very good from now on. I must leave you now."

The remembered mouth came slowly down upon his, flexing, changing, with soft heated movements. His arms went around her without volition, holding her with an increasing strength until suddenly he made a great Hoo-Aah sound and leaped like a stung horse, galvanized by the sudden, shocking, forceful, momentary grasp. She pulled free and, from the doorway into the room, laughed in a gentle mocking way, and was gone.

He lay quivering under the stars, then went in and had an icy shower, and left a call for nine o'clock. It was a few minutes before three. He found a switch for the deck light and picked up his clothes. After he sorted them out and hung them up, he turned off the deck light and went out again into the April night to sit on the wide concrete wall at the end of the deck, sit naked on the abrasive texture, his back against the solidity of the hotel, knees flexed, forearms on his knees, hands slack, cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He could look to his left and straight down, down past architectural solutions, straight down through an obscured and dizzy vista to a tiled death below.. He could look straight out at a night-dark sea and sense the slow pulse of the swells and the tides. He could look to his right and see the few highlights of the aseptic sun cot, a prop in a play now over. The wind was fresher, almost cool enough to be uncomfortable. His heart rapped a little too fast, and he had a dull headache. But these physical stigmata were minor compared with his emotional trauma. Charla, with a single vulgar tweak, had reduced him to clownishness, had turned consternation into farce, had shown, symbolically, her ability to destroy his pride, dignity and manhood at her option.

He thought sourly of all the should-have-done things. Another man, a real man, might well have burst from the couch with a roar of rage at such playful violation of privacy, grasped her, swung her onto the couch and ravished her there, under the stars, a fitting punishment for impertinence. (But maybe that was really what she was asking of him!)

He wondered what, long ago, had created this incapacity to deal with people like Charla. He looked out at the sea and wondered why he should be afraid of anything, of anyone. The sea went on, and the shore people changed, but there were stars so lasting that the sea itself was smaller than the life of one man in comparison. Compared to the sea, compared to the stars, of what moment was one snatch of the fishwife hand, one small humiliation, on one night, for one man?

He thought of her hands, small, strong, quite square-looking, beautifully kept, the nails long and curving, the pads of the palms prominent.

He groaned and snapped his cigarette toward the sea and went to bed.

Chapter Five

The executive conference room was sixteen stories above the street, with a huge window framing the bay, a segment of causeway and distant pastel confections of hotels out on the beach. The decor was lime and white, and the big round table and the captains' chairs were lusterless black.

There were eight men at the table. D. LeRoy Wintermore sat at Kirby's left. At his right was a square, pale, motionless fellow named Hilton Hibber, representing the trust department of the bank named executor in Omar Krepps' will. The other five men were Krepps Enterprises executives. They depressed Kirby. They always had. He could not tell them apart. They all had names like Grumby and Groombaw and Gorman. They all had snowy linen, gold accessories and an air of reverence. And they all had big fleshy faces weathered to a look of distinction, perfect governors on television dramas.

And he had always found their general attitude tiresome. They seemed to resent the frivolity of the decision to have the main offices in Miami. And somehow they had pigeonholed Omar Krepps as being a rather ludicrous eccentric, a little man who complicated their grave chores by hopping around picking up odd bits and pieces of businesses which they then had to fit into the measured structure of empire. And they had never tired of trying to tuck O.K. Devices into the fold. In far countries Kirby had always been getting little multicolored forms with small holes in them and blanks for him to fill out. Uncle Omar had told him to ignore them and he did. But they kept trying, and sometimes they would write him sad scolding letters.

The middle one called the meeting to order and said, "Let me recap the terms of Mr. Krepps' will, gentlemen. All the assets of the estate are to be turned over to the Omar Krepps Foundation. Krepps Enterprises will be slowly liquidated over a period of time as its holdings in other corporations are transferred. We five executives of K.E. become officers and directors of the Foundation, in addition to our continuing corporate duties. It has occurred to us, Mr. Winter, that it would be fitting that you should be connected with the Foundation in some active capacity. We are mindful of the fact that Mr. Krepps left you no money in his will. We shall need an executive secretary for the Foundation, and we are prepared to offer you a salary of twenty-five thousand dollars a year."

"I haven't asked for anything," Kirby said.

The five looked sternly at him. "You are unemployed, are you not?" the spokesman asked.

"At the moment."

"Gentlemen!" said D. LeRoy Wintermore suavely. "You are giving me and my client here the impression some deal is underway. But we cannot properly assess its merits until we know what you expect of him."

"Your client?" the spokesman asked, "Isn't that a conflict of interest?"

"No indeed," the old man said.

Hilton Hibber cleared his throat. "Perhaps I can shed some light. In going over the summary records for tax purposes, I find that over the past eleven years, some twenty-seven million dollars in cash and liquid assets have been drained from the asset structure of K.E. and turned over to O.K. Devices. Inasmuch as all taxes were paid on this money, Internal Revenue took no particular interest in it. But O.K. Devices was entirely owned by Omar Krepps. And now they wish to consider that twenty-seven million part of the estate. If they do, scraping up the tax money on that amount would gut the structure of K.E. and reduce the scope of the Foundation seriously. The current books of O.K. Devices were turned over to me. They were maintained by Miss Wilma Farnham, who, aside from Mr. Winter, was the only other employee of O.K. Devices. The books show a current asset value of four hundred dollars. There are no notes payable or receivable, no accounts payable or receivable." He hesitated and took out a white handkerchief and wiped his face, though the conference room was cool. "In fact, there are no records at all, aside from the depreciation account on office equipment."

"And we know why there are no records," the spokesman said in a strangled tone. "Miss Farnham claims she was following Mr. Krepps' instructions. She hired a truck and helpers, and on the day following the death of Mr. Krepps, she took all the files and records to a remote area and burned them. She stacked them, poured kerosene on them, and burned them, by God!"

"Most unfortunate," Mr. Wintermore murmured.

"Furthermore," Mr. Hibber said, "the Revenue people will assume this was done to conceal the location of the hidden assets. Obviously they will eventually subpoena both Miss Farnham and Mr. Winter in an attempt to extract information regarding these assets. So I suggest that—uh—cooperation at this point on the part of Mr. Winter might be beneficial to all."

Everyone looked at Kirby Winter. "Let me understand this," he said. "You're in a tax jam. You don't know what I've been doing for the past eleven years, and you are dying to know. If I explain what I've been doing and what happened to the twenty-seven million dollars, then I get a nice reward of an undemanding job for Me."

The spokesman smiled. "Badly stated, of course. But if you should refuse the offer, you can't blame us for suspecting that some of this missing money might be—diverted to your private account."

"That statement is slanderous, sir," Wintermore said tartly.

The spokesman shrugged. "Perhaps. But we're all realists here. We have to protect ourselves."

Kirby leaned back in his chair and studied the intent faces. "You just want to know where all that money is, huh?"

He saw six eager nods, six pairs of glittering eyes.

He smiled at them. "It's gone."

"Gone!" It was a sound of anguish.

"Sure. I gave it all away."

Consternation turned immediately to indignation. The spokesman said, "This is hardly the time for frivolous responses, Winter. Mr. Krepps was eccentric. But not that eccentric." He leaned forward and struck the table with his fist. "Where is that money?"

"I gave it away," Kirby said. "You asked me. I told you. I gave it away."

"My client has given you his answer," Wintermore said.

"In view of Mr. Winter's attitude, I see little point in continuing this meeting," the spokesman said. "His attitude is not unlike Miss Farnham's attitude. Obviously they are agreed not to co-operate with us. May I ask your plans, Mr. Winter?"

"I might go on a cruise."

"With twenty-seven million dollars?" Hibber asked in a cold voice.

"I never carry more than fifty dollars in cash."

"Where do you keep the rest of it?"

"I gave it all away." He leaned to his right and whispered to the elderly attorney.

Wintermore straightened up and said, "As the only living relative, my client is entitled to whatever personal papers and documents Mr. Krepps left here."

All five executives looked uncomfortable. "He left a case of documents in the vault here," the spokesman explained. "When we were faced with—this problem, we examined them. It would seem to be—some sort of a joke. The case contains fifty or so pounds of texts and pamphlets on jokes and magic. Decks of marked cards. Handkerchief tricks. Interlocking rings. The old man was—rather strange you know. The case is back in the vault—any time you care to send for it."

On the taxi ride back to Wintermore's office, the old man was silent and thoughtful. When they were in his private office, he began to make a strange sound. Kirby looked at him with alarm. Wintermore's face was dark. Suddenly Kirby realized the old lawyer was laughing.

"Oh dear, oh dear," Wintermore said. "Forgive me. I have added up all the little clues in a long friendship. Oh dear. Yes indeed. There is no other answer. You did give the money away."

"That's what I told them."

"But you see, they can never believe it. It is a concept so monstrous, they rebel at it. Omar delighted in practical jokes. And this is the biggest practical joke in financial history. Wherever he is, he is laughing as helplessly as I am. Those p-poor earnest fellows! And I am sure Miss Farnham was following his instructions when she burned the records." Wintermore blew his nose and stood up and said, "I'll get your watch."

"Doesn't the will have to be probated or something first?"

"Not for keepsakes, Kirby."

Wintermore came back in a few moments with a fat, old-fashioned, gold pocket watch on a worn chain. The watch was running and on time. On the other end of the chain was a charm in the shape of a little gold telescope. Kirby looked at the watch and then he looked through the telescope, turning it toward the windows. The light illuminated a little interior scene done with photographic realism. Kirby gasped and stared and then looked questioningly at Wintermore.

"My dear fellow, your uncle did not care to live with a woman. But that does not mean he found them entirely useless. He was a man, even as you and I."

"I feel as if I never knew him at all."

"He was not an easy man to know."

"He always seemed—impatient with me, as if I was a disappointment."

Wintermore leaned back in his leather armchair. "He didn't say much about you, Kirby, but when he did I detected a certain amount of anxiety. It was as if he was terribly anxious that you should be ready. As if some great trial or task would eventually be given you. I wouldn't say he faulted you for diligence or imagination. But he seemed to be waiting, with decreasing patience, for you to stand on your own two feet."