He Huffed and He Puffed (9 page)

“You've had that stock for less than a year. I understand you accepted it as payment from a shipper whose account had gotten out of hand?”

Bruce's left eyebrow raised a fraction.
None of your damned business
, the eyebrow said.

“You'll make a profit if you sell to me now,” Strode went on.

“Yes, I'm aware of that, but I think I'll hold on to the shares.”

“Even when I tell you I plan to shut House of Glass down?”

“Even so. You can't shut down without my shares.”

It struck Strode that Bruce already knew about his plans; he wasn't surprised to hear of the intended shutdown and he needed no time to think it over before he replied. The shipowner had been doing a little checking of his own; Strode wondered what else the man knew about him. Right there and then he abandoned any further attempt at gentlemanly persuasion. “Castleberry?”

Still standing, Castleberry juggled his briefcase and took out a large manila envelope which he laid on top of the printouts on Bruce's desk. “You'll want to take a look at this, Mr. Bruce.”

Bruce kept his eyes on Strode a moment. Then he sat down at his desk and slowly picked up the envelope. Inside was a copy of Estelle Rankin's statement and a copy of her husband's last letter; the latter had been inserted into the original envelope. Bruce read the letter first. When he came to the signature, he lifted his eyes to Strode and asked, “Harry?”

“Harry Rankin,” Castleberry answered for Strode. “The first mate on the
Burly Girl.”

Bruce turned over the envelope and looked at the address.

“She's not there anymore,” Castleberry said hurriedly. “And she has a new name.”

Bruce gave a barely perceptible nod, as if expecting something like that. He read Mrs. Rankin's statement through twice. “She's willing to swear to this in court?”

“Yes, she is,” Castleberry answered. “Would you like a notarized letter from her saying so?”

Bruce ignored him and went back to read parts of the statement again; he'd not once looked at Castleberry the whole time. After a few moments Bruce put the papers back in the manila envelope. “So. Because of someone who used to be named Estelle Rankin, I must sell you my shares in House of Glass? Is that it?”

“That's about the size of it,” Strode said. “Let's keep it friendly, Bruce. A quick deal and we'll be out of each other's hair.”

“Oh no, it's not as simple as that. It also involves making an enemy.”

That didn't bother Strode. “I make enemies every day of my life. You're just today's.”

Bruce looked amused. “Oh, that's the way it is, is it? I'm merely a minor obstacle to be dealt with, of temporary significance only. I see you have no use for subtlety. Don't bother trying to intimidate me, Strode—that never works in this office. I ask you to think again before proceeding with this.”

“Not necessary. I want those shares and I will have them.”

“We have nothing to do with each other, Strode—let's keep it that way. It'll be to your benefit as well as mine. I'll buy that letter from you. Fifty thousand.”

Strode looked annoyed. “You know damn well House of Glass is worth a lot more to me than that. Why are you so determined to hang on to those shares?”

“I don't give a hoot about House of Glass, other than as a minor investment. But I care even less for the thought that what's mine can be so easily stripped away from me.”

“Better get used to the idea, then, because that's exactly what's going to happen. You're no fool, Bruce. You know I'll use that letter against you if you block me. I'm not just blowing smoke. I'll
get
you. I'll send you to the gas chamber and not lose any sleep over it.”

Bruce's eyes narrowed. “Yes,” he said slowly, drawing it out, “you would do that, wouldn't you?” The words
you bastard
hung unspoken in the air.

Then Bruce stood up and moved over to the window overlooking the West Basin; there was no carpeting on the floor, but still he made no noise when he walked. Castleberry retrieved the envelope Harry Rankin's letter had come in and put it back in his briefcase, leaving the rest of the papers on the desk.

They waited.

At last Bruce turned from the window. The other men could see no change in him; his facial expression told them nothing. He looked straight at Strode and said softly, “It seems you have me.”

Castleberry looked relieved; Strode did not. “It's a straightforward business deal,” the latter said. “You have something I want, I have something you don't want made public. A swap.”

“What guarantee do I have you won't use those papers against me anyway?”

“None, other than my assurances.” Strode tried his lupine smile and got no response. “Look, Bruce, I'm not interested in doing the police's work for them. The originals will be yours as soon as you sign the transfer papers.”

“And the Rankin woman's new name and address?”

“No. Silence is part of my deal with
her.”

“I want her name and address,” Bruce insisted.

“Sorry, I can't be party to … whatever you might have in mind. But you don't have anything to fear from Mrs. Rankin. She's kept quiet for seventeen years. If she was going to do anything, she'd have done it by now. When I drop the matter, so will she.”

Bruce's eyes narrowed into an icy gaze. “Would you accept a guarantee as thin as that?”

“If I had no choice.”

“I see. I'm to take your word for it not only that this woman will keep quiet but you will too, you and however many of your people know about it.” He waved an arm in the direction of the bodyguard standing by the door, still ignoring Castleberry. “I wouldn't call that much of a guarantee.”

Strode returned his icy stare. “You prefer the alternative?”

Bruce spread his hands on the desk and leaned his weight on them. “No, I do not prefer the alternative.” The two men were locked in eye contact, excluding the others in the room from their private battle of wills. Finally Bruce said, “Your terms are abominable, Strode, but I see I have no choice but to accept them. I presume you've already prepared the transfer papers?”

At Strode's nod, Castleberry dipped into his briefcase again and came up with a legal paper.

Bruce gave it a cursory glance and dropped it into a desk drawer. “I'll want my attorney to look it over. If it's a standard form, then we'll arrange another meeting. I will not send you my shares and wait for you to get around to mailing me the originals of that letter and the Rankin woman's statement.”

“That is satisfactory.” Strode stood up. “I'll expect to hear from you soon.” Without another word he turned and walked out of the office. Castleberry and the guard followed, as did the guard who'd stationed himself outside the office door.

Castleberry couldn't contain himself. On the way to the limousine, he kept congratulating Strode. “We should have tried him first! He's not a fool like those other two. He knows when it's time to deal.”

Strode didn't share his enthusiasm. “What an icy son of a bitch he is. Did you notice, Castleberry? No protestations of innocence—not one. He didn't lose his temper or complain it wasn't fair or threaten to get me. He assessed the situation and made his decision, period.”

“You mean it was too easy? But he saw he didn't have any choice.” Castleberry opened the limo door for Strode. “He's not like Joanna Gillespie or Jack McKinstry. Bruce isn't the kind of man to get emotional and have a temper tantrum.”

“That's what I mean,” Strode said, getting in. “Cold-blooded bastard.”

Their route took them past a string of loading docks. Big yellow cranes were at work lifting and moving, and once the limo had to stop to allow one of them to maneuver its way past. “I once owned part of the company that makes those things,” Strode mused when the limo started moving again. “About thirty years ago.”

“Lawton-Moore,” nodded Castleberry, who knew all his boss's investments past and present. “Slow growth.”

“I probably wouldn't think so now,” Strode smiled. “Nothing moved fast enough for me in those days.”

Castleberry was prevented from answering by the heart-stopping
screeeeech
that automobile tires make when a car's brakes are slammed on suddenly. The limo's passengers pitched forward. Before the screech had died out there came a thunderous crash and the sound of crumpling metal. The limo was still bouncing from the impact when one of the bodyguards was out of the car, gun in hand. The other guard pushed Strode to the floor and threw himself over him. No one spoke.

After a few moments the first bodyguard was back, dragging a man in coveralls with him. “It was the crane arm,” the guard told the others in the limo. “Fell right across the hood—smashed it flat. I've got the crane operator here.” He turned to the man in coveralls. “And he's going to show me exactly how this accident happened—
isn't he?”
The man nodded dumbly; he was terrified of the gun the guard was still holding. The guard dragged him away.

The other guard got off of Strode and helped him back to his seat. When Castleberry's heart left his throat and went back to where it belonged, he stepped out of the limo to survey the damage. Seen up close, the crane arm was huge. The engine was indeed smashed flat; but the windshield, which had popped loose at the bottom, didn't have a crack in it. It was that close. Another few feet and the limo driver would be dead. Another few
yards …

Castleberry wrestled the front door open and helped the driver out. The man was white with fear and shaking, but other than a small cut over one eyebrow he was unhurt. “Thank god you've got good reflexes, man,” Castleberry said earnestly. “If you hadn't stopped in time, we'd all have been killed. Mr. Strode isn't going to forget this. You'll be taken care of.” He wasn't sure the driver even heard him.

About a dozen men had run up to the accident site and were busy saying
Are you all right?
and
Christ, will you look at that?
and other similarly helpful things. Castleberry went over to where the crane operator was showing Strode's bodyguard what had happened. A chain had slipped off its cogwheel, he said, causing him to lose control of the boom. He'd felt it slipping and tried to swivel the boom away from the limo but the controls hadn't responded fast enough. He sure was sorry, Mister, but there wasn't nothin' he coulda done to stop it.

The teeth on the wheel were badly worn; it was easy to see how the chain could have slipped off. “Don't you ever get your equipment inspected?” the bodyguard demanded.

“Sure we do,” the operator said, “and on a regular basis, too. There wasn't nothin' wrong the last time it was checked. You can ask my boss.”

“Who is your boss?” Castleberry asked. “I don't mean your supervisor—I mean who's your employer?” The name the operator gave was not that of Richard Bruce, Castleberry was relieved to hear. He asked the guard to find a phone and call a cab. Then he went back to speak to the limo driver.

The man had gotten over his shock and was now the picture of gloom and doom. “Not the Rolls,” he moaned. “Not the goddamfuckin'
Rolls
. My boss'll kill me!”

“No, he won't,” Castleberry said, “not when I finish talking to him. In fact, he'll probably give you a raise. And remember, you'll be getting something from Mr. Strode. I'll make sure he understands you saved his life.” The driver actually smiled at that. “I've sent for a cab. Do you want to come with us, or …?”

“I have to stay with the Rolls. You're not going, are you? I have to report this.”

Castleberry handed him a business card. “Tell your insurance investigator we'll be happy to talk to him at any time. But right now we must get back to New York. Don't worry—I'll call your boss as soon as we get in.”

The cab eventually arrived. Strode was silent all the way to the airport, and Castleberry and the two guards took their cue from him. Even the cab driver picked up on the tension and kept his mouth shut.

Only when they were airborne did Strode finally speak. “He tried to kill me,” he muttered. “The son of a bitch actually tried to kill me!”

Castleberry took a deep breath. “Mr. Strode, I don't think he did. It was just what it appeared to be—an accident.” He explained about the worn teeth on the cogwheel.

Strode made a derisory sound. “Of course he'd want it to look like an accident. Don't be naïve, Castleberry. That crane was meant to smash
me.”

“But how could he set up something like that in so little time? From the time we left his office to the time the boom fell on the limo … it couldn't have been more than ten minutes.”

“He had it set up ahead of time—just in case he needed it. All it took to get it going was a phone call.”

“But how did he know which route we'd take?”

“How do you know that crane was the only one waiting for us?”

“But the operator doesn't even work for Richard Bruce!”

“Uh-huh. You're taking his word for that, are you?”

Castleberry had no answer. Anyone would be a little paranoid after what had just happened, but it seemed to him that his boss was assuming too much. “Mr. Strode, why would he try to kill you before he got hold of the evidence you have against him? That wouldn't make any sense. But I could have Pierce investigate the crane operator if you like.”

“Do that.” Strode turned his head and stared out a window. The subject was closed.

When they got back to New York, Strode's secretary told him that both Jack McKinstry and Joanna Gillespie had called agreeing to sell their shares of House of Glass.

A. J. Strode was taking the day off.

He sat in the upstairs library of his big house, staring out a window without seeing anything. The place seemed empty with Katie gone. He didn't count the staff or the security guard who sat staring at a bank of television monitors. Or the outside man who checked windows and doors and manned the front gate. They weren't personal; Katie was. She'd left her mark on every room in the house, indulging her decorating skills as well as her acquisitive instincts. Strode had found himself an art collector during Katie's tenure; she'd made some good buys, he'd been told. She'd gradually replaced almost every piece of furniture in the place; the leather lounger he was sitting in had been one of her purchases. She might as well have spray-painted
Katie was here
on the walls.