Colleen McCullough - Too Many Murders

“What about the girls?” she asked anxiously.

“I don’t think we need to worry about them. They’ll be working too fast to notice what they’re copying.”

“And,” she said, catching on, “they’re dear girls, but they wouldn’t know a polymer chain from a chain reaction.”

“Exactly.”

And that should do it, he thought, putting the receiver down again. Just get the filing cabinet back to County Services, guys! It’s a myth that big men are slow, but here’s hoping I caught Mr. Ted Kelly on the wrong size-seventeen. By the time he remembers that he could snatch it en route, he’ll be too late. I hope the cabinet doesn’t do my Fairlane’s backseat much harm.

They looked like ordinary offices. Carmine walked from room to room noting the usual paraphernalia: desks, chairs, typewriters, telex and Xerox machines, calculators. Then, fascinated, he found two small rooms whose desks were filled by massive consoles he recognized only because sometimes he was called upon to visit Chubb’s computers, rented out to firms and institutions when Chubb didn’t need them. These were just such computer terminals, so somewhere in the bowels of the building there existed an arctically air-conditioned vault occupied by the computers themselves. It made sense that Cornucopia would have its own computer banks.

The police rope was confined to Desmond Skeps’s properly walled domain only, about half the space the floor offered. On the far side of his wall were more offices that continued to function, and in less salubrious surroundings. Grey panels fenced people off into cubicles about chest-high, obliging each denizen to stand up to see out and about. Today there was a lot of standing up; nerves, probably. In the far corner he found a larger office, fully enclosed, that bore a sign saying it was the lair of one M. D. Sykes. When he opened the door he discovered a small, middle-aged man behind a desk that dwarfed him.

“Captain Carmine Delmonico, Holloman Police. What does the M.D. stand for, sir, and what’s your function?”

Terrified, the little fellow rose to his feet, fell back again, gulped and swallowed. “Michael Donald Sykes,” he said, squeaking. “I’m the general manager of Cornucopia Central.”

“Which is?”

“The central firm, Captain. The one that oversees all the other Cornucopia firms. They are its subsidiaries,” said Mr. Sykes, finding courage.

“I see. Does that mean that, for example, Landmark Machines doesn’t own itself? That Cornucopia owns it?”

“Yes, it does. No Cornucopia firm has much autonomy.”

“So you’re in charge, now that Mr. Skeps is dead?”

The round face screwed up as if about to burst into tears. “Oh, no, Captain, no! I occupy a limbo somewhere between middle and top management. Mr. Philip Smith is senior vice-president and a nominal managing director. I imagine that he will assume command.”

“Then where do I find Mr. Philip Smith?”

“One floor down. His office is directly under Mr. Skeps’s-the view, you understand.”

“Plus the key to the executive washroom?”

“Mr. Smith has his own washroom.”

Wow! said Carmine, but silently. He took the elevator down a floor, followed the signs and was intercepted by an elderly, beautifully dressed woman who looked him up and down as if he’d come about the janitor’s job before she reluctantly agreed that he could see Mr. Smith.

His office had that same wonderful two-sided view, but no telescope. Philip Smith himself was tall and suave, immaculately tailored in grey silk, and sported a tie Carmine had heard about but never seen: the pure silk, handmade version of the Chubb produced by an Italian designer. His shirt was French cuffed, his links understated solid gold, and his shoes handmade in St. James’s, London. He was fair and handsome, spoke with a Philadelphia Main Line drawl, and had grey eyes that perpetually hunted for a mirror in which to see himself.

“Terrible, just awful!” he said to Carmine, offering him a cigar. When Carmine declined, he offered coffee and was accepted.

“How much of a real difference does the death of Mr. Skeps make to the operation of Cornucopia?” Carmine asked.

It wasn’t a question Smith had expected; he blinked, had to stop to formulate his answer. “Actually, not a lot,” he said finally. “The day-to-day functioning of the various Cornucopia companies is left to their own management teams. Cornucopia Central is a little like the father of a large brood of children-it does all the things kids can’t do for themselves.”

You condescending prick, thought Carmine, face politely interested. I should pay you back for that with a couple of hours in a County Services interrogation room, but you’re small potatoes in spite of the wardrobe, Mr. Smith.

The coffee arrived, and gave Smith a breathing space while the snooty secretary poured-heaven forbid he should pour a cup for himself!

“Why is there an FBI special agent sniffing around your nether parts, Mr. Smith?” Carmine asked as soon as they were alone again.

But the nominal managing director was ready for that one. “Inevitable, given the number of our defense contracts,” he said smoothly. “I imagine D.C. and the Pentagon automatically take an interest in the violent death of an important man.”

“How violent do you think the death of Mr. Skeps was?”

“Well, er-I don’t know, exactly. One presumes murder to be violent by definition.”

“When did Mr. Kelly arrive?”

“Yesterday, midday. Grotesque, isn’t he?”

“No, Mr. Smith, not grotesque, which implies an unpleasant element. Special Agent Kelly is a particularly fine specimen of man. What did he do after he arrived?”

“Asked to see Desmond’s penthouse and offices. Naturally we coöperated fully.”

“Did it not occur to anyone to call Commissioner Silvestri and notify him of an FBI presence in a local murder scene?”

“No.”

“That’s a pity.”

“I don’t see why. You’re all on the same side.”

“Are we? That’s comforting to know. However, if Mr. Kelly took something from either place, the Holloman Police should be told, and were not. If you’re personally aware that anything has gone missing, I suggest you tell me right now.”

“Uh-apart from Desmond’s personal filing cabinet, nothing,” said Smith uneasily. “He kept it in his walk-in safe, but Mr. Kelly had a key and the combination. There’s nothing in it would interest the Holloman police-too esoteric. The files were all sensitive aspects of our defense contracts. You would not have the necessary security clearances, Captain Delmonico.”

“You might be surprised, Mr. Smith.”

Smith laughed derisively. “Oh, come, Captain! You’re a big fish in a very small puddle. Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Thank you for the reminder. In the meantime, I’d be grateful if you issued a Board directive to all Cornucopia Central staff to coöperate with me and mine.” Carmine rose to his feet. “My thanks for the coffee.” He went across to the Long Island Sound window and looked at his house, frowning. “Now if you seat yourself behind your desk, sir, we can get down to our real business.”

Smith obeyed, seeming uncomfortable; the suavity had gone.

“Tell me what you know about Desmond Skeps.”

“He was detestable,” Smith answered, both hands on the desk palms downward. “I doubt you’ll obtain a different opinion from anyone who knows him-knew him. Though Cornucopia is listed on the stock exchange, Desmond owned a clear majority of the shares, so he could do pretty much as he liked. And he did.”

“Can you give me an example of his doing as he liked?”

“Certainly. Cornucopia Research. We all opposed his setting up our own research laboratories, chiefly because our companies span such a gamut of industries, but he insisted. It meant a massive facility with a bill in the hundreds of millions. He was right in one way-we don’t have to go hat in hand to outside labs anymore. The research stays here in Holloman with us. When he stole Duncan MacDougall from PetroBrit, Cornucopia Research was complete. MacDougall is one of the three men in the world who can administer a unit that size. Why am I complaining? Because we’ll never recoup the outlay. Dividends plunged.”