William McGivern - Very Cold for May

The receptionist told him that Noble wanted to see him. Jake found Gary seated at his desk, wearing a flamboyant sport jacket and puffing energetically on a cigar.

“What’s up?” Jake said.

“Riordan called me yesterday afternoon, said he’d just talked with you and that you’d told him Prior was hot on his trail. That right?”

“That’s what Prior told me,” Jake said.

“That means we’ve got to pull his claws. We’ve got to hit hard and fast, Jake.”

“I’m all for that,” Jake said.

Noble stood and looked down at Jake with a worried frown. “Jake, I don’t like to mention this, because I know you’ve been trying hard, but you’re just not producing for Riordan. Here it is now, four days since we got the account and we haven’t even started planning a campaign.”

Jake stretched his legs and rested his head against the back of the chair. He said, “I’m sick of the account, Gary.”

“What the devil is wrong with you?” Noble said. “An account is nothing to get sick over. It’s business.”

“This one is pretty raw. What the hell can we say for Riordan? There’s no defense to make, no extenuating factors to introduce. He’s a crook.”

“That’s not for us to say, thank God,” Noble said. “Jake, you’re just having a touch of spring fever or something. Here, let me fix you a drink.”

He brought Jake a tall Scotch and soda and slapped his shoulder. “That should fix you up. You’re tired this morning. But we’ve got to see Riordan this afternoon at his hotel. He called and made the date. So try, Jake, try like hell to dream up something to keep him quiet for a while.”

Jake sipped his drink and shrugged. “All right,” he said with very little enthusiasm.

After lunch Jake walked to the Blackstone because the day was clear, and the wind off the lake was refreshingly cold. Riordan opened the door in answer to his knock and Jake saw that Noble and Niccolo were already on hand, and that Brian Riordan was lounging on the sofa with a highball in his hand. Sheila was present and that surprised him. He couldn’t figure out her interest in the Riordan account. She was sipping a drink and talking with Brian.

There was a general murmur of greeting which died away as Denise Riordan strolled in through the dining room, wearing a white satin hostess gown and white satin mules. She smiled at Jake and shook her head ruefully. “Hello,” she said. “You took me three falls to a finish in the drinking department, I guess.”

Riordan glanced at her evenly, and said, “We’re going to be busy here, Denise.”

“Okay, I just wanted something to keep me company.” She made herself a drink from the tray of bottles on the coffee table. Brian Riordan grinned at her and said, “The picture of typical American womanhood. Modestly attired in a white robe with a low bosom and a straight slug of rye in a highball glass.”

“Don’t you like the picture?” Denise said carelessly.

“I love it,” Brian said.

Riordan watched as she walked across the room and out of sight; then he turned to Noble.

“I called you here to find out what the next move is, so let’s get to work,” he said.

Noble went into the picture feature he had planned for the Riordan family, but Riordan interrupted him with an irritable wave of his hand.

“That’s all right, I suppose, but it doesn’t seem like a hell of a lot. Who really cares that I carve whaling ships out of corks as a hobby, and water my own front lawn? I want something startling, damn it, something to slow these Federal snoops down to a crawl.”

“Well, in that case,” Noble said, as confidently as if he knew where the sentence was going to end. “In that case, we’d better do some thinking out loud.” He took a cigar from his pocket and unwrapped the tinfoil with the same care a man would use in disarming a land mine. “I have an idea that might be feasible, but I’d rather hear from Jake first,” he said.

Jake had been thinking while Noble and Riordan talked. An idea that was just about cheap and unsavory enough to work had occurred to him. It was a lulu, he thought. A real beaut.

Riordan looked at him. “Well?”

“Yes, I’ve got something,” Jake said. “First of all, and this will be news to you, the police have May’s diary.”

“How do you know that?” Riordan said.

“I got that much from Lieutenant Martin. Also, and what is more important to us, there’s no mention of you in her diary. Maybe there was at one time, but someone has been at work with a scissors and you’re out of the star-studded cast.”

There was a silence in the room for a moment, and then Riordan said thoughtfully, “That’s very interesting.”

Brian Riordan looked at his father with a grin. “Damn interesting. Someone else has the dirt on you now.” He laughed and slumped down comfortably in the couch. “Perhaps somebody here can help you out. Do any of you happen to have the record of the old man’s boyish pranks during the war? He was a cute one, you know, with his self-exploding barrels and stratospheric profits.”

Riordan turned to his son, and Jake sensed a finality in the set of his broad shoulders.

“That’s all of that, Brian,” he said.

“Now don’t get tremulous and sensitive,” Brian said.

Riordan looked at him calmly for a moment, and there was a curious expression of relief on his face. Then he walked slowly across the floor and stopped before Brian.

“You rotten little fake,” he said, enunciating each word with relish. “I’ve listened to your moral blackmail for the last time.”

With a sudden strong gesture he fastened his hand in the lapels of Brian’s sport jacket; and then he jerked him powerfully to his feet. Brian’s breathing came harder, but he stared into his father’s eyes with an insolent smile.

“You came home four years ago,” Riordan said in a savage voice. “I provided you with an income that you couldn’t earn if you were fifty times as smart as you are, and lived to be a thousand. You squandered it like a brainless fool, and sneered at me for having it to give to you. You made free with everything I owned because you think you’ve earned it. Well, by God, I’ll show you what you’ve earned, and what you deserve. From now on you can join the other war heroes and get a job as a bricklayer or a truck driver.”

Riordan swung his son around with a twist of his arm, and propelled him toward the door with a mighty shove. Brian staggered backwards and barely kept himself from falling. But he managed a smile as he straightened the lapels of his coat. “You’ve done something very stupid, you know.” He turned and opened the door, and walked out without a backward glance.

Riordan walked over and kicked the door shut. He came back to the center of the room, and said to Jake, “All right, what did you have on your mind?”

Jake had watched the scene between father and son with interest, for there was a nagging feeling in his mind that there was an importance in it greater than a conclusive parental explosion. He felt that it was a lead to something else, but he couldn’t get it into place, or evaluate it as part of a design or pattern. What he had seen was an unrelated, self-contained scene; but he thought it would fit significantly into a larger picture if only he could guess where or how.

“All right,” Riordan said again. “Did you have something to say?”

Jake said, “Yes, I have,” and got his thoughts back in order. The clash between the Riordans had charged the atmosphere with excitement; and Jake waited a moment until the tension eased, until he had everyone’s attention. “Here it is,” he said. “The police have May’s diary, and we know there’s nothing in it to incriminate you, Riordan. But there has been plenty of gossip about the diary, and the damaging material it is supposed to contain. Our best bet now is to demand that it be produced and examined.”