Джон Макдональд - The Last One Left

“This is something else entirely,” Sam said. “I’d like your help in tracking down some information. One of the law firms here represents Mr. Bixby Kayd either under his own name or the name of Sunshine Management, Incorporated, a United States corporation.”

Lowry Malcolm was a languid, remote-acting man, thin, pale and balding. He raised his eyebrows. “Ah, the poor chap who’s been lost at sea?”

“My nineteen-year-old sister, Leila, was aboard.”

“Oh, I say! That is hard lines. Terribly sorry to hear it. Saw the names in the paper, of course, but didn’t make the connection. I do hope the vessel will turn up safe and sound.”

“Thanks. Will it be a lot of trouble to find out exactly who would be representing Mr. Kayd?”

“Shouldn’t be. Shall we give it a try?”

On the fourth call he found that the firm was Kelly and Dawson, only a block away. Before calling there, Malcolm said, “When I get the chap on the wire, what should I say?”

“Tell him that I want to speak to him on a matter of great urgency, as soon as possible. Tell him I am an attorney from Texas and you have had dealings with me and can vouch for my reputation and integrity — and you will appreciate all the cooperation he can give me.”

After he had made the call, Malcolm said, “That firm is the Bahamian headquarters for Sunshine Management. Thought I’d seen that bloody name on a plaque on someone’s building. The chap you want is Kemp Rodgers. Know him well. All my life, actually.”

“Would you call him an honest man?”

Malcolm’s jaw sagged. “What an odd thing to say!”

“Sorry I haven’t got time to work up to it gradually, but it is important that I know.”

“Kemp is a dear fellow. He is absolutely straight. Never fear. Actually he might have done far better at the law had he not considered it — a necessary nuisance to provide him funds for unspeakably savage little motor cars. He lives for Race Week when he can risk his neck in all that snarling, sliding nonsense. But I must say, if one can endure the racing part of it, it does provide one a rather remarkable choice of lively ladies. He will see you as soon as you can get over there, Boylston. He’s shifting his appointments to make space. If you need more help...”

“I’ll be back. And thanks.”

Kemp Rodgers was a trim man with a large, guardsman moustache, bright blue eyes, oversized hands, and two shelves of race trophies.

His first impression was that Sam Boylston was connected in some way with Sunshine Management. When he learned there was no connection, he was reluctant to give out any information.

Sam Boylston called upon that special and directed force he used rarely, in fact could not use except when a great deal was at stake. He could not fake it. He would feel a curious stillness within himself, and he would have a sense of something coiling and gathering. His voice always became softer, with the feeling that he heard it from a distance, and observed the scene from a distance. It was a force he seemed to be able to aim with his eyes, and he had watched varied and strange effects it had upon people.

Usually they seemed startled, and then alarmed. As if some familiar and unremarkable object, such as a paperweight, had suddenly grown a viper’s head, impressive fangs, and had begun waddling across the desktop toward them with every evidence of malignant determination.

Out of the stillness he said in a careful voice, “I do not need to be reminded of the ethics of my profession, Rodgers. I know what privileged information is. My sister was aboard that cruiser. I am not going to beg, and I am not going to be very patient. Have you seen Bixby Kayd recently? Did he have anything to say about buying the land holdings of Ventures, Limited? Was a large sum recently transferred to the local bank account of Sunshine Management?”

The blue eyes tried to look fierce. They became vague. The moustache twitched. The large hands began washing each other. “Really, I couldn’t — ah — it was thirty-one hundred thousand odd pounds. Told Kayd there was no reason to think Venture would settle for that little. He roared with laughter, gave me a great bloody bash on the shoulder and talked about positive thinking. We fixed up a limited power of attorney.”

“For what purpose?”

“His offer was, in your money, eight million seven. He said Sir Willis Willard — he’s the Chairman of the Board of Ventures — would be calling a special meeting to consider the offer. I would be advised to attend and make the offer official, and hand over the cheque if they approved. Not bloody likely, I told him.”

“I’d like to talk to Sir Willis.”

“He’s a very busy chap and...”

“I’m sure you can arrange it.”

“But I don’t see what the connection could be between...”

“If you don’t mind. It can be at his convenience.”

With visible reluctance, Rodgers reached for his desk phone. He arranged an appointment for Sam Boylston with Sir Willis Willard for the following morning, Thursday morning, at ten o’clock in Sir Willis’s offices in the Imperial Bank of Commerce on Parliament Street.

Rodgers said, “Sir Willis is a lovely old boy. He’s done so very well with almost everything he’s touched, this Ventures mess is a thorn in his side. I gather he’s trying to liquidate it in such a way none of his associates in it will get too badly hurt.”

“As far as you know, no special meeting was called.”

“I expect if it were to be called to vote on the Sunshine Management offer, I’d have been notified.”

Sir Willis’s offices were spacious, paneled in pale wood, decorated with cheerful accents of primary colors. The girl ushered Sam in and pulled the door shut as she left. Sir Willis was a wispy man, white hair, pink skin, bright blue eyes. He seemed no larger than a child behind the absolutely empty expanse of pale desk. And he looked like a child who had been mercilessly scrubbed, carefully dressed, and sent off to a party with many warnings about how to behave.

“Whichever chair might suit you, Mr. Boylston. The straight one or the soft one. You heard Rodgers’s half of our conversation, I believe. This is all something to do with Kayd, poor chap, and Sunshine Management, but you are not associated with either.”

Taking the straight chair, Sam had his first chance to look directly at those old blue eyes. There was nothing childish about them. They had seen a great deal, understood most of what they saw, and had stored away only what seemed of any possible future use.

“I may startle you with what I have to say, Sir Willis.”

“I vaguely recall hearing something which startled me in nineteen fifty-eight, or possibly fifty-nine. As I recall, I rather enjoyed the experience.”

“I have no proof. So I am not making — accusations. I’m going to ask for your advice.”

“I’m most generous with it, Boylston. Generous to a fault. But, of course, the supply is unlimited. Old men have vast stores of it.”

“Did Angus Squires request a special meeting of the Board of Ventures, Limited, to consider another cash offer from Sunshine Management?”

Without hesitation, Sir Willis said, “He did indeed. Last Wednesday. One week ago yesterday. And suggested tomorrow. Friday seems to be the traditional day for Board meetings for some reason which defies logical analysis.”

“There will be such a meeting, sir?”

“My young ladies out there are indignant. They properly notified the other nine members of the Board. Then Squires phoned again on Tuesday, day before yesterday, shortly before noon, and withdrew his request. You understand that any Board member can ask for a special meeting. And so my young ladies had to telephone the other nine chaps and cancel. At least they did not have to inform young Rodgers. They had not gotten around to notifying him.”