Читать книгу Elements of Chance - Barbara Wilkins - Страница 7

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The Rolls was a ten-year-old custom-made maroon limousine that Victor liked because it gave him room to stretch his long legs. A nineteen-inch color television set had been built into the back of the front seat. The fully equipped bar was for the convenience of guests rather than for Victor and Valerie, who drank only wine or champagne.

Valerie sat stiffly behind Daniel, the chauffeur, her hands folded in her lap, her legs crossed demurely at the ankles. The images on the television screen floated in front of her eyes as if underwater. Regular programming had been interrupted to concentrate on the Victor Penn story. It was as if a president had been assassinated. Valerie felt embarrassed at the thought.

“I’m going to fix us a drink,” Mary said. Without makeup, her hair in a ponytail, wearing a pair of tight jeans and a striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, Mary looked more Valerie’s age than her own. Tentatively, she put one tanned hand on Valerie’s arm. It was rigid. She’s like a block of stone, Mary thought.

“I don’t drink.”

“Well, you’re going to make an exception this time, sweetie.” Mary pressed the button that opened the bar and fixed two scotch and waters, heavy on the scotch.

Valerie took the glass from Mary’s hand and made a face as she sipped. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said graciously. “I forgot to thank you.”

Shock, thought Mary, mentally giving herself a pat on the back for calling Valerie’s doctor to meet them at the estate. He could give Valerie a shot and put her out of all of this until tomorrow.

On the television screen, the anchorman discussed the Victor Penn story with the station’s financial analyst.

“What do you think all of this is going to mean to the financial community, Jim? Where does Victor Penn stand?”

“Well, some say he’s one of the two or three richest men in the world,” said the financial analyst. “The Penn operation is international, with banks in London, Paris, New York, the Bahamas, Luxembourg. They’ve diversified into mining in South Africa, cattle ranches in Argentina, fish canneries in Alaska, all sorts of things. Since it’s a privately held company, there’s no way to know for certain.”

“But he’s certainly very much on the scene here in Los Angeles, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, yes. Victor Penn is a prominent philanthropist. He supports a dozen charities, and it’s said that he’s even more active anonymously, behind the scenes.”

“So if it’s true that Victor Penn has been killed in a plane crash, it would be a real loss.”

“Well,” the analyst said, hesitating, “there have been some ugly rumors in recent months about Penn International. There’s been talk in the financial community that federal bank examiners are about to step in to take a look at the whole operation. It’s also said that they are asking foreign governments to cooperate.”

“What sort of rumors?” the anchorman prompted.

“The talk is that the Penn International banks have been lending vast sums to its other companies, sums that run as much as a thousand percent more than their assets, for example,” he replied. “Once this sort of thing starts, there’s a snowball effect. For instance, some of the uglier rumors are that the Penn bank in the Bahamas has been used not only to launder drug money, but also to launder money paid as ransom in terrorist kidnappings all over the world.”

“The disappearance of the plane carrying Victor Penn sounds like more than a coincidence then, wouldn’t you say?” asked the anchorman.

“It certainly seems suspicious.”

“Just who is Victor Penn? We’ll be right back after these messages.”

“How dare they talk about Victor like that,” Valerie said in a low voice, her eyes blazing. “Victor is the sweetest, dearest, most open man in the world. His integrity is more important to him than anything else. They’re a bunch of hyenas.”

“It happens every time, sweetie,” said Mary, between sips of her drink. She wondered if this meant the end of her hefty yearly salary, the end of all those delicious kickbacks from the stores where she shopped to dress the wife of Victor Penn. “They’ll always get you when you’re down. Nobody knows that better than I do.”

“Victor’s lawyers are going to have a field day with the slander suits,” said Valerie, her jaw tight.

“Did you know about this? That the government is sending the bank examiners in?”

“It’s a lie,” Valerie said firmly. “Victor is above reproach.”

On the screen, the visuals profiling Victor Penn began with file footage of Victor and Valerie at various charity events. Valerie in a white, beaded Givenchy, her diamonds glittering at her throat, with a tall, handsome Victor, his hand possessively on her arm, bending down to whisper in her ear. Valerie in a flame red Galanos, with Victor smiling dazzlingly into the camera and running a hand through his hair. Valerie, draped in full-length Russian sables, reaching up to kiss Victor on the cheek, his expression both proud and embarrassed. Then came the earlier films, of the brief time they had lived in their New York penthouse, of the many years in London. Victor and Valerie, each holding one of their newborn twins, beaming as they stepped off the aluminum stairs leading down from the Penn International jet. Valerie as a bride in a white gown with a cathedral-length train, a white veil covering her pale hair. She and Victor were on the steps of Saint-Ange in Paris, the first couple to be married there since well before the French Revolution. It had been Victor’s decision, of course. Victor had always wanted to be married at Saint-Ange.

The commentator resumed his voice-over. “Ever since Victor Penn appeared on the banking scene in the mid-fifties, he has been a man of mystery in international financial circles. Starting in London, Penn gained an impressive reputation in the community, entertaining lavishly at his Regent’s Park estate, or at his country estate in Sussex where the cream of London society often enjoyed hunt weekends, and where musical evenings featured such stars as Maria Callas, Arthur Rubinstein, and Jascha Heifetz among others. In 1973, Victor Penn married eighteen-year-old Valerie Hemion, a music student and the American-born niece of Lady Anne Hallowell, in a sumptuous, internationally celebrated ceremony at Saint-Ange in Paris. The couple has nine-year-old twins, a boy and a girl.”

On the television screen, the glorious teenage bride gazed into the face of her handsome husband, her eyes dazed with love. Victor was leaning down, gently kissing Valerie’s lips, touching her cheek with his.

“Great wedding gown,” Mary murmured. “Nobody can touch Givenchy.”

“Victor loves Givenchy,” Valerie replied automatically, remembering as if it were a moment ago the touch of Victor’s lips on her own.

“Still,” the narrator continued, “as visible as Victor Penn has always been, his origins remain unknown. Although it is thought that he is English, there is no record that he ever attended any public school or university in England. His acceptance into the banking and social circles of London seems to have been on the basis of his own personal charm and lavish entertaining. Once he had established his contacts, Victor Penn moved quickly to consolidate his position in the banking world.”

“This is absurd,” Valerie said indignantly. “Of course Victor is English. He was educated in Switzerland, just like the children.”

“Oh, they’ll probably figure that out by tomorrow,” said Mary, hoping that would turn out to be the least of their worries.

“Penn International, the umbrella for the vast international Penn empire, has never released a biography of its dashing chairman of the board, who also holds the title of chief executive officer. Nor has Penn ever agreed to be interviewed unless it has been in connection with one of the charities he supports. In short, Victor Penn has pulled off the impossible: simultaneously becoming the most visible of men and, at the same time, shielding himself in secrecy much like the late Howard Hughes.”

The narrator spoke briefly of the move Victor and Valerie Penn had made some years earlier to New York City before finally settling on their hundred-acre estate in Beverly Hills. “Raymond Penn, older brother and, it is believed, second in command after Victor Penn, is refusing comment through his public relations spokesman in London.” The limousine turned into the entrance of the estate as reporters, correspondents, and television crews surrounded the car, pressing against its fenders, thrusting microphones against the bulletproof glass windows. The chauffeur pressed the buzzer that opened the huge wrought-iron gates, and in a moment the car was gliding through the short underground tunnel with the electronic monitoring system screening all entering vehicles for weapons or explosives. Then it was onto the long winding drive that led to the graceful mansion itself.

Inside the usually tranquil house was pandemonium. Gregson, the impeccable butler who ran the house and its staff of twelve, hurried down the hall toward them. “Dr. Feldman and Mr. O’Farrell are in the music room, madam,” he said to Valerie. “I do hope none of this turns out to be true.”

“Thank you, Gregson,” said Valerie. “It is untrue. All of it.”

In the music room, with its framed, autographed scores and letters signed by Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart, and Chopin, a six-foot television screen displayed the mob scene outside the estate. Valerie’s doctor, Elliott Feldman, a tall, muscular, fair-skinned man in his early forties, sat in one of the lounge chairs. John O’Farrell, Victor’s attorney, was there too, in his lawyer’s uniform of dark gray suit, blue shirt with a white collar, and a red patterned tie. Kyle Jones, Valerie’s live-in piano teacher, was perched on the piano bench in front of the Steinway. The two visitors leaped to their feet as Valerie and Mary entered the room. Kyle, looking exhausted, lifted a languorous hand.

“Valerie,” said the doctor, as he took her hand and led her to an overstuffed, chintz-covered chair, “what a shock for you.”

“We’re all praying this isn’t true,” John O’Farrell added. “I’m sorry you’re going through this.”

“Thank you,” Valerie said in a small voice, her chin high.

“Where does everything stand?” asked Mary, casting a sympathetic glance toward Valerie.

“We don’t know any more than you do.” John O’Farrell shrugged. “The public relations departments in the various cities are dealing with the press. Raymond has called several times.”

“To talk to me?” Valerie asked with a shudder.

“No, to talk to me,” said John. “We’re to talk to nobody, and he’ll be in touch.”

“Do the children know?” Valerie asked suddenly. “Did Raymond say anything about the children?”

“Only that the children are not to be called until there’s something more definite.”

“But they’ll have heard. Why can’t I talk to my own children?”

“It’s the middle of the night in Switzerland,” the attorney said kindly. “I’d say it’s probably better to do what Mr. Raymond Penn wants, at least for the moment.”

“But … what do I do now?” Valerie asked.

“I guess what everybody else in Los Angeles is doing,” said the attorney. “We just sit here in front of the television set and see what happens.”

It was another hour before the next news update.

A disembodied voice was heard as the screen showed a blur of green. “We’ve just been able to confirm that the plane that crashed in Mexico this afternoon is the 727 belonging to Penn International. The Penn International logo is clearly visible on the side of the plane, according to the reports we are just receiving. As far as we can see, there are no signs of life.”

With a little sigh, Valerie crumpled to the floor.

Elliott Feldman was instantly at her side, leaning over to pull her up. Valerie’s eyes opened vacantly.

“We’ll get her up to bed and I’ll give her a shot,” he said. “I have the feeling it’s going to get worse.”

“You have no idea,” John O’Farrell said gloomily. “I better get on the phone to Raymond and see what he wants us to do.”

At the piano, Kyle picked out a few bars of Chopin, his long white fingers with their bitten nails as tentative on the keys as if playing for the first time.