Читать книгу BAD MOOD DRIVE - Douglas Alan Captain - Страница 8

A sign may be seen above the door with the legend

which one can read as REYNOLDS & FRANK HAROLD,

the Reynolds had been long deceased. Frank Harold was

still very much alive, and at seventy-eight, he was the

dynamo that powered the office, with sixty-five attorneys

working under him. He was perilously thin, with a full mane

of white hair, and he walked with the sternly straight

carriage of a military man. At this time, he was pacing back

and forth. He always has something on his mind. Trying to

feel better by using more never seems to work for a long

time. His mind was in a trouble.

He stopped in front of his secretary. "When Mr. Stanley

telephoned, didn't he give any indication of what he wanted to

see me about so urgently?"

"No, sir. He just said he wanted you to be at his house

at nine o'clock Monday morning, and to bring his will and a

notary."

"Thank you. Ask Mr. Brown to come in."

George Brown was one of the bright, innovative

attorneys in the office. A Harvard Law School graduate in

his forties, he was tall and lean, with blond hair, inquisitive

blue eyes sparkled with amusement, and an easy, graceful

presence. Brown was the troubleshooter for the firm, and

Frank Harold's choice to take over one day. If I had had a

son, Harold thought, I would have wanted him to be like

George. He watched as George Brown walked in.

"You're supposed to be salmon fishing up in

Newfoundland," George said.

"Something came up. Sit down, George. We have a

problem."

George sighed. "What else is new?"

"It's about Robert Stanley."

Robert Stanley was one of their most prestigious clients.

Half a dozen other law firms handled various Stanley

Enterprises subsidiaries, but Reynolds & Frank Harold

handled his personal affairs. Except for Harold, none of the

members of the firm had ever met him, but he was a legend

around the office.

"What's Stanley done now?" George asked.

"He's gotten himself dead."

George looked at him, shocked. "He's what?"

"I just received a fax from the police in Corsica.

Apparently Stanley crossed the street and was hit by a

truck."

"My God!"

"I know you've never met him, but I've represented him

for more than thirty years. He was a difficult man."

Harold leaned back in his chair, thinking about the past.

"There were really two Robert Stanley’s-the public one who

could coax the birds off the money tree, and the sonofabitch

who took pleasure in destroying people. He was a charmer,

but he could turn on you like an animal. He had a split

personality-he was both the animal charmer and the animal."

"Sounds fascinating."

"It was about thirty years ago-thirty-one, to be exact

when I joined this law firm. Old Man Reynold handled

Stanley then. You know how people use the phrase 'larger

than life'? Well, Robert Stanley was really larger than life. If

he didn't exist, you couldn't have invented him. He was a

colossus. He had an amazing energy and ambition. He was

a great athlete. He boxed in college and was a ten-goal polo

player. But even when he was young, Robert Stanley was

impossible. He was the only man I've ever known who was

totally without compassion. He was sadistic and

unreasonably cruel and unfair towards someone who has

harmed him, and he had the instincts of wolf who uses

other people’s problems and suffering for his own

advantage. He loved forcing his competitors into

bankruptcy. It was rumored that there was more than a few

suicide because of him."

"He sounds like a monster."

"On the one hand, yes. On the other hand, he founded an

orphanage in New Guinea and a hospital in Bombay, and he

gave millions to charity-anonymously. No one ever knew

what to expect next."

"How did he become so wealthy?"

"How's your Greek mythology?"

"I'm a little rusty."

"You know the story of Oedipus?"

George nodded. "He killed his father to get his mother."

"Right. Well, that was Robert Stanley. The only

difference is that he killed his father to get his mother's

vote."

George was staring at him. "What?"

Harold leaned forward. "In the early thirties, Robert's

father had a grocery store here in Los Angeles. It did so well

that he opened a second one, and pretty soon he had a

small chain of grocery stores. When Robert finished college,

his father brought him into the business as a partner and

put him on the board of directors. As I said, Robert was

ambitious. He had big dreams. Instead of buying meat from

packing houses, he wanted the chain to raise its own

livestock. He wanted it to buy land and grow its own

vegetables, can its own goods. His father disagrees, and

they fought a lot.

"Then Robert had his biggest brainstorm of all. He told

his father he wanted the company to build a chain of

supermarkets that sold everything from automobiles to

furniture to life insurance, at a discount, and charge

customers a membership fee. Robert's father thought he

was crazy, and he turned down the idea. However, Robert

didn't intend to let anything get in his way. He decided he

had to get rid of the old man. He persuaded his father to

take a long vacation, and while he was away, Robert went to

work charming the board of directors.

"He was a brilliant salesman and he sold them on his

concept. He persuaded his aunt and uncle, who were on the

board, to vote for him. He romanced the other members of

the board. He took them to lunch, went fox hunting with

one, golfing with another. He slept with a board member's

wife who had influence over her husband. But it was his

mother who held the largest block of stock and had the final

vote. Robert persuaded her to give it to him and to vote

against her husband."

"That's unbelievable!"

"When Robert's father returned, he learned that his

family had voted him out of the company."

"My God!"

"There's more. Robert wasn't satisfied with that. When

his father tried to get into his own office, he found that he

was barred from the building. And, remember, Robert was

only in his thirties then. His nickname around the company

was the Iceman. But credit where credit is due, George. He

single-handedly built Stanley Enterprises into one of the

biggest privately held conglomerates in the world. He

expanded the company to include timber, chemicals,

communications, electronics, and a staggering amount of

real estate. And he wound up with all the stock."

"He must have been an incredible man," George said.

"He was. To men-and to women."

"Was he married?"

Frank Harold sat there for a long time, remembering.

When he finally spoke, he said, "Robert Stanley was married

to one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. Emy

Trump. They had three children, two boys and a girl. Emy

came from a very social family in Bell Air. She adored

Robert, and she tried to close her eyes to his cheating, but

one day it got to be too much for her. She had a governess

for the children, a woman named Rosa Newman. Young and

attractive. What made her even more attractive to Robert

Stanley was the fact that she refused to go to bed with him. It

drove him crazy. He wasn't used to rejection. Well, when

Robert Stanley turned on the charm, he was irresistible. He

finally got Rosa into bed. He got her pregnant, and she went

to see a doctor. Unfortunately, the doctor's son-in-law was a

columnist, and he got hold of the story and printed it.

There was one hell of a scandal. You know Los Angeles. It

was all over the newspapers. I still have clippings about it

somewhere."

"Did she get an abortion?"

Harold shook his head. "No. Robert wanted her to have

one, but she refused. They had a terrible scene. He told her

that he loved her and wanted to marry her. Of course, he

had told that to dozens of women. But Emy overheard their

conversation, and in the middle of that night she committed

suicide."

"That's awful. What happened to the governess?"

"Rosa Newman disappeared. We know that she had a

daughter she named Jennifer, at St. Joseph's Hospital in

Miami. She sent a note to Stanley, but I don't believe he

even bothered to reply. By then, he was involved with

someone new. He wasn't interested in Rosa anymore. In

general, he didn't give a shit about anybody else."

"Charming ..."

"The real tragedy is what happened later. The children

rightfully blamed their father for their mother's suicide.

They were ten, twelve, and fourteen at the time. Old enough

to feel the pain, but too young to fight their father. They

hated him. And Robert's greatest fear was that one day they

would do to him what he had done to his own father. So

he did everything he could to make sure that never

happened. He sent them away to different boarding schools

and summer camps, and arranged for his children to see as

little of one another as possible. They received no money

from him. They lived on the small trust that their mother

had left them. All their lives he used the carrot-and-

stick approach with them. He held out his fortune as the

carrot, and then withdrew it if they displeased him."

"What's happened to the children?"

"Thomas is a judge in the circuit court in San Francisco.

William doesn't do anything. He's a playboy. He lives in Bell

Air and gambles on golf and polo. A few years ago, he picked

up a waitress for a diner, got her pregnant, and to

everyone's surprise, married her. Carmen is a successful

fashion designer, married to a Frenchman. They live in New

York." He stood up.

"George, have you ever been to Corsica?"

"No."

"I'd like you to fly there. They're holding Robert

Stanley's body, and the police refuse to release it. I want

you to straighten out the matter."

"All right."

"If there's a chance of your leaving today ..."

"All right. I'll work it out."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

On the Air France commuter flight from Paris to Corsica,

George Brown read a travel book about Corsica. He learned

that the island was largely mountainous, that its principal

port city was Ajaccio, and that it was the birthplace of

Napoleon Bonaparte. The book was filled with interesting

statistics, but George was totally unprepared for the beauty

of the island. As the plane approached Corsica, far below he

saw a high solid wall of white rock that resembled the White

Cliffs of Dover. It was breathtaking.

The plane landed at Ajaccio airport. Ajaccio is the capital

of the French Mediterranean island of Corsica. George took

a taxi down the Cours Napoleon, the main street that

stretched from Place General-de-Gaulle northward to the

train station. He had made arrangements for a plane to

stand by to fly Robert Stanley's body back to Paris, where

the coffin would be transferred to a plane to Los Angeles.

All he needed was to get a release for the body. George had

the taxi drop him off at the Prefecture building on Cours

Napoleon. He went up one flight of stairs and walked into

the reception office. An uniformed sergeant was seated at

the desk.

"Bonjour. Puis-je vous aider?"

"Who is in charge here?"

"Capitaine Duval."

"I would like to see him, please."

"And what is it of concern in relationship to?" The

sergeant was proud of his English. George took out his

business card. "I'm the attorney for Robert Stanley. I've

come to take his body back to the States."

The sergeant frowned. "Remain, please." He

disappeared into Capitaine Duval's office, carefully closing

the door behind him. The office was crowded, filled with

reporters from television and news services from all over

the globe. All of them seemed to be speaking at the same

time.

"Was there any sign of foul play?"

"Have you done an autopsy?"

"Please, gentlemen." Capitaine Duval held up his hand.

"Please, gentlemen. Please." He looked around the room at

all the reporters hanging on his every word, and he was

ecstatic. He had dreamed of moments like this. If I handle

this properly, it will mean a big promotion and... The

sergeant interrupted his thoughts. "Capitaine..." He

whispered in Duval's ear and handed him George Brown's

card.

Capitaine Duval studied it and frowned. "I can't see him

now," he snapped. "Tell him to come back tomorrow at ten

o'clock."

"Yes, sir."

Capitaine Duval watched thoughtfully as the sergeant

left the room. He had no intention of letting anyone take

away his moment of glory. He turned back to the reporters

and smiled. "Now, what were you asking ...?"

In the outer office, the sergeant was saying to Brown:

"I am sorry, but Capitaine Duval is very busy immediately.

He would like you to expose yourself here tomorrow

morning at ten o'clock."

George Brown was disappointed and upset. He looks at

the sergeant in dismay.

"Tomorrow morning? That's ridiculous. I don't want to

wait that long.”

The sergeant raises and then lowers his shoulders in

order to show that George doesn't know something or

doesn't care about it. "That is of your chosen, monsieur."

George makes an angry, unhappy, and confused

expression.

"Very well. I don't have a hotel reservation. Can you

recommend a hotel?"

"Mais oui. I am pleased to have recommended Hotel Le

Dauphin, eight Avenue de Paris."

George hesitated. "Isn't there some way ...?"

"Ten o'clock tomorrow morning."

George turned and walked out of the office. In Duval's

office, the capitaine was happily coping with the barrage of

reporters' questions. A television reporter asked, "How can

you be sure it was an accident?"

Duval looked into the lens of the camera. "Fortunately,

there was an eyewitness to this terrible event. His

bodyguard saw it happen and immediately called for help.

The ambulance take the body to the hospital, but was too

late."

"What did the autopsy show?"

"Corsica is a small island, gentlemen. We are not

properly equipped to do a full autopsy. However, our

medical examiner reports that the cause of death was head

fracture and massive bleeding because of auto accident.

There were no signs of foul play."

"Where is the body now?"

"We are keeping it in the cold storage room until

authorization is given for it to be taken away."

One of the photographers said, "Do you mind if we take

your picture, Capitaine?"

Capitaine Duval hesitated for a moment. "No. Please,

gentlemen, do what you must." And the cameras began to

flash.

Hotel Le Dauphin was a modest hotel but neat and

clean, and his room was satisfactory. George's first move

was to telephone Frank Harold.

"I'm afraid this will take longer than I thought," Brown

said.

"What's the problem?"

"Red tape. I'm going to see the man in charge tomorrow

morning, and I'll get it straightened out. I should be on my

way back to Los Angeles by afternoon."

"Very good, George. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

He had lunch at La Fontana on Rue Notre Dame, and

with the rest of the day to kill, started exploring the town.

Ajaccio was a colorful Mediterranean town that still basked

in the glory of having been Napoleon Bonaparte's

birthplace. I think Robert Stanley would have identified with

this place, George thought.

It was the tourist season in Corsica, and the streets were

crowded with visitors chatting away in French, Italian,

German, and Japanese.

That evening George had an Italian dinner at Boccaccio

and returned to his hotel.

"Any messages?" He asked the room clerk,

optimistically.

"No, monsieur."

He lay in bed and his thoughts return to what Frank

Harold had told him about Robert Stanley.

"Did she get an abortion?"

"No. Robert wanted her to have one, but she refused.

They had a terrible scene. He told her he loved her and

wanted to marry her. Of course, he had told that to dozens of

women. But Emy overheard their conversation, and in the

middle of that night she committed suicide."George

wondered how she had done it. He finally fell asleep.

At ten o'clock the following morning, George Brown

appeared again at the Prefecture. The sergeant was seated

behind the desk.

"Good morning," George said.

"Bonjour, monsieur. Can I help to assist you?" George

handed the sergeant another business card. "I'm here to see

Capitaine Duval."

"A moment." The sergeant got up, walked into the inner

office, and closed the door behind him.

Capitaine Duval, dressed in an impressive new uniform,

was being interviewed by an RAI television crew from Italy.

He was looking into the camera. "When I took charge of the

case, the first thing I did was to make certain that there was

no foul play involved in Monsieur Stanley's death."

The interviewer asked, "And you were satisfied that

there was none, Capitaine?"

"Completely satisfied. There is no question but that it

was an unfortunate accident."

The director said, "Bene. Let us cut to another angle and a

closer shot."

The sergeant took the opportunity to hand Capitaine

Duval Brown's business card. "He is outside."

"What is the matter with you?" Duval growled.

"Can't you see I'm busy? Have him come back

tomorrow." He had just received word that there were a

dozen more reporters on their way, some from as far away as

Russia and South Africa, "Demain."

"Oui."

"Are you ready, Capitaine?" the director asked. Capitaine

Duval smiled. "I'm ready."

The sergeant returned to the outer office. "I am sorry,

monsieur. Capitaine Duval is out of business today."

"So am I," George snapped. "Tell him that all he has to

do is sign a paper authorizing the release of Mr. Stanley's

body, and I'll be on my way. That's not too much to ask, is

it?"

"I am afraid, yes. The capitaine has many responsibles,

and..."

"Can't someone else give me the authorization?"

"Oh, no, monsieur. Only the capitaine can do the

authority."

George Brown stood there, seething.

"When can I see him?"

"I suggest if you try again tomorrow morning."

The phrase try again grated on George's ears. "I'll do

that," he said. "By the way, I understand there was an

eyewitness to the accident...Mr. Stanley's bodyguard,

Donald Herman."

"Yes."

"I would like to talk to him. Could you tell me where he's

staying?"

"Australia."

"Is that a hotel?"

"No, monsieur." There was pity in his voice. "It is a

country."

George's voice raised an octave. "Are you telling me that

the only eyewitness to Stanley's death was allowed by the

police to leave here before anyone could interrogate him?"

"Capitaine Duval interrogated him."

George took a deep breath. "Thank you."

"No problems, monsieur."

When George returned to his hotel, he reported back to

Frank Harold.

"It looks like I'm going to have to stay another night

here."

"What's going on, George?"

"The man in charge seems to be very busy. It's the

tourist season. He's probably looking for some lost purses. I

should be out of here by tomorrow."

"Stay in touch."

In spite of his irritation, George found the island of

Corsica enchanting. It had almost a thousand miles of

coastline, with soaring, granite mountains that stayed

snow-topped until July. The island had been ruled by the

Italians until France took it over, and the combination of the

two cultures was fascinating.

During his dinner at the Hotel, he remembered how

Frank Harold had described Robert Stanley. "He was the

only man I've ever known who was totally without

compassion ... sadistic and spiteful... "

Well, Robert Stanley is causing a hell of a lot of trouble

even in death, George thought. On his way to his hotel,

George stopped at a newsstand to pick up a copy of the

International Herald Tribune. The headline read: WHAT

WILL HAPPEN TO WHOLE STANLEY EMPIRE? He paid

for the newspaper, and as he turned to leave, his eye was

caught by the headlines in some of the other foreign papers

on the stand. He picked them up and, looked through them,

stunned. Every single newspaper had front-page stories

about the death of Robert Stanley, and in each one of them,

Capitaine Duval was prominently featured, his photograph

beaming from the pages. So that's what's keeping him so

busy! We'll see about that.

At nine forty-five the following morning, George

returned to Capitaine Duval's reception office. The sergeant

was not at his desk, and the door to the inner office was

slightly open. George pushed it to open and stepped inside.

The capitaine was changing into a new uniform, preparing

for his morning press interviews. He looked up as George

entered.

"Qu'est-ce que vous faites ici? C'est un bureau privet.

Allez-vous-en! "

"I'm with The New York Times," George Brown said.

Instantly, Duval brightened. "Ah, come in, come in.

You said your name is ..."

"Jones. Tom Jones."

"Can I offer you something, perhaps? Coffee? Cognac?"

"Nothing, thanks," George said.

"Please, please, sit down." Duval's voice became

gloomy, dark, depressing, mournful and very serious.

"You are here, of course, about the terrible tragedy that

has happened on our little island. Poor Monsieur Stanley."

"When do you plan to release the body?" George asked.

Capitaine Duval sighed. "Ah, I am afraid not for many,

many days. There are a great number of forms to fill out in

the case of a man as important as Monsieur Stanley. There

are protocols to be followed, you understand..."

"I suppose, I do," George said.

"Perhaps ten days. Perhaps, two weeks." By then the

interest of the press will have cooled down.

"Here's my card," George said. He handed Capitaine

Duval a card. The capitaine glanced at it, and then took a

closer look. "You are an attorney. You are not a reporter?"

"No. I'm Robert Stanley's attorney." George Brown rose.

"I want your authorization to release his body."

"Ah, I wish I could give it to you," Capitaine Duval said,

regretfully. "Unfortunately, my hands are tied. I do not see

how..."

"Tomorrow."

"That is impossible! There is no way ..."

"I suggest that you get in touch with your superiors in

Paris. Stanley Enterprises has several very large factories in

France. It would be a shame if our board of directors decided

to close all of them down and build in other countries."

Capitaine Duval was staring at him. "I ... I have no

control over such matters, monsieur."

"But I do," George assured him. "You will see that Mr.

Stanley's body is released to me tomorrow, or you're going

to find yourself in more trouble than you can possibly

imagine." George turned to leave.

"Wait! Monsieur! Perhaps in a few days, I can..."

"I said tomorrow." And George was gone.

Three hours later, George Brown received a telephone

call at his hotel.

"Monsieur Brown? Ah, I have wonderful news for you! I

have managed to arrange for Mr. Stanley's body to be

released to you immediately. I hope you appreciate the

trouble ..."

"Thank you. A private plane will leave here at eight

o'clock tomorrow morning to take us back. I assume all the

proper papers will be in order by then."

"Yes, of course. Do not worry. I will see to..."

"Good." George replaced the receiver.

Capitaine Duval sat there for a long time. Merde!

What bad luck! I could have been a celebrity for at least

another week.

When the plane carrying Robert Stanley's body landed

at LAX International Airport in Los Angeles, there was a

vehicle in which coffins are transported, waiting to meet it.

Funeral services were to be held three days later.

George Brown reported back to Frank Harold.

"So the old man is finally home," Harold said.

"It's going to be quite a reunion."

"A reunion?"

"Yes. It should be interesting," he said. "Robert Stanley's

children are coming here to celebrate their father's death.

Thomas, William, and Carmen."