Downey crossed to the old man’s chair and took his arm to help him up. Judd looked over his shoulder. “Think about that proposition of mine, Russ.”
“I will. Sleep well.”
The old man went away, leaning on Downey’s arm, feeble and full of pride.
Hastings left his wineglass behind and went outside. When he hit the open air he waited for it to revive him. The night air held a chill; he rammed his hands into his pockets. Under the stars it was as if he had stepped back a hundred years through time, and he felt tensions drain out of him as if he had pulled a plug. He heard the mourning hoot of a mountain owl. Somewhere on those slopes prowled the night-hunting predators; the world here, for a brief time perhaps, was still in balance. He stood in the empty silence, not reckoning time, thinking about Judd’s offer.
22. Steve Wyatt
Wyatt went over Hackman’s file on Arthur Rademacher for the third time, closed the folder, and sat back to blow smoke out of his nostrils and stare toward the ceiling, going back over it and making sure he had all of it ready on the tip of his tongue. He had to have it letter perfect; there was too much at stake this time to play it by ear. He spent half an hour rehearsing just how he would do it, and in the end he smiled and got up from his couch and sauntered into the bedroom.
She lay curled in a tight knot. Her sleeping face was composed, gentle, reflecting quiet happiness; she made a small curved mound under the sheet. He glanced at the clock and got onto the bed with her, snuggling close, fitting tight against her back; he slid his hand under her arm and cupped her breast.
Anne turned her face up, smiling to herself, her eyes half-closed; she looked warm and drowsy. She moved her shoulder under his chin so he could kiss her. She made him think of all the sagging middle-aged ones he had hustled-she had so much that none of them had ever owned. It was too bad her name had to be Goralski. He printed light kisses on her nose, her cheek, her mouth and chin. Sweet and warm, she turned over slowly, burrowing, and twisted her torso to feed him a saucy little breast. She murmured, “Aren’t you going to take your clothes off?”
He grunted and got out of bed, reaching automatically for a cigarette. Anne’s frown was like a child’s, solemn and innocent. Wyatt lit up and moved to the mirror to check his tie, and she said to him, “You’re smoking too much-do you know you’re smoking almost three packs a day?”
“Now that’s starting, is it?”
“What?”
“Don’t be a nag, darling,” he said, shooting his cuffs and inspecting his teeth in the mirror.
She said, “What are you doing?”
“What do I appear to be doing? I’ve got to go out.”
“Now? Tonight?”
“It’s only eight-thirty.”
She looked in puzzlement at the clock. “So it is. When did I fall asleep?”
“About an hour ago. You were exhausted.”
“As well I might be. You sex maniac.” She was grinning gaily.
“It’s business,” he said, “and very important. I should be back around midnight.”
“Business? On a Saturday night?”
“Don’t you believe me?” He gave her a warm look of amusement. “I suppose you think I’ve got energy left over to go out and rape some other woman.”
“But what kind of business could-”
“I don’t want to talk about it now.”
“Why not, darling?”
“I just don’t,” he said. “I haven’t time. I’ll see you later.” He kissed her with feigned passion and left.
He made the drive in his bright cocky Jaguar from New York, by way of the Turnpike and the Raritan Bridge, in just over an hour. Arthur Rademacher’s imposing house was set back from a curving street in Edison amid its own miniature rain forest. Carrying a thin attache case, he walked up to the door, straightened his jacket, made sure his smile was on straight, and rang.
Ethel Rademacher was a stout, elderly woman with blue hair and a Rushmorean countenance; she gave her imperious caw of welcome and admitted him, explaining that the servants had retired for the night. It made him smile slightly; he knew the Rademachers had dismissed the last of their live-in staff some time ago. It was necessary for Mrs. Rademacher to keep up pretenses, and that was both ridiculous and a point in Wyatt’s favor.
Arthur Rademacher was on his feet in the drawing room, an old man whose white hair and eyebrows had the flowing fineness of the formerly blond. Wyatt crossed the room with long masculine strides to shake his hand. “You look good, Arthur.”
The old man gave him a quick, firm handshake, said, “I’ve got a new taxidermist,” and spoke to his wife: “We’ll be in my office.” And showed Wyatt into the private office with a flourish.
By choosing a chair other than the customary one, Wyatt intended to throw the old man off balance. But if the trick had effect, Arthur Rademacher gave no sign of it. He settled into his high leather chair with the slow movements of incipient arthritis, a gaunt antique with eyes gone pale with watery age. He had to swivel his chair to face the younger man, and when he did, he had Steve Wyatt against a lamp in silhouette. Nonetheless, Wyatt veiled his eyes when he said with false geniality, “It was good of you to see me at this hour.”
The old man sucked on his teeth to keep them in place. “Quite all right, Steve boy. I’m so old they don’t trust me with much work anymore-a few papers to push around on the desk, that’s about all. In any event, I’ve always got time for Fran Wyatt’s boy. It’s been too long since I’ve seen you. Well, then, what’s this business matter that’s so urgent it needs discussing on a Saturday evening?”
“Well, sir, you see, I’ve been approached with an offer for an excellent position.”
“Very glad to hear it.”
“But it seems I need your help.”
“My help?” The old man moved a hand in a self-deprecating gesture. “I doubt there’s much I can do any more, you know.”
“The fact is, I’ve been offered a job that doesn’t exist yet. It can come into existence only with your help. Now, I understand you were approached a few days ago by representatives of Nuart Galleries with an offer to-”
“Absurd,” the old man snapped, cutting him off. “The whole thing was absurd. They incorporate their damned firm one day and they want to buy Melbard the next. It’s absurd. Put an old-line company like Melbard in the hands of those Madison Avenue upstarts and it would fall apart overnight. They deal in nothing but sham and pretense, those people-art fashions and fads that change from one minute to the next; what could they know about anything as solid and sturdy as Melbard?”
“Sir, we thought that might be the reason why you turned down the offer. That’s why I’ve come to see you.”
“You? Involved with that pack of Madison Avenue frauds?” The old man shaped his mouth with delicious cruel emphasis around the words “Madison Avenue,” as if they were the foulest epithet in the language.
Wyatt thought, The old fart. He made his voice conciliatory: “Well, sir, after all, it is Elliot Judd’s daughter who owns Nuart. We’re not really talking about a gang of young opportunists without background or breeding, are we? From what I understand, it wouldn’t hurt Melbard Chemical to have an infusion of Judd money. Besides, Elliot Judd is a big stockholder in Melbard-we’d only be keeping it in the family, in a manner of speaking.”
“Then why not keep it in the Melbard family-my family?” The old man snorted. He had a disturbing trick of clicking his false teeth like castanets. Either he hadn’t heard of, or didn’t want to bother with, denture adhesives. He said, “I certainly don’t see what makes Melbard Chemical so desirable to your Madison Avenue friends. It’s hardly in their line.”
“But you’d have to agree it’s a good investment-a sound company. All it needs is an injection of capital to
