“The central firm, Captain. The one that oversees all the other Cornucopia firms. They are its subsidiaries,” said Mr. Sykes, finding courage.
“I see. Does that mean that, for example, Landmark Machines doesn’t own itself? That Cornucopia owns it?”
“Yes, it does. No Cornucopia firm has much autonomy.”
“So you’re in charge, now that Mr. Skeps is dead?”
The round face screwed up as if about to burst into tears. “Oh, no, Captain, no! I occupy a limbo somewhere between middle and top management. Mr. Philip Smith is senior vice-president and a nominal managing director. I imagine that he will assume command.”
“Then where do I find Mr. Philip Smith?”
“One floor down. His office is directly under Mr. Skeps’s-the view, you understand.”
“Plus the key to the executive washroom?”
“Mr. Smith has his own washroom.”
Wow! said Carmine, but silently. He took the elevator down a floor, followed the signs and was intercepted by an elderly, beautifully dressed woman who looked him up and down as if he’d come about the janitor’s job before she reluctantly agreed that he could see Mr. Smith.
His office had that same wonderful two-sided view, but no telescope. Philip Smith himself was tall and suave, immaculately tailored in grey silk, and sported a tie Carmine had heard about but never seen: the pure silk, handmade version of the Chubb produced by an Italian designer. His shirt was French cuffed, his links understated solid gold, and his shoes handmade in St. James’s, London. He was fair and handsome, spoke with a Philadelphia Main Line drawl, and had grey eyes that perpetually hunted for a mirror in which to see himself.
“Terrible, just awful!” he said to Carmine, offering him a cigar. When Carmine declined, he offered coffee and was accepted.
“How much of a real difference does the death of Mr. Skeps make to the operation of Cornucopia?” Carmine asked.
It wasn’t a question Smith had expected; he blinked, had to stop to formulate his answer. “Actually, not a lot,” he said finally. “The day-to-day functioning of the various Cornucopia companies is left to their own management teams. Cornucopia Central is a little like the father of a large brood of children-it does all the things kids can’t do for themselves.”
You condescending prick, thought Carmine, face politely interested. I should pay you back for that with a couple of hours in a County Services interrogation room, but you’re small potatoes in spite of the wardrobe, Mr. Smith.
The coffee arrived, and gave Smith a breathing space while the snooty secretary poured-heaven forbid he should pour a cup for himself!
“Why is there an FBI special agent sniffing around your nether parts, Mr. Smith?” Carmine asked as soon as they were alone again.
But the nominal managing director was ready for that one. “Inevitable, given the number of our defense contracts,” he said smoothly. “I imagine D.C. and the Pentagon automatically take an interest in the violent death of an important man.”
“How violent do you think the death of Mr. Skeps was?”
“Well, er-I don’t know, exactly. One presumes murder to be violent by definition.”
“When did Mr. Kelly arrive?”
“Yesterday, midday. Grotesque, isn’t he?”
“No, Mr. Smith, not grotesque, which implies an unpleasant element. Special Agent Kelly is a particularly fine specimen of man. What did he do after he arrived?”
“Asked to see Desmond’s penthouse and offices. Naturally we cooperated fully.”
“Did it not occur to anyone to call Commissioner Silvestri and notify him of an FBI presence in a local murder scene?”
“No.”
“That’s a pity.”
“I don’t see why. You’re all on the same side.”
“Are we? That’s comforting to know. However, if Mr. Kelly took something from either place, the Holloman Police should be told, and were not. If you’re personally aware that anything has gone missing, I suggest you tell me right now.”
“Uh-apart from Desmond’s personal filing cabinet, nothing,” said Smith uneasily. “He kept it in his walk-in safe, but Mr. Kelly had a key and the combination. There’s nothing in it would interest the Holloman police-too esoteric. The files were all sensitive aspects of our defense contracts. You would not have the necessary security clearances, Captain Delmonico.”
“You might be surprised, Mr. Smith.”
Smith laughed derisively. “Oh, come, Captain! You’re a big fish in a very small puddle. Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Thank you for the reminder. In the meantime, I’d be grateful if you issued a Board directive to all Cornucopia Central staff to cooperate with me and mine.” Carmine rose to his feet. “My thanks for the coffee.” He went across to the Long Island Sound window and looked at his house, frowning. “Now if you seat yourself behind your desk, sir, we can get down to our real business.”
Smith obeyed, seeming uncomfortable; the suavity had gone.
“Tell me what you know about Desmond Skeps.”
“He was detestable,” Smith answered, both hands on the desk palms downward. “I doubt you’ll obtain a different opinion from anyone who knows him-knew him. Though Cornucopia is listed on the stock exchange, Desmond owned a clear majority of the shares, so he could do pretty much as he liked. And he did.”
“Can you give me an example of his doing as he liked?”
“Certainly. Cornucopia Research. We all opposed his setting up our own research laboratories, chiefly because our companies span such a gamut of industries, but he insisted. It meant a massive facility with a bill in the hundreds of millions. He was right in one way-we don’t have to go hat in hand to outside labs anymore. The research stays here in Holloman with us. When he stole Duncan MacDougall from PetroBrit, Cornucopia Research was complete. MacDougall is one of the three men in the world who can administer a unit that size. Why am I complaining? Because we’ll never recoup the outlay. Dividends plunged.”
“Did you associate personally with Mr. Skeps?”
“Naturally! Far more, however, when he was married to Philomena. Now there was an ideal tycoon’s wife! Educated, beautiful, charming, modest as women should be but rarely are. These days they’re trollops, all of them. Desmond was obsessed with Philomena, especially after Desmond Three was born, but he couldn’t overcome his completely unfounded jealousy. The pool man was her lover, the gardener, the phone technician, even the paperboy. In the end, no man who wanted to keep his job would go near her, and the poor woman had a breakdown. When she came out of it, she left Desmond for good, even though she didn’t have a bean. I respected her, Captain, truly respected her.”
Carmine glanced briefly at his papers. “I have Mrs. Skeps listed as living in Orleans, Massachusetts, sir. That doesn’t suggest she’s on the breadline. You’re going to have to explain why she didn’t-er-have a bean.”
“Desmond overstepped the mark when she sued for divorce,” said
Philip Smith. “He persecuted her-hired seedy private detectives to hound her, even kidnapped Desmond Three, though she hadn’t denied him access to the child. By the time the case got into court, she had an attorney worth his weight in gold, Anthony Bera. Expressed briefly, she was awarded astronomical alimony and sole custody of Desmond Three. She bought a property in Orleans and sent the boy to the Trinity Grey School last year. Despite her retaining Mr. Bera to watch over her interests, she isn’t a vengeful woman, Captain. Desmond continued to have access to the boy, who hasn’t been poisoned against his father.”
“I see. How long ago was the divorce?”
“Five years ago last November.”
“And has Mr. Skeps had intimate congress with other women since then? Has he a mistress? Girlfriends?”
Philip Smith looked irritated. “How would I know?”
“You had plenty of contact with the man.”
