Agnes had to die for several reasons, all of them adequate. She represented £.100,000 he would never lay his hands on otherwise — the present value of her shares in the company, left to her by her father. She was the one factor in his life he had never been able to organize. Cool, aloof, reserved, she had all the mulish obstinacy so often found in those women who apparently wouldn’t say boo to a goose. She was resilient. He could bend Agnes a long way, but she never broke. She always came back to right where she started from.
Also, she knew him, through and through — his cruelty, his rank dishonesty, his womanizing.
Agnes was fifteen years younger than Roger Railton. He had set about the business of marrying her just as methodically as he was now planning her exit from the scene. As the Managing Director’s daughter, she was worth a little trouble on Roger’s part.
Railton was Managing Director now, following his father-in-law’s death. But he wasn’t done with the family — oh, no! Agnes had what she called her obligations. She made a point of raising her voice at every Board meeting. She was a thorn, a dagger in Railton’s side. So was Saunders. He’d come into the firm four years ago — a specialist in heat-resisting alloys, a brilliant metallurgist, a forceful chap who had ideas and could put them over. Railton’s co-directors had been pressing a long time for Saunders to be appointed to the Board of Directors. So far, Railton had successfully resisted, but he knew the tide was running against him.
Yet Agnes, in spite of her interfering ways and the support she gave Saunders at Board meetings, might have survived if only she had been organizable. Roger Railton’s day was precisely ordered from his rising to his going to bed. He always knew exactly where he would be at, say, 5:07 a week from next Wednesday. Whereas Agnes neither knew nor cared where she would be or what she would be doing a half hour from now.
Bernard Saunders, in spite of his knowledge and skill, was cast in a mold similar to Agnes’. He was deceptively lazy, easy-going, and good-humored. It irked Railton that Saunders’ approach should be so nonchalant, and yet so productive. Not only did he get through an infernal lot of work, but he preserved his popularity at the factory as well.
So much for justification. Now, the means—
Bernard Saunders was coming into Roger’s office now, a big pipe between his teeth. He nodded casually as he closed the door. He accorded Railton a measure of polite respect, but his whole manner indicated that he wasn’t the man to grovel before the Managing Director of a smallish factory on the outskirts of a smallish town.
“About those struts,” he said. “I’ve had a report from the stress boys and they’re fifty percent plus. That’ll do for me. Give me the okay and I’ll get the job tooled up.”
“Deadline is the fifteenth of next month,” Railton said.
“You’ll get ’em.”
Railton glanced at a desk pad. “Your holidays start on the eighth. I suppose you’ve taken that into account?”
“I said you’ll get the stuff and you will. If necessary, I’ll postpone my three weeks to September.”
“But you’re here on the holiday list—”
“Scrub the list!”
“Surely you’ve already made arrangements? Plane reservations, hotels, and so on?”
“Me?” Saunders roared with laughter. “Not on your sweet nelly! Might go tramping in Dorset, might go to Istanbul. I’ll work that out in the ticket office at Victoria when the time comes.”
When Bernard Saunders had gone, Railton opened his file. SAUNDERS, Bernard, 34, unmarried, no feminine attachments or interests. Service flat on The Parkway.
He passed a big plump hand over his bald head and thought. Thought hard.
Roger was in no hurry. Such things should be approached calmly, objectively, carefully.
The next conversation he had with Saunders was at the Unionist Ball, held a little way out of town at Lord Vardy’s place. Railton had no urgent political loyalties, but social life can’t be entirely ignored in a satellite community 30 miles from London. He took Agnes, of course. One has to keep up pretenses.
A few of the boys were there, competitors who would grab Saunders if they had a chance. Railton towered above them at the bar — he was a big powerful man — and talked in a patronizing sort of way. Bernard Saunders was cheerful but steady after a few drinks. Rooke, the company’s Secretary, was talking to Dwyer, the Export Manager. One of Railton’s competitors was staring mournfully into his glass and shaking his head.
“Your wife’s father would turn in his grave if he saw what you’ve done to the old place,” he said.
“My wife’s father was old-fashioned — he wasn’t in touch.”
“You mean he wasn’t so bloody avaricious as you are. Special alloys — why, you’ve chivvied around for the sake of a few tin-pot contracts and lost half the reputation he took a lifetime to build up. And you’d have lost the other half if Saunders hadn’t put the brake on.”
“It’s a matter of organization,” Railton said. He looked vaguely round the big overheated room. “Where’s Agnes, I wonder?”
“Sitting it out behind the potted palms,” Rooke suggested.
Bernard Saunders took another glass from a convenient tray. “You can have too much damned organization,” he said. “That’s your chief trouble, Railton.”
Railton’s dislike welled up. Saunders’ use of his surname was deliberate, a calculated slight.
“What’s my chief trouble?” he asked.
“You could organize anything from a flea circus to a nuclear war, but there’s never any elasticity about your plans. They don’t bend. Where are you if anything goes haywire? The man who keeps the wind in his sails is the one who can change course at a moment’s notice.”
“Change course!” Railton repeated slowly. “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong! I can change course with the next. You see, Bernard boy, my mind’s organized as well as my habits. Give me just fifteen seconds and I’ll have scrapped one line of action and taken up another — and that goes for poker or running the show that pays your damned inflated salary.”
Saunders clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m proud to work for you, Railton!”
None of this had been quite accidental. Railton knew exactly what he was doing.
He rescued his wife from the arms of a languid junior executive. Agnes had never been a vividly pretty girl, but she had charm, and she looked very young and attractive now as she smiled up at her husband. Mockery, of course, was behind the smile. Others might not notice it, but Railton did.
“You know my wife?” he said to Saunders, who was passing.
“We’ve met,” Saunders said. “How d’you do, Mrs. Railton.”
“I’m hot and tired,” she said. “Does anyone have a cigarette?”
Railton gave her one, and lit it.
“It’s late,” he said, “but I want to see a man named Dean on some business. He’s staying overnight at the Victoria Hotel. Shall you wait till I come back, Agnes? Or perhaps Saunders could drop you off on his way home. That would save me the trip back.”
“Glad to,” Saunders agreed. “Give me a nudge when you’re ready to leave, Mrs. Railton. I’ll be at the bar.”
There was no man named Dean staying at the Victoria. Nor did Railton go there or even leave Lord Vardy’s premises, though he kept out of his wife’s way, and Saunders’. He kept his eye on them till they both left about 12:45, then he made his way back to the bar for a nightcap.
After a carefully timed interval he touched Rooke’s shoulder. “Have you seen my wife?” he asked.