“That was a generous way of looking at it,” Tibbs said.
“There’s no such thing as success without risk. Well, as you know, Al came through and my little investment in him paid off handsomely. A woman he had known for some time put up some more capital, and a holding company was formed. It was largely four people: Al, Walter McCormack, a fellow named Ozzie Peterson who had made quite a bit playing professional football, and the woman-Joyce Pratt. Have you met her?”
“Yes,” Tibbs answered.
“She was the moving spirit and more or less ran things, with McCormack as the actual business manager. Then Al tossed in the golden apple:-he put it that since I had invested money in his work early in the game when no one else would take a chance on him, I would have to be an equal partner in the deal. That upset little Joyce a lot. As an artist, I had no social standing, of course, and my modest investment was peanuts compared to all the others. However, Al made it stick and I got a full fifth of the company. After that I could paint without having to worry where the beer and skittles were coming from. Now that I’m hung in a few museums here and there and the price of my stuff keeps going up on the market, Joyce has more or less accepted me as an endurable evil.”
“Now there’s a deal on to sell the company.”
“Yes.”
“A good one?”
“No. Even with Al gone, the assets will grow in value. The patents Al left us are basic, and aren’t likely to be outdated for a long time.”
“Do you know how Joyce feels?”
“She’s money-hungry and wants to sell. Since her husband died, she has no more coming in from that source and she wants all she can get right now.”
“McCormack?”
“I don’t really know, but he’s pretty cagey and I would guess he’d like to hang on.”
“How about Peterson?”
“My guess is he would like to sell.”
“So it looks like two and two, then, with Dr. Roussel, up to the time of his death, holding the balance of power.”
“As I see it, yes.”
“Do you know what his feelings were on the matter?” Tibbs drank the remainder of his beer, which had lost its chill and was a little flat.
“Not definitely, but I’m pretty sure he was for hanging on. He knew his stuff was good and he had more coming up. The man was a genius in his field.”
“Did you see him any time during this last visit?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I was out of town.”
“Where?”
“Out in the desert by myself-painting.”
Tibbs decided, for his own reasons, on an abrupt change of subject. “I want to see Walter McCormack,” he said.
“And he won’t let you in,” Holt-Rymers said.
“Out at his place I was told that if anyone admitted me, he would be fired on the spot.”
“Probably true. McCormack is a stiff-necked old buzzard who still believes in the ruling aristocracy, of which he has elected himself a life member. Decent enough in his way, but to him a servant is a thing-a chattel. So are the citizens of the republic, with the exception of the few who travel in his circle.”
“How do you stand with him?”
“Strangely, he accepts me. In his opinion my pictures raise me above the masses because he happens to like them. I’m not considered to be on his level, of course, but I’m like Beethoven-allowed to live under the roof.”
“Can you get me in to see him?”
“I doubt it. Don’t misunderstand me-I’d be glad to try, but my tolerance doesn’t extend beyond myself.”
Tibbs laced his fingers together. “I’d like to ask a favor of you,” he said. “I’d like a three-day option to buy your stock in the holding company. I know you have an agreement and that I can’t exercise it. Also I don’t have that kind of money.”
Holt-Rymers got up from his chair, went to the refrigerator, and came back with two more beers. He handed one to Virgil, took a swallow of his own, and then asked, “As a lever to get in to see McCormack?”
“If I had the option, he might invite me over-just to tell me I can’t use it,” Virgil added.
“You might make him mad.”
“Then we’d be even. He irritated me.”
Holt-Rymers took a moment to think. “I’ll trade you,” he said after drinking more beer. “You get the option, provided you give me a proper safeguard against its use, if you’ll do a favor for me.”
“Traffic ticket?” Tibbs asked.
The artist looked at him. “You call that a trade? No, something else entirely. I want you to introduce me at the nudist camp-that is, if you’ve been there and know the people.”
“I’ve been there, all right, but you don’t need me for that.”
“In a way I do.” Holt-Rymers tipped back his head and drank deeply from the can. “Suppose I hire a model and she reports to me here. I put her on a stand and go to work, but what kind of feeling do I get? Closed in, restricted-with the shutters down to keep people from peeking in while I’m at work. Results-one bad picture. If I could arrange with the nudist-camp people to paint there occasionally, it could make all the difference. I’d provide my own model, but if there are people out there who might be willing to work for me for a fee, so much the better. With real outdoor light and space around me, I could create some things worth looking at. Do you think they would go for it?”
Virgil reflected on it for a few seconds. “I’ll give it a try,” he offered. “They are intelligent, reasonable people and I think they’ll buy it. And I can think of one possible subject for you-their daughter. About eighteen and quite attractive. You might even call her beautiful.”
Holt-Rymers pointed to the telephone. Virgil crossed the room, and picked up the phone. When Forrest answered, he outlined the proposition, listened, and waited while Linda was consulted. After five minutes on the line he hung up and, with a sense of satisfaction, turned back to his host.
“You’re in,” he announced.
The artist got to his feet. “Give me a couple of minutes to get dressed; then we can go over to the bank building and have the option drawn up in proper legal style. That will give you something to show McCormack, and he’ll want to see it. How do you plan to convince him that you can afford to buy in?”
“By keeping my mouth shut. If I act as though I have the money, it will be up to him to challenge it.”
“I’d give a lot to be there,” Holt-Rymers said as he left the room.
chapter 11
The office of O. W. Peterson, investment securities, was in Beverly Hills; as he drove there, Tibbs allowed himself a little self-satisfaction. A completely legal option permitting him to buy the stock in Roussel Rights, Inc., held by William Holt-Rymers crackled in his pocket. That ought to take care of Mr. Walter McCormack, who had no time to see busy policemen charged with, among other things, the responsibility for protecting him and his property. And without his property, Tibbs guessed, the austere Mr. McCormack might find the world a tough place to live in.
Traffic was crowded and slow on Wilshire Boulevard, particularly after Tibbs passed the Beverly Hilton headed east. He entered the colony of new high-rise buildings and searched for a parking lot without a full sign. With his license number he could have made use of a red-curb zone, but he was a firm believer in the principle that police powers carried with them police obligations. Two blocks past his destination he found a lot open, parked, and walked back.
Peterson was in and expecting him when he arrived. In contrast to the artist he had left a short time ago, Tibbs sensed an immediate hostility-in the office girl, who raised her too-plucked eyebrows before she announced him, and in the broker when Virgil met him. He felt that he was in the camp of the enemy.