“I hope so-and I hope in the same company.” He paused, aware he had betrayed his thoughts. “What I mean is, this seems like the best possible way to start the day.”
She looked at him. “How nice of you,” she said with a smile. As he returned it, she stopped suddenly and turned halfway toward him.
“Happy birthday,” she said. She lifted her head and parted her lips slightly.
It was one of the few impulsive things she had ever done. She was not in the habit of allowing herself to be kissed except by very old friends, and then only infrequently.
To George she was at that moment utterly desirable. The touch of her warm lips electrified him; he had to restrain himself from crushing her hard against him.
A car came up the hill and swept the parking area with its lights as it made the curve. George continued to hold her during the moment they were on display and after the car had passed. Then he gently released her and found himself unsure on his feet as he guided her back across the gravel.
When he dropped her off at her parents’ lodge, he did not attempt to kiss her again. He wished her good night and drove back to Sun Valley contented with himself and the world. The next step would be to find out if she could sail a boat; if not, he could teach her.
chapter 12
When Virgil Tibbs arrived a few minutes before eight to keep his evening appointment with Walter McCormack, he found Walter Brown waiting for him at the entrance to the estate. As soon as Virgil pulled his car up before the iron grillwork, the chauffeur recognized him and swung open the gates that guarded the private drive. Tibbs paused to thank him.
“I got orders to let you in,” Brown told him. “How’d you manage to get invited?”
“It took some work,” Virgil admitted. “He did invite me, though, so no one is going to get fired.”
“I know that, but how you got the old goat to give in I can’t figure. Park right up by the door-nobody else is coming.”
As Virgil guided his car up the curving driveway, daylight was still strong on the glittering water and the wind from the west was charged with the salty tang of the ocean. He paused for a moment after he got out of his car to look out over the long coastline and fill his lungs with the fresh, inviting air. Then, regretfully directing his mind back to business, he pushed the bell and waited to be admitted.
Walter McCormack received him in his study; he was seated behind what could only be a wealthy man’s desk and seemed in no haste to rise. He was thin and of slight build, probably in his early seventies. He wore a cashmere coat that was severely cut in a conservative pattern; its narrow lapels emphasized his thin long nose, which divided his face like a hatchet blade. For a quick moment Virgil thought of Lombroso, the Italian criminologist who maintained that a person’s character was revealed in the set of his features. Although that theory had long since ben disproved, Walter McCormack did look the aristocrat, fully accustomed to imposing his will on others. As Tibbs entered the room, McCormack at last rose halfway to his feet and offered a thin hand, which was cool to the touch. “Sit down, Mr. Tibbs,” he said formally.
He waited until his guest was comfortable and then continued as though in the same breath.
“Suppose we come right to the point and save each other a great deal of time. We are both fully aware that the stock option you hold is a device and nothing more. You are a police officer of good repute, but with no outside financial resources. You could not possibly afford to exercise the option that you hold, and it is therefore worthless.”
“Quite,” Virgil agreed without turning a hair.
“Very well. Let me add that when you first called my home had I been told that a police officer wished to see me officially, you would not have needed to resort to ridiculous extremes to arrange an appointment. For this I apologize; my instructions to my staff did not anticipate such a contingency.”
“I’m very relieved to hear that,” Tibbs answered. He folded his hands in his lap. “It’s very seldom that a responsible citizen refuses to see a policeman.”
“Obviously. Now, what can I do for you?”
Virgil opened his notebook; with this man he did not fear the psychological results of doing so. “As you will have surmised, I am investigating the death of Dr. Albert Roussel.”
“Are you the officer in charge?”
“For the present at least, I am.”
“All right, what are your questions?”
Virgil got down to business. “How well did you know the deceased?”
“Very well-over a period of several years.”
“To your knowledge did he have any enemies in this country who might have been waiting for his return?”
“Unequivocally no. I seriously doubt that he ever had an enemy in the world. Dr. Roussel had a rare gift for making himself liked everywhere he went. Also there was nothing in his work to generate hatred.”
Tibbs took a moment to look at a magnificent sea painting that hung over the fireplace. “Is there a possibility he might have anticipated someone else’s patents or research-innocently, of course?”
McCormack shook his head and settled down further behind his desk. “Extremely doubtful. If any parallel work was being done, I am quite sure I would know of it. Dr. Roussel was a highly original research worker who plowed new ground wherever he turned his mind and interests.”
Virgil made a note, writing for several seconds before he resumed the conversation. “May I ask your opinion, sir, regarding the offer to buy out Roussel Rights?”
McCormack gave him a shrewd look. “You aren’t thinking of trying to sell your option, are you?”
Tibbs shook his head, letting it go at that.
McCormack continued, “The offer was originally made with the assumption that Dr. Roussel would continue actively in his research into photographic chemistry. That is of course impossible now. Despite this misfortune, the patents we hold are basic and have a considerable time to run. Each year the royalties paid have increased, and there is no sign of a letdown. Is that sufficient information?”
“I believe so. Since you are the business manager for the company, I presume you can tell me what is now likely to happen to Dr. Roussel’s personal beholdings.”
McCormack thought that over as he rubbed the end of his nose. “I see no harm in telling you,” he said at last. “The information will be public in a few days, and of course I realize the importance of the job you are doing.”
He shifted and sat up a little straighter in his chair. He remained a small man, but one with an aura of dignity that gave him a measure of strength.
“Dr. Roussel had only one living close relative-his sister Margaret, toward whom he felt very close. However, for very sound reasons she is not his heir.”
Virgil lifted an eyebrow and waited for more.
“Margaret is married and has a daughter, a suitable and proper young woman. I don’t know if you are aware of this, Mr. Tibbs-you probably are-but where major sums of money are concerned, it is quite usual to skip one generation in making a bequest. If I were fortunate enough to have descendants, I would leave my estate to my grandson. It would be understood within the family that my son would use and administer the funds as long as he lived and remained capable. Upon his death my grandson would then take over without the necessity of paying another inheritance tax. Dr. Roussel observed that principle in leaving his estate to his niece. Actually Margaret is a member of his own generation, so the legacy is going down only one step instead of two.”
For a moment Virgil Tibbs remained silent. “Will Miss Boardman have any say concerning her legacy? I put that badly; I meant to ask if her mother will assume full control or if she herself will be consulted.”
This time McCormack did some thinking before he replied. “Knowing the family as I do, I would assume that Ellen will be regarded as the heir and her parents will advise her only if they are consulted. Mr. Boardman is a retiring person who is doing exactly what he wants to do, and the same largely pertains to his wife. They have all the money they want for themselves. They are genuinely happy people who have no desire for world travel or anything like that.”