“People to be envied,” Tibbs said.
“Agreed.”
A maid entered the room with a small box and a glass of water. McCormack took them, swallowed a pill, and handed them back. “What is your choice of refreshment?” he asked.
“Anything cold, if it isn’t too much trouble,” Virgil answered. He knew better than to refuse.
When the girl had left, Tibbs picked up the conversation. “Mr. McCormack, what I have to discuss with you now is confidential.”
“Very well.” The financier nodded.
“You are aware, of course, that there is apparently an even division of opinion among the surviving stockholders concerning the sale of the company.”
“Yes. Mrs. Pratt and Mr. Peterson want to sell; Mr. Holt-Rymers and I are opposed to the idea.”
“Do you know how Dr. Roussel would have voted?”
“I do. He would have opposed the sale.”
“Is this your opinion, sir, or are you stating a known fact?”
“I am stating a known fact. Dr. Roussel wrote to me privately on the matter. I can produce the letter, if you wish.”
Virgil Tibbs felt a great sense of relief; one important fact had been pinned down. He kept his face composed with an effort when he spoke. “For the present, at least, your statement is quite sufficient. Now, another matter. When I called on her, Mrs. Pratt told me that she and Dr. Roussel were to have been married shortly after the stockholders’ meeting. Might that have changed Dr. Roussel’s view of the matter?”
McCormack sat suddenly erect. “I don’t believe it,” he said emphatically. “I’m not questioning your statement, but I can’t accept Joyce’s that she and Albert were to have been married. At one time, many years ago, Albert was quite fond of her-a sort of collegiate puppy-love affair. Later on he completely outgrew that sentiment and she remained, at the most, a friend. She helped organize and finance the company because she knew a good thing, but it was strictly a business matter.”
“You would say, then, that Mrs. Pratt was lying to me?” Tibbs asked.
McCormack answered without flinching, “I can’t interpret it any other way. If Albert had any such ideas, he would have let me know since it concerned the company. I might say,” he added, “that Dr. Roussel and I were a lot closer than many people knew, Mrs. Pratt included.”
The maid re-entered with a tray, which she set beside Tibbs. On it were two Pilsner-type glasses and two plain ones filled with ice, a choice of two imported brands of beer, and an assortment of four bottled soft drinks. When Virgil indicated a lemon-lime mix, she uncapped it and poured it into an iced glass. In deference to his guest McCormack made a similar choice and then waited until they were once more alone.
“Mr. Peterson?” Tibbs asked, knowing he would be understood.
“A brash and careless opportunist. He had an early success based entirely on his football fame; then the going got rougher. He advised several clients badly and they lost money. He came with us after meeting Joyce Pratt at a party and falling a little under her spell. That is, assuming she has one, which is open to question.”
“In my case, definitely,” Tibbs agreed. “Is Mr. Peterson married?”
“Yes, but I believe he is now involved in divorce proceedings.”
“Recently instituted?” Tibbs asked with interest.
“Yes, although the trouble dates back a few years, I understand.”
“Do you consider Mr. Peterson to be truthful and reliable in his statements?”
“I’m afraid I think he would say whatever he felt would do him the most good.”
“Do you know why he went to Europe about three months ago?”
“He said business, but I know of no business he has that would involve him in such a trip.”
“At the risk of appearing irrelevant, where do you customarily hold your board meetings, or other business conferences?”
“Here. Possibly out of respect for my senior status. I send my car for Mrs. Pratt. The others come by themselves.”
Tibbs sipped at his drink. His throat was dry from talking. “You have been most helpful,” he said when he was finished. “Have you any idea who killed Dr. Roussel?”
McCormack leaned back in his chair and thought for a full half minute. “No,” he said finally. “I have a suspicion, but it is an unfair one and I have no evidence whatsoever to support it.”
Virgil took a final drink from his glass and rose to his feet. “If it becomes necessary or desirable, Mr. McCormack, for me to see you again, may I phone you?”
McCormack looked at him evenly. “Of course you can. I am assuming, Mr. Tibbs, that like everyone else you regard my seclusion as arbitrary. Allow me to assure you that it is not.” He stopped and tasted his own drink.
“I keep very much to myself because it has been forced on me. My wife is dead. We had no children. I have no living relatives, as far as I know. I do have a substantial financial holding and this is the source of my difficulty.”
He paused, but Tibbs did not interrupt.
“You would never believe the extent to which I have been plagued by requests and demands for money. Some were worthy, of course, but others were totally selfish. The fact that I am getting old and have no heirs has focused attention on me. People have pushed their way into my home and have even invaded my bedroom at night. I have been subjected to every artifice and subterfuge imaginable; I could write a definitive treatise on human greed. It is unlimited, Mr. Tibbs, and it is sometimes absolutely conscienceless. It will betray anyone and will even resort to murder, as I fear you know all too well. My only defense has been to shut myself away from everyone and forgo the normal pleasures that lie outside my gate. I am well taken care of here and I have provided generously for my staff, although I have not told them so.”
Virgil listened, taking in the full meaning of McCormack’s words. When the older man had finished, Tibbs said, “Thank you for your help. As far as I am able, I’ll respect your privacy. Understanding your reasons, let me say that I don’t think I would care to trade with you. Even if I could-in all respects.”
McCormack understood. “Your day is coming,” he said. “The restrictions that have been imposed on your people are vanishing, as they must. And you wouldn’t wish to trade your years for mine.”
McCormack rose and for the first time came out from behind his desk. He walked toward Tibbs with a curious stiffness; Virgil glanced at his feet and saw the unbroken smoothness of the shoes that had never been flexed. “Please don’t-” he began.
McCormack waved him to silence. “I lost my legs more than fifty years ago and I have done very nicely without them ever since.” He came over and shook hands. “A railroad train cut them off. I invested the settlement I received and was very fortunate. At such a price I bought my independence.”
Virgil drove home with a curious mixture of emotions. He realized that though he had been warned to expect a ruthless aristocrat, he liked Walter McCormack and for that reason, as well as others, hoped that the financier had been telling him the truth.
chapter 13
Shortly after nine the following morning, which was Saturday, Walter McCormack personally made a long-distance telephone call. A few minutes thereafter his comfortable, air-conditioned black Cadillac purred down his private drive, swung through the gateway, and turned eastward. Almost two hours later it pulled up smoothly under Brown’s expert guidance in the driveway of Pine Shadows Lodge. The chauffeur held the rear door open while the owner emerged. Then, for more than an hour and a half, the financier conferred with Ellen Boardman and her parents.
When the meeting was over, Ellen left McCormack talking with her parents and, pushing open the front door of the lodge, stepped out into the shade of the tall trees. She shook her head and automatically brushed the sides of her hair back into place. She seemed to be almost unaware of her surroundings. She was realizing that being rich didn’t fit into her own picture of her life at all.