Aaron approached the closed double doors, opened the right panel, and peered inside. At the far end of the ornate Victorian room sat Eleanor Devereaux on a brocaded white couch, a glistening silver tea service on the coffee table in front of her. She was as he remembered her, an erect, fine-boned woman, with an aging face that must have launched a thousand yachts in its prime, and with large blue eyes that said far more than she would ever reveal.
«Mrs. Devereaux, how good to see you again.»
«Mr. Pinkus, how good to see you. Please come and sit down.»
«Thank you.» Aaron walked inside, conscious of the huge, priceless Oriental rug beneath his feet. He lowered himself into the white brocaded armchair to the right of the sofa, the spot indicated by a nod of Mrs. Devereaux’s aristocratic head.
«From the rather frantic laughter I heard in the hallway,» said the grand lady, «I gather you’ve met Cousin Cora, our maid.»
«Your cousin …?»
«If she weren’t, do you think she’d last five minutes in this house? In a family sense, being more fortunate imposes certain obligations, doesn’t it?»
«Noblesse oblige, madam. And very nicely said.»
«Yes, I suppose so, but I wish to hell nobody ever had to say it. One day she’ll choke on the whisky she steals and the obligation will be over, won’t it?»
«A logical conclusion.»
«But you’re not here to discuss Cora, are you?… Chamomile tea, Mr. Pinkus? Cream or lemon, sugar or no?»
«Forgive me, Mrs. Devereaux, but I must resist. An old man’s aversion to volatile oil.»
«Good! An old woman’s, too. This fourth little dear I fill myself.» Eleanor picked up a Limoges teapot to the left of the silver service. «A fine thirty-year-old brandy, Mr. Pinkus, and its kind of acid couldn’t hurt anybody. I also wash the damn thing myself, so Cora doesn’t get ideas.»
«My very favorite, Mrs. Devereaux,» said Aaron. «And I shan’t tell my doctor, so he won’t get any ideas.»
«L’chaim, Mr. Pinkus,» toasted Eleanor Devereaux, pouring them each a good dram and then raising her teacup.
«À votre santé, Mrs. Devereaux,» said Aaron.
«No, no, Mr. Pinkus. The Devereaux name may be French, but my husband’s ancestors migrated to England in the fifteenth century—actually they were captured during the battle of Crécy but stayed long enough to raise their own armies and be knighted by the crown. We’re High Anglican.»
«So what should I say?»
«How about ‘Up your banners’?»
«That’s religious?»
«If you’re convinced He’s on your side, I imagine it is.» They both sipped, and replaced their cups in the delicate saucers. «That’s a good beginning, Mr. Pinkus. And now shall we plunge right into the puzzling issue at hand—namely, my son?»
«I believe it would be prudent,» nodded Aaron, glancing at his watch. «Right now he’s about to go into a conference entailing an extremely complex litigation that should take the better part of several hours. However, as we both agreed over the telephone, these past months he’s frequently displayed erratic behavior; he might very well leave the conference in midsentence and drive home.»
«Or go to a museum or a movie or, God forbid, to the airport and take a plane to heaven knows where,» interrupted Eleanor Devereaux. «I’m all too aware of Sam’s impetuous proclivities. Only two Sundays ago I returned from church and discovered a note that he’d left for me on the kitchen table. In it he wrote that he was out and would call me later. He did so during dinner. From Switzerland.»
«Our experiences are too painfully similar, so I will not take up our time recounting my and my firm’s variations.»
«Is my son in danger of losing his position, Mr. Pinkus?»
«Not if I can help it, Mrs. Devereaux. I’ve looked too long and too hard for a successor to give up so easily. But I’d be less than honest if I told you that the status quo was acceptable. It isn’t. It’s not fair to Sam or to the firm.»
«I’m in total agreement. What can we do—what can I do?»
«At the risk of presuming on the privilege of privacy, and I do so only out of affection and professional concern of the highest regard, what can you tell me about your son that might shed light on his increasingly enigmatic behavior? I assure you that whatever is said between us will remain in the strictest confidence—as it were, a lawyer-client relationship, although I would never presume to be your attorney of choice.»
«Dear Mr. Pinkus, a number of years ago I could never presume to approach you to be my attorney of choice. Had I felt that I was capable of paying your fee, I might have salvaged large sums of money owed my husband’s estate after his death.»
«Oh …?»
«Lansing Devereaux steered a great many of his colleagues into immensely lucrative situations with the understanding of reasonable participation after their venture capital was recouped. Once he died, only a few honored those agreements, a precious few.»
«Agreements? Written agreements?»
«Lansing was not the most precise person when it came to specifics. However, there were minutes of meetings, synopses of business conversations, that sort of thing.»
«You have copies of these?»
«Of course. I was told they were worthless.»
«Your son, Samuel, confirmed that judgment?»
«I’ve never shown him those papers and I never will… He had a rather painful adolescence in some regards, no doubt character building, but why open healed wounds?»
«One day we may go back to those ‘worthless’ papers, Mrs. Devereaux, but at the moment let’s return—to the moment. What happened to your son in the army? Have you any idea?»
«He had a ‘rather good show,’ as the British say. He was a legal officer both here and overseas and, I’m told, did outstanding work in the Far East. When he was discharged, he was an adjutant in the office of the Inspector General with the temporary rank of major. You don’t do much better than that.»
«The Far East?» said Aaron, his antennae picking up a nuance. «What did he do in the Far East?»
«China, of course. You probably wouldn’t remember because his contribution was ‘played down,’ as they say politically, but he negotiated the release of that crazy American general in Beijing, the one who shot the … private parts … off a venerated statue in the Forbidden City.»
«‘Madman’ MacKenzie Hawkins?»
«Yes, I believe that was his name.»
«The most certifiable lunatic of the lunatic fringe? The gorilla’s guerilla who almost plunged the entire planet into World War Three? Sam represented him?»
«Yes. In China. Apparently he did a fine job.»
Aaron swallowed several times before he found his voice again. «Your son never mentioned any of this to me,» he said barely audibly.
«Well, Mr. Pinkus, you know the military. So much is hush-hush, as I understand it.»
«Hush-hush, mush-mush,» mumbled Boston’s celebrated attorney, in his voice a Talmudic prayer. «Tell me, Mrs. Devereaux, did Sammy—»
«Sam or Samuel, Mr. Pinkus.»
«Yes, of course… Did Sam ever mention this General Hawkins to you after his separation from the army?»
«Not with that title or that name, and never when he was entirely sober… I should explain that before he was discharged and came back to Boston, somewhat later than we expected, I should add—»
«Don’t add to me, Mrs. Devereaux. Explain to the deli that supplied fifty pounds of lox why he never showed up.»
«I beg your pardon?»