Webster was frozen out.
Of course, no one was to be told anything yet. But Bobby Webster wasn’t even to be talked to. About anything. Cooper wasn’t to initiate or accept any communications whatsoever from Webster.
He wondered what Webster had done.
It didn’t matter. He wasn’t even curious any longer, if the truth were known. He just wanted his part over with so he could come back to Rutland and spend the days at peace.
No more subtleties.
He just didn’t care; he’d do the job for Green—he owed him that. Owed it to Genessee Industries and all his memories, his ambitions.
He even owed it to Paul Bonner, the poor son-of-a-bitch. Bonner was a sacrifice, a necessary casualty, as he understood it.
His only hope was, of all things, executive clemency.
From President Trevayne.
Wasn’t that ironic?
The goddamn subtleties…
41
«Mr. Trevayne?»
«Yes.»
«Bob Webster here. How are you?»
«Fine. And you?»
«A little shook up, I’m afraid. I think I led you into a rotten situation, a very bad scene.»
«What’s the matter?»
«Before we go into it, I’ve got to make one thing clear; I mean, I have to emphasize it … I’m the one responsible. Nobody else. Do you understand?»
«I do… I think I do.»
«Good. That’s damned important.»
«Now I’m sure I do. What is it?»
«Your visit to Greenwich. To De Spadante the other day. You were seen.»
«Oh?… Is that a problem?»
«There’s more, but that’s primarily it.»
«Why’s it so serious? We didn’t advertise, that’s true; on the other hand, we didn’t try to hide it.»
«You didn’t mention it to the papers, though.»
«I didn’t think it was necessary. The office put out a short statement that violence wasn’t the answer to anything. That’s what they carried. Sam Vicarson issued it; I approved it. There’s still nothing to hide.»
«Perhaps I’m not making myself clear. It looks as though you and De Spadante held a secret meeting… There were photographs taken.»
«What? Where? I don’t remember any photographer. Of course, there were a lot of people in the parking lot…»
«Not in the parking lot. Inside the room.»
«Inside the room? What the hell … Oh? Oh, good God! Jujubes.»
«What was that?»
«Nothing… What about the photographs?»
«They’re damaging. I saw a copy. Two copies, actually. You and De Spadante looked like you were engrossed in heavy conversation.»
«We were. Where did you see them?»
«Rod Bruce. He’s the one who’s got them.»
«Who from?»
«We don’t know. He won’t reveal his sources; we’ve tried before. He’s planning to release everything tomorrow. He’s threatened to make sure you’re linked to De Spadante. And that’s bad for Bonner, incidentally.»
«Well … what do you want me to do? Obviously you’ve got something in mind.»
«As we see it, the only way to deflate the story is for you to speak first. Issue a statement that De Spadante wanted to see you; you saw him two days before he was killed. You wanted the information public for Major Bonner’s sake… Make up whatever you like about what was said. We’ve checked the room; there weren’t any bugs.»
«I’m not sure I understand. What’s Bruce’s point? How does Paul fit in?»
«I told you… Sorry, it’s been a rotten morning over here… Bruce thinks it’s another hook into Paul Bonner. If you and De Spadante were still talking to each other … it’s not very likely he was out to kill you a week ago as Bonner claims.»
«I see… All right, I’ll issue a statement. And I’ll take care of Bruce.»
Trevayne held down the button for several seconds, released it, and dialed a number. «Sam Vicarson, please. Mr. Trevayne calling… Sam, it’s time for Bruce. No, not you. Me… Find out where he is and call me back. I’m home… No, I won’t reconsider. Call me as soon as you can. I want to see him this afternoon.»
Trevayne replaced the phone on the bedside table and looked over at his wife, who was in her slip by the dresser, putting the final touches on her makeup. She watched him in the mirror.
«I got the gist of that. Something tells me our day off, antique-wandering, just got postponed.»
«Nope. Fifteen or twenty minutes, that’s all. You can wait in the car.»
Phyllis walked over to the bed and laughed as she pointed her finger at the rumpled blankets and sheets. «I’ve heard that before. You’re a beast, Mr. Trevayne—you dash home from the office, ravish an unsullied maiden, of indeterminate years—plying her with promises; then, the minute your lusts are satisfied and you have a nap, you start telephoning…»
Andrew pulled her down on his lap, feigning a melodramatic grab for her breasts. He touched them, caressed them alternately as she kissed his ear. Their laughter subsided as he gently rolled her off his legs back onto the bed.
«Oh, Andy, we can’t.»
«We certainly can. It’ll take Sam the better part of an hour.» He stood and unbuckled his trousers as Phyllis pulled up the sheet, flipping over a side, waiting for him.
«You’re incorrigible. And I love it… Who are you going to see?»
«A nasty little man named Roderick Bruce,» he answered as he removed his shirt and shorts and got into the bed.
«The newspaperman?»
«He wouldn’t approve of us.»
Bobby Webster folded his arms in front of him on the desk. He lowered his head and closed his eyes and knew he was very close to tears. He’d locked his office door; no one could barge in on him. Half-consciously he wondered why the tears did not come. The semiconscious answer was so appalling he rejected it. He’d lost the ability to cry … to cry out.
Reductio ad manipulatem.
Was there such a phrase? There should be. The years of contrivance; the untold, unremembered, unaccounted for—hundreds, thousands?—plots and counterplots.
Will it work?
That was all that mattered.
The human factor was only an X or a Y, to be considered or discarded as the case may be. Certainly not taken for more than that, more than part of a formula.
Even himself.
Bobby Webster felt the welling of tears in his eyes. He was going to cry. Uncontrollably.
It was time to go home.
Trevayne walked down the thickly carpeted hallway to the short flight of steps underneath the small sign printed in Old English: «The Penthouse; Roderick Bruce.»
He climbed the five steps, approached the door, and pushed the button, causing inordinately loud chimes to be heard beyond the black-enameled entrance with the shiny brass hardware. He could hear muffled voices inside; one was agitated. Roderick Bruce.
The door was opened, and a large black maid in a starched white uniform stood imposingly, forbiddingly in the small foyer. She blocked any view beyond her.
«Yes?» she asked in a lilting dialect formed somewhere in the Caribbean.
«Mr. Bruce, please.»
«Is he expecting you?»
«He’ll want to see me.»
«I’m sorry. Please leave your name; he’ll be in touch with you.»
«My name is Andrew Trevayne, and I’m not leaving until I see Mr. Bruce.»
The maid started to close the door; Trevayne was about to shout when suddenly Roderick Bruce darted into view like a tiny ferret from a hidden nest. He’d been listening from a doorway several yards away.