Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune Read online

  “How did you find out,” asked Anne, “when I wasn’t aware of the situation myself?”

  “You don’t read the small print, my darling. As a matter of fact, I didn’t myself until recently. Quite by chance, Milly Preston told me the details of the trust. Not only is she William’s godmother, it seems she is also a trustee—it came as quite a surprise to her when she was first told. Now let’s see if we can turn the position to our advantage. Milly says she will back me if you agree.”

  The mere sound of Milly’s name made Anne feel uneasy.

  “I don’t think we ought to touch William’s money,” she said. “I’ve never looked upon the trust as having anything to do with me. I’d be much happier leaving well enough alone and just continue letting the bank reinvest the interest as it’s always done in the past.”

  “Why be satisfied with the bank’s investment program when I’m on to such a good thing with this city hospital contract? William would make a lot more money out of my company. Surely Alan went along with that?”

  “I’m not certain how he felt. He was his usual discreet self, though he certainly said the contract would be an excellent one to win and that you had a good chance of being awarded it.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But he did want to see your books before he came to any firm conclusions, and he also wondered what had happened to my five hundred thousand.”

  “Our five hundred thousand, my darling, is doing very well, as you will soon discover. I’ll send the books around to Alan tomorrow morning so that he can inspect them for himself. I can assure you he’ll be very impressed.”

  “I hope so, Henry, for both our sakes,” said Anne. “Now let’s wait and see what his opinion is—you know how much I’ve always trusted Alan.”

  “But not me,” said Henry.

  “Oh, no, Henry, I didn’t mean——”

  “I was only teasing. I assumed you would trust your own husband.”

  Anne felt welling up within her the tearfulness she had always suppressed in front of Richard. With Henry she didn’t even try to hold it back.

  “I hope I can. I’ve never had to worry about money before and it’s all too much to cope with just now. The baby always makes me feel so tired and depressed.”

  Henry’s manner changed quickly to one of solicitude. “I know, my darling, and I don’t want you ever to have to bother your head with business matters—I can always handle that side of things. Look, why don’t you go to bed early and I’ll bring you some supper on a tray? That will give me a chance to go back to the office and pick up the files I need to show Alan in the morning.”

  Anne complied, but once Henry had left, she made no attempt to sleep, tired as she was, but sat up in bed reading Sinclair Lewis. She knew it would take Henry about fifteen minutes to reach his office, so she waited a full twenty and then called his number. The ringing tone continued for almost a minute.

  Anne tried a second time twenty minutes later; still no one answered. She kept trying every twenty minutes, but no one ever came on the line. Henry’s remark about trust began to echo bitterly in her head.

  When Henry eventually returned home after midnight, he appeared apprehensive upon finding Anne sitting up in bed. She was still reading Sinclair Lewis.

  “You shouldn’t have stayed awake for me.”

  He gave her a warm kiss. Anne thought she could smell perfume—or was she becoming overly suspicious?

  “I had to stay on a little later than I expected—at first I couldn’t find all the papers Alan will need. Damn silly secretary filed some of them under the wrong headings.”

  “It must be lonely sitting there in the office all on your own in the middle of the night,” said Anne.

  “Oh, it’s not that bad if you have a worthwhile job to do,” said Henry, climbing into bed and settling against Anne’s back. “At least there’s one thing to be said for it: you can get a lot more done when the phone isn’t continually interrupting you.”

  He was asleep in minutes. Anne lay awake, now resolved to carry through the decision she had made that afternoon.

  When Henry had left for work after breakfast the next morning—not that Anne was any longer sure where Henry went—she studied the Boston Globe and did a little research among the small advertisements. Then she picked up the phone and made an appointment that took her to the south side of Boston a few minutes before midday. Anne was shocked by the dinginess of the buildings. She had never previously visited the southern district of the city, and in normal circumstances she could have gone through her entire life without even knowing such places existed.

  A small wooden staircase littered with matches, cigarette butts and other rubbish created its own paper chase to a door with a frosted window on which appeared large black letters: GLEN RICARDO and, underneath, PRIVATE DETECTIVE (REGISTERED IN THE COMMONWEALTH OF MASSACHUSETTS). Anne knocked softly.

  “Come right in, the door’s open,” shouted a deep, hoarse voice.

  Anne entered. The man seated behind the desk, his legs stretched over its surface, glanced up from what might have been a girly magazine. His cigar stub nearly fell out of his mouth when he caught sight of Anne. It was the first time a mink coat had ever walked into his office.

  “Good morning,” he said, rising quickly. “My name is Glen Ricardo.” He leaned across the desk and offered a hairy, nicotine-stained hand to Anne. She took it, glad that she was wearing gloves. “Do you have an appointment?” Ricardo asked, not that he cared whether she did or not. He was always available for a consultation with a mink coat.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Ah, then you must be Mrs. Osborne. Can I take your coat?”

  “I prefer to keep it on,” said Anne, unable to see any place where Ricardo could hang it except on the floor.

  “Of course, of course.”

  Anne eyed Ricardo covertly as he sat back in his seat and lit a new cigar. She did not care for his light green suit, the motley tie or his thickly greased hair. It was only her doubt that it would be better anywhere else that kept her seated.

  “Now, what’s the problem?” said Ricardo, who was sharpening an already short pencil with a blunt knife. The wooden shavings dropped everywhere except into the wastepaper basket. “Have you lost your dog, your jewelry or your husband?”

  “First, Mr. Ricardo, I want to be assured of your complete discretion,” Anne began.

  “Of course, of course, it goes without saying,” said Ricardo, not looking up from his disappearing pencil.

  “Nevertheless, I am saying it,” said Anne.

  “Of course, of course.”

  Anne thought that if the man said “of course” once more, she would scream. She drew a deep breath. “I have been receiving anonymous letters which allege that my husband has been having an affair with a close friend. I want to know who is sending the letters and if there is any truth in the accusations.”

  Anne felt an immense sense of relief at having voiced her fears for the first time. Ricardo looked at her impassively, as if it was not the first time he had heard such fears expressed. He put his hand through his long black hair, which, Anne noticed for the first time, matched his fingernails.

  “Right,” he began. “The husband will be easy. Who’s responsible for sending the letters will be a lot harder. You’ve kept the letters, of course?”

  “Only the last one,” said Anne.

  Glen Ricardo sighed and stretched his hand across the table wearily. Anne reluctantly took the letter out of her bag and then hesitated for a moment.

  “I know how you feel, Mrs. Osborne, but I can’t do the job with one hand tied behind my back.”

  “Of course, Mr. Ricardo, I’m sorry.”

  Anne couldn’t believe she had said “of course.”

  Ricardo read the letter through two or three times before speaking. “Have they all been typed on this sort of paper and sent in this sort of envelope?”

  “Yes, I think so,” said Anne. “As far as I can remember
.”

  “Well, when the next one comes, be sure to——”

  “Can you be so certain there will be another one?” interrupted Anne.

  “Of course. So be sure to keep it. Now, give me all the details about your husband. Do you have a photograph?”

  “Yes.” Once again she hesitated.

  “I only want to look at the face. Don’t want to waste my time chasing the wrong man, do I?” said Ricardo.

  Anne opened her bag again and passed him a worn-edged photograph of Henry in a lieutenant’s uniform.

  “Good-looking man, Mr. Osborne,” said the detective. “When was this photograph taken?”

  “About five years ago, I think,” said Anne. “I didn’t know him when he was in the Army.”

  Ricardo questioned Anne for several minutes on Henry’s daily movements. She was surprised to find how little she really knew of Henry’s habits, or past.

  “Not a lot to go on, Mrs. Osborne, but I’ll do the best I can. Now, my charges are ten dollars a day plus expenses. I will make a written report for you approximately once a week. Two weeks’ payment in advance, please.” His hand came across the desk again, more eagerly than before.

  Anne opened her handbag once more, took out two crisp $100 bills and passed them across to Ricardo. He studied the bills carefully, as if he couldn’t remember which distinguished American should be engraved on them. Benjamin Franklin gazed imperturbably at Ricardo, who obviously had not seen the great man for some time. Ricardo handed Anne $60 in grubby fives.

  “I see you work on Sundays, Mr. Ricardo,” said Anne, pleased with her mental arithmetic.

  “Of course,” he said. “Will the same time a week from Thursday suit you, Mrs. Osborne?”

  “Of course,” said Anne, and she left quickly to avoid having to shake hands with the man behind the desk.

  When William read in his quarterly trust report from Kane and Cabot that Henry Osborne (“Henry Osborne”—he repeated the name out loud to be sure he could believe it) was requesting $500,000 for a personal investment, he had a bad day. For the first time in four years at St. Paul’s he came in second on a math test. Matthew Lester, who beat him, asked if he was feeling well.

  That evening, William called Alan Lloyd at home. The chairman of Kane and Cabot was not altogether surprised to hear from him after Anne’s disclosure of the unhappy relationship between her son and Henry.

  “William, dear boy, how are you and how are things at St. Paul’s?”

  “All is well at this end, thank you, sir, but that’s not why I telephoned.”

  The tact of an advancing Mack truck, thought Alan. “No, I didn’t imagine it was,” he said dryly. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to see you tomorrow afternoon.”

  “On a Sunday, William?”

  “Yes, it’s the only day I can get away from school. I’ll come to you anytime anyplace.” William made the statement sound as though it were a concession on his part. “And under no condition is my mother to know of our meeting.”

  “Well, William——” Alan Lloyd began.

  William’s voice grew firmer. “I don’t have to remind you, sir, that the investment of trust money in my stepfather’s personal venture, while not actually illegal, would undoubtedly be considered as unethical.”

  Alan Lloyd was silent for a few moments, wondering if he should try to placate the boy over the telephone. The boy. He also thought about remonstrating with him, but the time for that had now passed.

  “Fine, William. Why don’t you join me for a spot of lunch at the Hunt Club, say one o’clock?”

  “I’ll look forward to seeing you then, sir.” The telephone clicked.

  At least the confrontation is to be on my home ground, thought Alan Lloyd with some relief as he replaced the mouthpiece, cursing Mr. Bell for inventing the damn machine.

  Alan had chosen the Hunt Club because he did not want the meeting to be too private. The first thing William asked when he arrived at the clubhouse was that he should be allowed a round of golf after lunch.

  “Delighted, my boy,” said Alan, and reserved the first tee for three o’clock.

  He was surprised when William did not discuss Henry Osborne’s proposal at all during lunch. Far from it, the boy talked knowledgeably about President Harding’s views on tariff reform and the incompetence of Charles G. Dawes as the President’s Director of the Budget. Alan began to wonder whether William, having slept on it, had changed his mind about discussing Henry Osborne’s loan and was going through with the meeting not wishing to admit a change of heart. Well, if that’s the way the boy wants to play it, thought Alan, that’s fine by me. He looked forward to a quiet afternoon of golf. After an agreeable lunch and the better part of a bottle of wine—William limited himself to one glass—they changed in the clubhouse and walked to the first tee.

  “Do you still have a nine handicap, sir?” asked William.

  “Thereabouts, my boy. Why?”

  “Will ten dollars a hole suit you?”

  Alan Lloyd hesitated, remembering that golf was the one game that William played competently. “Yes, fine.”

  Nothing was said at the first hole, which Alan managed in four while William took a five. Alan also won the second and the third quite comfortably and began to relax a little, rather pleased with his game. By the time they had reached the fourth, they were over half a mile from the clubhouse. William waited for Alan to raise his club.

  “There are no conditions under which you will loan five hundred thousand dollars of my trust money to any company or person associated with Henry Osborne.”

  Alan hit a bad tee shot that went wild into the rough. Its only virtue was that it put him far enough away from William, who had made a good drive, to give him a few minutes to think about how to address both William and the ball. After Alan Lloyd had played three more shots, they eventually met on the green. Alan conceded the hole.

  “William, you know I only have one vote out of three as a trustee and you must also be aware that you have no authority over trust decisions, as you will not control the money in your own right until your twenty-first birthday. You must also realize that we ought not to be discussing this subject at all.”

  “I am fully aware of the legal implications, sir, but as both the other trustees were sleeping with Henry Osborne—”

  Alan Lloyd looked shocked.

  “Don’t tell me you are the only person in Boston who doesn’t know that Milly Preston is having an affair with my stepfather?”

  Alan Lloyd said nothing.

  William continued: “I want to be certain that I have your vote and that you intend to do everything in your power to influence my mother against this loan, even if it means going to the extreme of telling her the truth about Milly Preston.”

  Alan hit an even worse tee shot. William’s went right down the middle of the fairway. Alan chopped the next shot into a bush he had never even realized existed before and said “Shit!” out loud for the first time in forty-three years. (He had got a hiding on that occasion as well.)

  “That’s asking a little too much,” said Alan as he joined up with William on the fifth green.

  “It’s nothing compared with what I’d do if I couldn’t be sure of your support, sir.”

  “I don’t think your father would have approved of threats, William,” said Alan as he watched William’s ball sink from fourteen feet.

  “The only thing of which my father would not have approved is Osborne,” retorted William. Alan Lloyd two-putted four feet from the hole.

  “In any case, sir, you must be well aware that my father had a clause inserted in the trust deed that money invested by the trust was a private affair and the benefactor should never know that the Kane family was personally involved. It was a rule he never broke in his life as a banker. That way he could always be certain there was no conflict of interest between the bank’s investments and those of the family trust.”

  “Well, your mother perhaps
feels that the rule can be broken for a member of the family.”

  “Henry Osborne is not a member of my family and when I control the trust it will be a rule I, like my father, will never break.”

  “You may live to regret taking such a rigid stance, William.”

  “I think not, sir.”

  “Well, try to consider for a moment the effect that finding out about Milly might have on your mother,” added Alan.

  “My mother has already lost five hundred thousand dollars of her own money, sir. Isn’t that enough for one husband? Why do I have to lose five hundred thousand of mine as well?”

  “We don’t know that to be the case, William. The investment may still yield an excellent return; I haven’t had a chance yet to look carefully into Henry’s books.”

  William winced when Alan Lloyd called him Henry.

  “I can assure you, sir, he’s blown nearly every penny of my mother’s money. To be exact, he has thirty-three thousand four hundred and twelve dollars left. I suggest you take very little notice of Osborne’s books and check a little more thoroughly into his background, past business record and associates. Not to mention the fact that he gambles—heavily.”

  From the eighth tee Alan hit his ball into a lake directly in front of them, a lake even novice women players managed to clear. He conceded the hole.

  “How did you come by your information on Henry?” asked Alan, fairly certain it had been through Thomas Cohen’s office.

  “I prefer not to say, sir.”

  Alan kept his own counsel; he thought he might need that particular ace up his sleeve to play a little later in William’s life.

  “If all you claim turned out to be accurate, William, naturally I would have to advise your mother against any investment in Henry’s firm, and it would be my duty to have the whole thing out in the open with Henry as well.”

  “So be it, sir.”

  Alan hit a better shot but felt he wasn’t winning.

  William continued. “It may also interest you to know that Osborne needs the five hundred thousand from my trust not for the hospital contract but to clear a long-standing debt in Chicago. I take it that you were not aware of that, sir?”