Death Trance (5 page)

'Yes,’ Randolph said, 'they were.’ He ran his hand tiredly through his hair. 'I called their wives this morning from Quebec. I'll be going around to see them in the morning. Perhaps you can arrange for some flowers.’

He paused for a moment and then said, 'It was very tragic,’ even though 'tragic' seemed hopelessly inadequate.

Wanda went across to the rosewood side table to pour Randolph a drink in a heavy crystal glass. Randolph sat behind his desk and rocked back and forth in the high-backed leather chair, sipping at his whisky and rereading Neil Sleaman's reports. On the wall behind the side table hung a large oil painting of Randolph's father, a magnificently white-maned man in a cream linen suit with a huge flowering orchid in his lapel. Randolph was not so sentimental that he ever stood in front of his father's portrait when he was in trouble and asked him what he should do. That was strictly for old Dick Powell movies. But all the same, the old man's deeply engraved face gave him reassurance that sometimes things had gone just as badly in the past and that from time to time, they would probably go just as badly in the future. Tragedies have to be faced, wounds have to be bound.

Neil Sleaman came into the office without knocking, one hand extended in sympathetic greeting for the whole time it took him to cross the thirty feet of pale-gold carpet between the door and Randolph's desk. When the handshake finally arrived, it was dry and far too forceful, as if Neil had wiped his sweating palm on the seat of his pants before he stepped in and psyched himself up to be earnest and direct.

Neil was thin, black-haired and heavily tanned from his recent vacation in Bermuda; a sharp-faced young man who fancied himself a snappy dresser, and by Memphis standards he was. Pale locknit suits, high-collared shirts and the inescapable bolus necktie. Randolph had employed him from Chickasaw Cotton, one of the smaller processors. Personally he did not care for the way that Neil tried too hard, but Neil was aggressive and efficient and he could get things done.

'I don't know what to say to you,’ Neil told Randolph, shaking his head. 'I simply don't know what to say to you.’

Randolph set down his drink. 'Medicinal,’ he said. 'Do you want one?’

Neil shook his head even more vigorously.

'Who's out at Raleigh now?’ Randolph asked.

'Tim Shelby's in charge just for the moment. He's kept about twenty men on the night shift just to keep things running, but he's had to send most of the rest of them home. We can't function until we get the boilers repaired.’

'How long is that going to take?’

'Week, week and a half.’

'Make it a week.’

'Well, we're doing our darnedest, sir, believe me.’

'You estimate the final damage at over three million and production losses at over one million, correct?’

That kind of depends on whether we lose the Sun-Taste margarine contract as a consequence. We were on full capacity, just keeping up with the delivery schedule. By the end of the week, we'll be eight hundred fifty tons behind, and I don't see any chance of catching up.’

Randolph thought for a long time, tapping the rim of his glass against his teeth. Sun-Taste was America's fastest-expanding new margarine company and the Clare Cottonseed board had been jubilant when the firm had landed the contract late last year to supply all of SunTaste's hydrogenated oil. To Randolph personally, it had been a vindication of his cost-cutting policies, and to the company as a whole, it had represented a solid new foundation for expansion and profit. There had been talk of 'substantial' pay hikes, and the junior executives' offices had suddenly been discreetly littered with Cadillac brochures.

'Have you talked to anyone at Sun-Taste?’ Randolph asked.

They called this afternoon. Obviously they wanted to know if we were going to have any difficulties in delivering the full quota.’

'And of course you told them there would be no difficulties at all.’

'Of course.’

'Have you tried shopping around to see if we can make up the difference by buying from somebody else?’

Neil shook his head again. 'Whoever we go to, sir, is bound to charge us a pretty hefty premium, quite apart from the fact that their prices are higher than ours to begin with. I thought I'd better wait and discuss it with you.’

Randolph finished his drink, rattled the ice cubes around for a moment and then abruptly stood up. 'Let's go take a look at that factory,’ he said. 'Do you have your car here?’

They went down in the elevator to the basement parking level. Neil adjusted his necktie in the elevator mirror and slicked back his hair. He never once took his eyes off himself, even when he was talking.

'I was on the point of falling asleep when they called me this morning,’ he said, tilting his chin slightly to improve his three-quarter profile. I took out that girl who works behind the salad bar at the Pirate's Cove.’

I’m not sure I know her,’ Randolph replied. He hated stories of sexual conquest.

'You must have seen her. Very long blonde hair, all the way down to her fanny. Terrific body. And do you know what her name is? Can you guess what her name is?’

I have no idea, really,’ Randolph said. He tried to be charitable and put down Neil's chattering to nervousness. All the same, three men had died and the short-term future of the company was at serious risk; he didn't honestly want to discuss Neil's latest bed partner, however devastating she was.

'Her name is Jeff, can you believe that? A girl who looks like that, called Jeff?’

'Well, I wouldn't go out with her if I were you,’ Randolph said. 'Not with a girl with a name like that.’

'Oh, really?’ frowned Neil. 'I thought it was pretty cute. Her mother called her Jeff because she always wanted a boy.’

As the elevator arrived at the basement, Randolph said, 'There were two famous comic-book characters, one of whom was called Jeff. You wouldn't want to be called what the other one was called, would you? Because that's what would happen if you dated her.’

Neil did not quite know how to take that remark. He followed Randolph awkwardly out of the elevator and then hurried to catch up so he could show him the way to his car. 'It's right over there, the silver MK-Seven.’

Night had fallen out on Cotton Row as Neil's car reared out of the basement rampway and into the street, but Memphis glittered with life. They drove past Beale Street, where W.C. Handy had made the blues famous, now renovated and brightly alive. They drove as far as Union Street and then headed east, past Overton Square, and took Interstate 40 towards Raleigh.

'I'm sorry,’ Neil said. 'I shouldn't have said anything about Jeff. That was bad taste.’

'Forget it,’ Randolph told him, staring out at the Tennessee night and wondering how Marmie was coping. The boys would take care of her, he was pretty sure of that. John was fifteen now and Mark was eleven. And even though Issa was always arguing with her mother now that she was thirteen and on the very edge of womanhood, he knew that she was kind enough and courteous enough to make sure that the remaining days of their vacation would go well. He ached to be back in Canada, beside Marmie, but he knew where his responsibilities lay.

Neil said, 'The fire department won't commit itself.’

'What about the police?’

'Same story. There was an explosion in the wintering plant but no particular reason to suspect that it was caused deliberately.’

'No particular reason to suspect that it wasn't either.’

Neil glanced at him, his sharp profile illuminated green by the lights on the dash. 'You don't really think that somebody tried to bomb us out of business?’

Randolph grasped his knee and made a face. 'Don't ask me. That just happened to be the considered opinion of the cab driver who brought me from the airport.’

'The cab driver?’ Neil laughed. 'What would he know?’

'I don't know. Cab drivers listen and learn, don't they?’

'And this particular cab driver thought that this fire was started on purpose?’ asked Neil. The diamond ring on his right pinkie suddenly sparkled as he turned the wheel.

'Well, who knows? In any case, he promised to keep his ears open in case he heard any gossip from any of his fares. Apparently he picks up Brooks executives quite regularly.’

'And you overtipped him for that favour?’

'I guess you could say that. A hundred bucks.’

'A hundred bucks? What's the guy's name? We ought to employ him in our accounts department.’

Randolph shrugged. 'I don't know. Stanley somebody. Wait a minute… he said no relation to the barbecued-ribs restaurant.’

'Vergo,’ said Neil smartly.

'That's right. Stanley Vergo. And what a philosopher. His pet theory seems to be that Elvis never died, that he was only pretending in order to avoid his fans.’

'I've heard that theory before,’ Neil said. 'Some people have the same theory about Adolf Hitler.’

They arrived at the processing plant. The buildings and the surrounding storage tanks covered over eighty-eight acres that were surrounded by miles of chain-link fence. The driveway was landscaped with mature magnolias blossoming like soft curds of cream, and the offices were set in a picturesque Victorian mansion with a white-pillared portico and fan-shaped skylights. But behind the stately facade there was one of the most modern and functional cottonseed-processing factories in the whole of the South, with a highly advanced solvent-extraction facility for extracting the crude oil out of the seeds, and a special research department for exploring ways in which the seed hulls that were left over could be converted into lacquers and resins and other profitable products.

The parking lot was still crowded with rescue vehicles and demolition trucks. Randolph said nothing as they approached but Neil remarked, 'It was pretty bad. I tried to tell you on the phone, but I think you'd better be ready for a shock.’

They drew up outside. The plant manager, Tim Shelby, was there in a crumpled cotton suit, looking drawn and tired and sweaty. He came over, opened Randolph's door and shook his hand.

'I'm sorry about the vacation,’ he said. Randolph dismissed his condolences with a wave of the hand. I’m sorry you lost Bill Douglas.’

They were joined by the technical manager and the wintering-plant supervisor, and then they walked in silence around the side of the Victorian offices until they reached the factory itself. Randolph had dramatically expanded the No.2 plant over the past three years and the wintering plant was shiny and gleaming and modern, with chilling equipment that looked as if it were part of a spaceship.

At least it had looked like that, before the fire. Now, under a battery of arc lights, there was nothing but a cavernous ruin of twisted girders, tangled wires, pipes distorted beyond recognition and scorched stainless-steel vats. Neil Sleaman had been right: it was far worse than he had been able to describe over the telephone, and Randolph stepped into the ruins with a profound sense of shock. As he looked around, he felt as if he were standing in the ruins of a bombed-out city. There was a sharp stench of smoke as well as that distinctly nutty odour of burned cottonseed oil.

'The man who was burned?’ Randolph asked.

'He was standing right over there by the refrigeration controls, according to his buddies,’ Tim Shelby said. 'There was a terrific explosion. The wintering tank burst apart and three hundred gallons of purified oil came bursting out and caught fire. He didn't stand a chance. They saw him struggling, they said, but he was just like a burning scarecrow.’

'How about the others?’

They were trapped in the corridor outside. They weren't burned but the door wouldn't open because it was buckled, and nobody could get in to save them because the fire was so fierce.’

Randolph bent down and picked up a workman's safety helmet. It was blackened and bubbled but he could still make out the name 'Clare' on the front of it. He set it down again and said, 'Goddam it.’ He rarely profaned but there was no other way to describe how he felt now.

'Have the police been here?’ he asked after a while.

They took a look. Chief Moyne came up in person.’

'What did he say?’

Tim Shelby wiped the sweat from his face. 'He commiserated.’

Randolph nodded. That sounds like Chief Moyne. Did his forensic people find anything?’

'If they did, they didn't tell us. They took away one or two pieces of piping and part of the tank casing, but that's all.’

'Well, I'll talk to Chief Moyne in the morning,’ Randolph said.

He was just about to leave the ruins when a small group of five or six men appeared and stood outside the shattered factory, inspecting it with obvious interest. Randolph recognized them at once. Nobody could mistake the bulky, three-hundred-pound figure in the flapping white double-breasted suit and the wide-brimmed cotton-plantation hat. It was Orbus Greene, president of Brooks Cottonseed and chairman of the Cottonseed Association. Orbus had been a mayor of Memphis in the days before urban renewal, and plenty of local politicians still privately held the opinion that Memphis would not have needed half so much urban renewal had it not been for him and his friends.

The men who accompanied him were his minders: men who opened doors for him and reorganized restaurant tables so he could squeeze into his seat. They had the look of dressed-up yokels: gold rings, gold teeth, greasy kids' stuff on their hair.’