Destiny (98 page)

Gould was chairing the meeting, and it was drawing to a close. Unsatisfactorily. He looked down at the papers in front of him; he looked along the length of the conference table: himself, at the head of that table; ranged along it, four other men, and one woman, a woman who was about to make her first mistake in four years of quick-witted, daring, and highly successful business dealings. This fact had already been pointed out to her, by Gould himself, and by the other men in turn: a lawyer, two investment brokers, one investment manager, all of them busy men, whose advice was expensive. Helene Harte had listened to them—she was still listening to them; or possibly she was not listening at all, it was difficult to tell. Either way, she appeared uninterested.

Gould looked at her more closely. The lawyer, a man whom he had called in, and who was meeting Helene Harte for the first time, was rehearsing the arguments again, in the weary manner of a teacher going over the alphabet with a small child. Helene had her face turned toward him politely. The man speaking had yet to discover that when she was this calm, and this courteous, she was adamant. Gould, who knew this already, frowned.

On her right hand, rather than her left, she was wearing a diamond ring. It was the famous ring which Lewis had bought her shortly after their marriage and which had, some years before, been the talk of Boston and New York. The lawyer speaking seemed riveted by this ring. As he went on about the cotton industry and manmade fibers, he appeared to be calculating the possible number of its carats.

Basically, what Helene proposed to do was very simple. She was liquidating some of her assets, at a good profit, including the property bought in the South of France in 1963. These she proposed to reinvest in land. This, in itself, was perfectly acceptable. Gould himself had, over the past months, attempted to interest her in numerous excellent land investments: in England, for instance, where agricultural estates could still be bought at a low rate per acre, and where all the signs pointed to a rapid price rise. In New York itself; there was an area on the West Side, two blocks of it, and the word from City Hall was that plans to designate it a redevelopment zone were pending. The technique of buying piecemeal into such an urban site, using a number of fronting companies, and then selling at very high profit, once the area was entirely hers, had been discussed with her some months before. It had just been discussed again, at considerable length. She had merely nodded, and returned to the question of Alabama.

Using a front company called Hart land Developments, Inc., Helene pro-

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posed to purchase some six hundred acres of cotton fields, adjacent to a small town called Orangeburg, and presently owned by a Major Edward Calvert. This plan was not acceptable. Quite simply, it was crazy.

When Gould had realized that Helene was serious in her intentions, he had had rapid and extensive inquiries made on her behalf. The result of those inquiries now lay on the table in front of him, and they did not make happy reading.

Calvert had, for the past twelve years, invested heavily in plant and machinery; the bulk of his annual crop was no longer picked by hand, and the number of his employees had been consistently falling. He had financed his outlay on plant with bank loans, using his estate as collateral. Had his estates been better managed, had the demand for—and price of— cotton held steady, Calvert might have prospered. As it was, the estate was foundering.

The two banks to whom the estate and house were mortgaged had seen the warning lights some two years before. Since 1962, Calvert had come under increasing pressure. Interest on his loans mounted monthly; the value of his assets declined year by year. In 1963, he had suffered a bad harvest, adversely affected by weather and plant disease. He was now under threat of foreclosure, and was grasping at the possibility of selling off" some of his land like a drowning man grasping at the proverbial branch. As every man around the table had been at pains to point out, he would then be operating with a smaller, depleted estate, and his chances of turnaround were virtually nil. Calvert was trying to buy time: what he was doing was winning a temporary battle that would ensure he lost the war.

James Gould's head was aching. The lawyer was still talking. Gould rubbed ineffectively at his temples. The point was, Calvert was going under, and Helene Harte's purchase was totally pointless. The land was a bad investment; the price she seemed willing to pay was ludicrous; if it had been any other woman, or man, Gould would have thought they had taken leave of their senses. He could only assume that this was some crazy whim. Women had whims. His own divorce from his second wife had just come through, and that day Gould was not feeling well disposed toward the female sex. Only one thing held his impatience in check: the certain knowledge that Helene Harte did not have whims. She was a clever, methodical, on occasion devious woman. Which made it all the more incomprehensible.

To his relief, just as he was about to cut the lawyer off", she did so. She adjusted the diamond ring, leaned forward, and began speaking in that low, oddly accented, husky voice. The voice was both mesmeric and succinct. Occasionally, Gould thought, he would have liked to listen to that voice when it was discussing something other than money.

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"Perhaps I should make one thing clear. I did mention it earlier, but perhaps I should mention it again?"

The quiet voice cut the rebelhous lawyer short. He threw up his hands and leaned back in his chair, looking irritable.

"My purchase of this land is conditional." She paused. "I will buy it, at asking price, on condition that my company is enabled to take up the existing bank loans. With the rest of the estate and the house as collateral, as before."

The silenced lawyer now gave a snort of derision.

"The banks will bless you, that's for sure. They won't be able to beheve their luck. That collateral is virtually worthless, and they know it. Why do you think they're threatening foreclosure? They know they're going to get their fingers burned, they're resigned to that. Now they're mounting a salvage operation. They're trying to save the rest of their hand, and probably their arm as well."

"Excellent." Helene smiled. "Then the deal should be simple to arrange. As you say, the banks in question will accept it."

Gould leaned forward. An idea had come to him. "Within the next year," he began slowly, keeping his eyes on Helene's face, "probably sooner, say six months, this Major Calvert is going to default on repayments. What do you intend to do then?"

"I shall foreclose."

"He'll ask for an extension."

"I shall refuse."

"I see."

Around the table there was a Uttle silence. The investment manager sighed and looked up at the ceiUng. One of the lawyers coughed.

"How long do you intend to give him, precisely?" Gould leaned back in his seat; he tapped the table with his pencil.

Helene frowned. She had thought: Let him sweat, and let me watch him doing it. She had thought of a date, an appropriate date: July 15. Happy anniversary, Ned.

But that date was almost a year away. Now, quite suddenly, it seemed unbearable to wait that long. She wanted it to be over. She looked up, and met Gould's eyes.

"Offer him six months. Until the end of next January. Give him the impression we'll extend, but no guarantees. Will he accept that?"

"I should think he'd accept just about anything. Under the circumstances. Desperate men don't read the small print." Gould spoke dryly. He was, he thought, beginning to understand.

"And then?" he prompted.

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"Foreclosure at the end of the six months. Or as soon as he defaults. I assume he has no other likely source of funding?"

"Not a hope in hell." The lawyer meeting Helene for the first time leaned forward aggressively. "No one else—with due respect—would be crazy enough to bail him out. The upshot of this is straightforward enough. Six months from now, seven, eight at the most, you'll be in possession of everything he's got. A rundown estate. A rundown house. You couldn't give it away. What's the sense in that?"

Helene's face had become very set. She said, in a flat concise voice, "It makes sense to me."

She bent her head shghtly. She was not sure, anymore, if it really did make sense. She ought to have felt triumph, she thought dully—and she felt no triumph, only a sense of dragging fatigue. She stood up, eager suddenly that the meeting should be over. She pulled on her gloves and looked at James Gould.

"The deeds of sale, the loan transfers—how long will the documentation take?"

"Not long. It's ready and waiting to go. The preliminary work has all been done."

"Oh, good." She looked at him a little blankly. "I would hke to get it signed and sealed as soon as possible. Thank you, all of you, for your time."

She smiled at them then, with that extraordinary smile she had, which had the capacity to light up a room. Several of the men glanced at one another; they all rose, and she turned away to the door. Gould followed her. He escorted her through the outer offices as far as the elevator, saying nothing. He pressed the button, and then, as she turned to look at him, and began to speak, he felt suddenly that he could stay silent no longer.

"You know him, Helene, don't you?" he said in a quiet voice. "You know this man Calvert, and that's the reason for all this."

She hesitated, but only fractionally. He saw something come into her eyes which he had never seen there before, and it alarmed him. Then she answered, equally quietly.

"You're right, of course. Yes. I know him."

"But Helene, whyl Why are you doing this?"

"Why?" She considered the question for a moment. Then she gave a small resigned smile. "He made me the woman I am," she said. "That's the reason." She paused. "Mr. Gould—you asked me that question once before—do you remember, the very first day I came to see you? Do you remember what I said then?"

"Yes. I do." Gould looked at her steadily. "You asked me if I needed to know, and I said no."

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"Say no again. I'd be—very grateful."

She leaned forward as she said that, and rested her hand on his arm. Gould wanted to argue; he wanted to protest; but the touch of her hand and the expression in her eyes made him give in. He shrugged.

"Very well. No."

"Thank you," she said.

The doors opened, she turned, and stepped into the elevator. She smiled once more, and the doors closed.

Gould walked back thoughtfully to the conference room. There, the lawyer who had just experienced Helene Harte for the first time was in full flood.

James Gould did not hsten to him. He moved to the window. A long way below, across the street, a black limousine was waiting. He watched the figure of Helene Harte cross the street and climb into the back of the car. He frowned as he watched her.

He had seen people use money as a weapon before, and it always interested him. It was legal and effective—the perfect murder weapon, he had once remarked jokingly. Today, he had seen in Helene Harte something which surprised him, and slightly shocked him. He had seen hate.

The lawyer, carried away by his own eloquence, was now questioning not just Helene Harte's judgments, but also her sanity. "Crazy," he said gloomily. "Just crazy."

Gould interrupted, turning around, impatient to curtail this meeting, "Helene Harte is one of the sanest women I know. Let's leave it there, all right?"

Later he considered that statement, and silently revised it.

Was hatred ever entirely sane—any more than love was? He himself was a cool man, of moderate passions, and he doubted it.

They had been to a party at Malibu, a champagne barbecue, given on Lloyd Baker's private beach, by Lloyd Baker's wife, who was, Lewis suspected, soon to become Lloyd Baker's ex-wife. They had stayed longer than Lewis intended, and they were now on the Santa Monica Freeway, driving downtown, so that Lewis could drop Stephani off" at the small apartment where she lived. It was six-thirty in the evening, and on the freeway nothing was moving, either way. Every lane, jammed sohd. Lewis leaned on the horn; he swore.

"Goddammit, Stephani. I told you this was a stupid idea." Stephani licked her lips nervously. She gave him a shy little sideways glance.

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"What time does Helene get back, Lewis?"

"I told you. Around eight. And before that, I have to get you home, get back to the house, take a shower. Jesus." He hit the horn again. "We're going to be here all night."

"It's my fault, Lewis," she said in a small voice. "I know you didn't want to take me. I know you don't want to be seen with me. ..."

"It's not that, Stephani. You know it's not that." Lewis felt guilty and also aggrieved, since what she said was perfectly correct. "It's that I have to think of Helene, that's all. I have ... we should . . . well, it's a good idea to be a little discreet, that's all."

"Katie Baker won't say anything. I know her from way back. She roomed with me once. Before she met Lloyd. If I started telhng people some of the things I know about her ..."

"That's not the point, Stephani. We shouldn't have gone. I don*t know why the hell we did. I've got a load of work to do. . . . God damn this traffic. ..."

Lewis hit the horn again. The driver in front, in a purple Cadillac, stuck his hand out the window, and gave Lewis an unequivocal reply: one finger extended.

Lewis thumped the steering wheel in frustration. They inched forward about ten yards, and stopped once more. They were now hemmed in on all sides.

"Well. That's it. We're here for another hour."

"Lewis?" Stephani gave him another of those httle sideways glances. "Don't get mad at me. I hate it when you get mad. I'm sorry, Lewis. Really I am."

She hesitated. Lewis felt slightly molhfied. He shrugged.

"Give me a little kiss, Lewis. Just a little one. Please ..."

She leaned across before he could say anything, and turned his face to hers. She looked at him solemnly with those wide baby-blue eyes, then slowly and carefully she pressed her mouth against his, and pushed her tongue between his lips. Lewis resisted; after a while, he stopped resisting, and groaned.

When he recovered himself, he observed that the purple Cadillac had moved forward another ten feet. He let the Porsche inch after it. Stephani was fumbling around on the narrow backseat.

"Where's your jacket, Lewis?"

"My jacket? It's in back. What do I want that for? It feels like about a hundred degrees. ..."

Stephani had found the jacket. She pulled it through the gap between the seats; she wriggled a httle in her seat. She said, "I hke that. I like it

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being so warm. I like the top being down, and the sun and everything. It makes me feel . . ."

She gave him another glance, a suggestive glance. Through the heat, and the exhaust fumes, and the residue of uppers and champagne, which was making his head ache, Lewis felt a slight urgency, a shifting in his body. He forgot about the Cadillac in front.

"Keep still, now, Lewis. You're real tense, you know that? You just lean back. I'm going to make you relax, Lewis. I'm going to make you feel— just fine."