She heard what sounded like a sniff. “Very likely. I would never trust that man in the slightest degree.”
“Then may I ask why you agreed to support his …”
“I did not agree. I was the one who voted against the whole idea. I was defeated by the others.” A note of alarm entered Priscilla Quinn’s voice. “Are you planning to print any of this?”
“Naturally.”
“Oh dear, I don’t want to be quoted.”
“Mrs. Quinn,” Nancy pointed out, “when you came on the line I identified myself, but you said nothing about any of our conversation being off the record.”
“Well, I do now.”
“It’s too late.”
The other woman said indignantly, “I shall telephone your publisher.”
“Who won’t do a thing,” Nancy shot back, “except tell me to go ahead and write the story.” She paused, considering. “What I will do is make a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“I have to use your name as a member of the Sequoia Club executive committee. There’s no way I can avoid that. But I won’t mention that I spoke to you if you’ll tell me how much money was paid by the Sequoia Club to p & lfp.”
“But that’s blackmail!”
“Call it a trade—fair exchange.”
There was a brief silence followed by, “How do I know I can trust you?”
“You can. Go on—take a chance.”
A pause again. Then, very quietly: “Fifty thousand dollars.”
Nancy’s lips pursed in a silent whistle.
As she hung up, instinct told her she had spoiled Mrs. Dempster W. R. Quinn’s lunch.
An hour or two later, having handled some other, routine news chores, Nancy sat at her desk thinking, calculating. So how much did she know?
Fact one: Davey Birdsong had cheated students and collected considerably more money than was needed to run p&lfp.
Fact two: The Sequoia Club was backing Birdsong with money—a lot of it. That alone was a news scoop which would raise many eyebrows and almost certainly damage the club’s reputation as a high-level, prestigious body.
Fact three: Birdsong was involved in something he didn’t want found out, hence his elaborate precautions when he visited that east-side house. Question one: What did he do there; did it relate to the large amounts of money he had accumulated; and what went on in the house? Nancy still hadn’t the faintest idea.
Fact four: The girl from the house, Yvette, was scared shitless about something. Question two: What? Same answer as to question one.
Fact five: Number 117 Crocker Street was owned by the Redwood Realty Corporation. Nancy had found that out earlier today from the tax assessor’s office. Later, posing as a credit bureau investigator, she had telephoned Redwood and learned the property had been rented for the past year to a Mr. G. Archambault, about whom nothing was known except that he paid the rent promptly. Question three: Who and what was Archambault? Go back to question one.
Conclusion: The jigsaw was incomplete, the story not ready to break.
Nancy mused: She would have to wait and be patient until her meeting with Yvette six days from now. At this moment she was sorry she had agreed to delay that long, but having made the promise she would keep it.
Briefly Nancy wondered: Would she be in any danger, having tipped off Yvette about her interest, and then going back? She didn’t think so. Anyway, fear of consequences seldom bothered her.
And yet … Nancy had an uncomfortable feeling she ought to share her knowledge with someone else, talk over what she had, and ask a second opinion about what to do next. Logically, she should go to the city editor. She might have done it, too, if the son-of-a-bitch hadn’t handed her that coach-and-team crap earlier today. Now it would look as if she was sucking around him because of it. Screw you, Mr. Charlie!
For the time being, Nancy decided, she would continue to keep the whole ball of wax to herself.
It was a decision which later, looking back, she would bitterly regret.
15
In his office, Nim was going through the morning mail. His secretary, Victoria Davis, had already opened and sorted most of the letters and memos, putting them into two folders, one green, the other red—the latter reserved for urgent or important subjects. Today the red file was full to overflowing. There were also, placed separately, a few unopened letters marked “Personal.” Among these Nim recognized a familiar, pale blue envelope with a typewritten address. Karen Sloan’s stationery.
Lately, Nim’s conscience had troubled him about Karen—in two ways. On the one hand he cared about her very much indeed, and felt guilty because he had not visited her since the night they made love, even though they had talked by telephone. And on the other hand, there was Ruth. How did his love affair with Karen fit in with his reconciliation and new rapport with Ruth? The truth was: it didn’t. Yet he could not suddenly toss Karen aside like a used Kleenex. If it had been some other woman he could, and would, have done it instantly. But Karen was different.
He had considered telling Ruth about Karen, then decided nothing would be gained by it. Besides, Ruth had enough problems without adding to them; also, he would be the one who would have to decide about Karen.
He was ashamed to admit it, even to himself, but for the time being he had put Karen on a mental shelf and, for that reason, delayed opening her letter now.
The thought of Ruth, though, reminded him of something else.
“Vicki,” he called through the open office door, “did you get those hotel reservations?”
“Yesterday.” She came in, pointing to the green folder. “I wrote you a note; it’s in there. The Columbus had a cancellation, so you have a two-bedroom suite. They promised me it will be high and with a view.”
“Good! How’s that last revision of my speech coming?”
“If you’ll stop asking questions to which I’ve already given you answers,” Vicki told him, “I’ll have it ready this afternoon.”
He grinned. “Get out of here!”
In a week’s time Nim was due to address the annual convention of the National Electric Institute. His paper, which had already gone through several drafts, would be about future power demands and was entitled “Overload.”
The big national NEI convention, important to the public utility industry and its suppliers, was being held locally this year—in the Christopher Columbus Hotel. It would last four days. Because there were numerous social events, it occurred to Nim it would be an interesting change for his family if they moved with him into the hotel for the duration of the convention. He had put the suggestion to Ruth, Leah, and Benjy, who reacted enthusiastically.
The idea of getting a high room with a view was Nim’s. He thought the children would enjoy it.
His promise to speak at the NEI convention had been made nearly a year ago, long before his removal from the role of company spokesman. When Nim mentioned the commitment recently to Eric Humphrey, the chairman told him, “Go ahead, but stay away from controversy.” In fact, Nim’s paper would be heavily technical, intended mainly for other power company planners like himself. Whether or not he would season it—despite the chairman’s warning—with a soupçon of controversy, he had not yet decided.
As Vicki closed the office door behind her, Nim went back to his red file, then decided he would open Karen’s letter after all.
He was sure the envelope contained verses—the verses Karen so painstakingly typed with a stick held in her mouth. And, as always, he was moved by the thought of her laboring long and patiently on his behalf.
He was right.
TOP SECRET (as the military say);
For your eyes only, darling Nimrod,
(Such dear, kind eyes).
No others should alight
On this communiqué—
Un-military,
Very private, intimate, adoring.
My sensual delectation lingers:
A swirling, heady, Cyprian mixture,
br /> At once
So sweetly light, robustly carnal.
My mind, my flesh
My nerve ends, toes, lips, fingers,
Tingling with joyous residues,
Remember—Oh my precious lover!—
The rich fulfillment of your loving.
Such ecstasy!
From this day forth
I’ll vote for hedonism!
You are indeed a noble knight
In burnished armor,
Whose shining sword
(Especially that sword)
Brings golden happiness.
I thrill to it,
And you,
Forever.
Karen, he thought, when he had finished, you turn me on! Oh, how you turn me on!
His best intentions seemed to melt. He would see Karen again, no matter what. And soon.
First, though, he reminded himself, he had a heavy work schedule, including his convention speech. He settled down again to the official mail.
Moments later the telephone buzzed. When Nim answered impatiently, Vicki informed him, “Mr. London is on the line and would like to talk to you.”
Conscious of the bulging red folder, Nim told her, “Ask if it’s important.”
“I already did. He says it is.”
“Put him on, then.” A click and the Property Protection chief’s voice said, “Nim?”
“Harry, this is a full week for me. Is it anything that will keep?”
“I don’t think so. Something tricky has come up, something I think you ought to know about.”
“Okay, go ahead.”
“Not on the phone. I need to see you.”
Nim sighed. At times Harry London acted as if everything in his department rated top priority compared with the rest of GSP & L. “All right. Come up now.”
Nim resumed work until London arrived some five minutes later.
Pushing his chair back from the desk, Nim said, “I’m listening, Harry. But make it brief.”
“I’ll try.” The short, craggy Property Protection chief settled down in a facing chair. In dress and demeanor he still looked the smart, sharp ex-Marine, but there were more lines on his face than a few months ago, Nim thought.
“You’ll remember,” London began, “that soon after we caught those Quayle guys stealing power at the Zaco Building, I told you we’d uncovered a rat’s nest. I predicted there was a lot more to come, and that some big names might be involved.”
Nim nodded.
“Try this big name on: Mr. Justice Paul Sherman Yale.”
Nim shot upright. “You have to be kidding!”
“I wish I were,” London said dolefully. “Unfortunately, I’m not.”
All of Nim’s impatience had vanished. He instructed, “Tell me everything you know. Everything.”
“That day you and I had lunch,” Harry London said, “something else I told you was that my department would check the records of Quayle Electrical & Gas Contracting—working with the D.A.’s office—to review all the work Quayle did in the past year. After that we’d do more investigating to discover how much of it, if any, was illegal.”
“I remember.”
“We did all that. My people have worked like the devil and we found a bundle. You’ll get the details in a report I’m writing. The gist of it is that the D.A. has many more cases to prosecute, with big dollar numbers attached.”
“Get to Mr. Yale,” Nim said. “How does he fit in?”
“I’m coming to that.”
Among the Quayle company work orders, the Property Protection chief reported, were an unusual number initiated for the same person—an Ian Norris.
Though the name seemed familiar, Nim couldn’t place it.
“Norris,” London said, “is a lawyer who works as some kind of financial adviser. He has an office in town—it’s in the Zaco Building, wouldn’t you know it?—and he looks after trusts and estates. One of them is called the Yale Family Trust.”
“I know about the Yale Trust.” Now Nim remembered Norris. They had met briefly at the cattle feedlot near Fresno.
“We have solid proof,” London continued, “that Norris is in power theft up to his hairline. He controls a lot of property—office and industrial buildings, apartments, stores, that kind of stuff. Apparently Norris discovered some time ago that he could do a better job for his clients—save them money and make some for himself—if he lowered electricity and gas bills by cheating. He figured he could get away with it—at least, that’s the way it looks—so he went into stealing power on a grand scale, using Quayle Electrical & Gas Contracting.”
“But it doesn’t follow,” Nim pointed out, “that the people Norris represents had the slightest idea of what was going on.” He had a sense of relief. Even though the Yale Family Trust might be involved, he was confident that Paul Sherman Yale would never be a party, personally, to anything dishonest.
“What you say is true enough,” London said, “and even if any of Norris’ clients did know, I doubt if we could ever prove it. But the D.A. is building a case against Norris and the Yale name is bound to be in it. That’s why I thought you should know. It ain’t going to look good, Nim, for him or for us.”
Harry was right, Nim thought. The name of Yale and Golden State Power & Light were now closely linked and there would be those who—despite all evidence to the contrary—would believe some kind of conspiracy existed. Never mind that it didn’t make sense. It would not stop rumormongers, and there could be resulting embarrassment all around.
“I haven’t finished,” Harry London said, “and maybe this is the most important bit of all.”
Nim listened, wondering what was coming next.
“A lot of the illegal work the Quayle people did for Norris—or rather, for the people Norris represents—began nearly a year ago. But everything for the Yale Family Trust, which includes illegal wiring in two apartment buildings in the city, a winery in the Napa Valley, and at a cattle feedlot near Fresno, has been done within the past three months. And, in case you hadn’t noticed, that’s since Mr. Justice Yale left the Supreme Court, and since he came to work for Golden State Power.”
“Give me a minute, Harry,” Nim said. He had a sense of shock and bewilderment. “Let me think about that.”
“Take your time,” London told him. “Been doing plenty of thinking myself.”
Nim couldn’t believe it. Simply could not believe that Paul Sherman Yale would be a participant in power theft, even peripherally, even as a silent spectator. And yet … Nim was reminded uneasily of their conversation at the cattle feedlot. What was it Paul Yale had said? “It’s the inflated cost of everything that does us in … especially electricity. This operation runs on it. We use electric power for the mill … for forty thousand cattle … in the pens there are bright lights on all night … our power bills are astronomical.” And later: “I’ve told the trust manager, Ian Norris, to cut down, economize … We have to.”
Even before then, on that day in the Napa Valley when Nim first met the Yales, Beth Yale betrayed her husband’s bitterness, and her own, that their family trust was mismanaged and losing money.
Nim addressed Harry London. “One more question. Do you know if anyone—from your department, the police, or the D.A.’s office—has contacted Mr. Yale about any of this?”
“I do know. No one has.”
Nim paused, once more assessing all that he had heard. Then he announced, “Harry, this is too big for me. I’m going to hand it to the chairman.”
The Property Protection chief nodded his agreement. “I figured you’d have to.”
At 11 A.M. next day they assembled in the chairman’s office suite: J. Eric Humphrey, Nim, Harry London, Paul Sherman Yale.
Mr. Justice Yale, who had just been chauffeured from the Napa Valley, was especially jovial. His lined face beaming, he told the others, “Coming back to California has made me feel younger and happier. I should have done it years ago.” Suddenly aware that no one else was s
miling, he turned to Humphrey. “Eric, is anything wrong?”
Humphrey, while outwardly dapper and composed as usual, was inwardly uncomfortable, Nim could tell. He knew the chairman had approached this meeting with misgivings.
“Frankly, I’m not sure,” Humphrey replied. “But some information has been reported to me which I believe you should be told about. Nim, please fill in the background for Mr. Yale.”
In a few sentences Nim explained about the high incidence of power theft and the role in the company of Harry London, whom Mr. Justice Yale had not met previously.
While Nim talked, the old man’s brow furrowed. He appeared puzzled and during a pause inquired, “How does my own work fit in with this?”
“Unfortunately,” Humphrey said, “what we’re discussing does not concern your work. There appear to be … well, some personal aspects.”
Yale shook his head in a gesture of perplexity. “Now I’m even more at a loss. Will someone please explain?”
“Harry,” Nim instructed, “you take over.”
“Sir,” London said, addressing Yale, “I believe you know an Ian Norris.”
Was it imagination, Nim wondered, or had an expression of alarm for the briefest instant crossed Mr. Justice Yale’s face? Probably not. Nim cautioned himself: Don’t look for shadows that don’t exist.
“Certainly I know Norris,” Yale acknowledged. “He and I have business dealings. But I’m curious about your connection with him.”
“My connection, sir, is that Norris is a thief. We have definite proof.” Harry London went on, describing what he had revealed to Nim yesterday about Norris’ power stealing and the Yale Family Trust.
This time Paul Sherman Yale’s reaction was unmistakable: In succession—incredulity, shock, anger.
At the end of London’s recital, Eric Humphrey added, “I hope you understand, Paul, why I decided that this matter—painful as it is—had to be brought to your attention.”
Yale nodded, his face flushed, still revealing the conflict of emotions. “Yes, that part I understand. But as to the rest …” He spoke sternly to Harry London. “This is a serious accusation. Are you certain of your facts?”