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