"Death Trance" - читать интересную книгу автора (Masterton Graham)

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. T took out that girl who works behind the salad bar at the Pirate's Cove.'
Tm 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?'
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T 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
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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
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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.
Tm 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
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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.