Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 10

The calls began on Monday morning and continued throughout the day. How awful! So sorry to hear it! Anything we can do? Sandy accepted them politely, but by noon he was weary of them. The Monday morning Times had the story and was clinical with the details. God knew what the Daily News had to say about it, and Sandy didn't want to know. Late on Sunday afternoon he and Angus had visited Albert at Lenox Hill and had found the old man sitting up in bed, watching a movie on television. Sandy felt grateful that Jock's driver had not been seriously hurt.

In the early afternoon, Sandy asked Angus to man the phone, and he went to the office-not his own office over the shop on Madison Avenue, but the company's headquarters in the Seagram Building. He kept a small room there. He got off the elevator and headed toward his desk, and he nearly ran head on into Laddie, who was coming out of his own office.

"Oh, Sandy," Laddie said, and he seemed a little flustered. His shoulders sagged. "I think you'd better come in here; there's been a development you have to know about."

Sandy followed Laddie into his office. A man in his shirtsleeves was seated opposite the desk, and he rose as Sandy entered.

"Sandy," Laddie said, "I don't know if you know Walt Bishop, from our legal department."

"No," Sandy said, offering his hand.

"Sit down, both of you, please," Laddie said. "Sandy… well, Walt, perhaps it would be better if you told Sandy what you've just told me."

"Of course, Mr. Bailley," Bishop said. "First of all, Mr. Kinsolving, I want to apologize for not being able to tell you this sooner. I was on vacation in the Caribbean, and, because of the airline schedules, I wasn't able to return to the office until just a few minutes ago."

Sandy shrugged. What was the man on about?

"You see," Bishop continued, "the week before last, I came into the office on Saturday morning to write some instructions for my secretary before I left town. I ran into Mr. Bailley, the elder Mr. Bailley, when I went to use the copying machine."

"Father often worked on weekends," Laddie said.

"That was when Mr. Bailley asked me to do it," Bishop said.

"Do what?" Sandy asked.

"Write his will."

Sandy froze. "Jock Bailley asked you to write his will?"

"Yes."

"I don't understand. Why didn't he just call his lawyer?"

"My impression was that it was a spur-of-the-moment thing," Bishop said. "But he was very insistent; he wanted it done that minute, and he wanted to sign it before the day was out. Anyway, he dictated some provisions to me, and I went back to my office to prepare the document."

Sandy looked at Laddie. "You didn't know about this?"

Laddie shook his head. "Remember, he had the stroke on Sunday night. I suppose he would have mentioned it on Monday morning, if he had made it to Monday morning."

"Fortunately," Bishop said, "we have a software package in the legal department that includes a sample will, so all I had to do was add the relevant paragraphs on the word processor, and inside half an hour, I had a will for Mr. Bailley to sign."

"And did he sign it?" Sandy asked.

"Well, we had some trouble finding witnesses. It was a Saturday, after all, and no one else was in the office but the two of us, and we needed three witnesses."

Sandy was having trouble containing himself. "And did you find them?" he asked, as calmly as he could.

"Well, what we finally did was, Mr. Bailley and I took the elevator downstairs to the Four Seasons."

The restaurant was in the lowest level of the building.

"Two of the restaurant's owners, a Mr. Margittai and a Mr. von Bidder, were there, and they and the bartender on duty witnessed the will."

Sandy's heart would not stop hammering against his chest.

"Then Mr. Bailley bought me the best lunch I ever had," Bishop said. "He said it was a load off his mind and his conscience. I put the will in my files and went off on vacation; I didn't hear of Mr. Bailley's death until I returned to work today."

Laddie held up a sheaf of papers. "I have the will here," he said. "I have no doubt that it's legal and proper and that it fully expresses Father's intentions."

"Thank you, Mr. Bailley," Bishop said.

"It's pretty much like the one we read last week," Laddie continued, "except Father increased the sums for the servants and for Angus's trust-that from five to ten million dollars."

Sandy wanted to hammer on the desk and scream at Laddie to tell the rest.

"And he left the wine division to you," Laddie said, finally. "Joan got a third of the remainder of the business, and I got the other two-thirds. That's it."

Sandy let out the breath that he had been holding, as slowly as he could. "Thank you, Mr. Bishop," he said. I would have thanked you a lot more last week, he thought, before I instigated the death of my wife. Christ, if I'd known, none of this would have happened. Joan and I would have been divorced, and I would have had the wine division.

Laddie spoke up again. "Walt, I want to thank you for coming to me immediately on your return. And now, if you'll excuse us, Mr. Kinsolving and I have some talking to do."

"Of course, Mr. Bailley," Bishop said. He rose, shook hands with both the men and departed, closing the door behind him.

"Sandy," Laddie said. "This is only my rough estimate, of course, but I think the wine division must account for about a quarter of the value of the company; Joan's third of the remainder would account for another quarter. And, of course, you already own three percent of the stock. Unless I'm greatly mistaken, you are now the majority shareholder of John Bailley amp; Son. Ironic, isn't it?"

A great deal more ironic than you know, Sandy thought. "He told me he was going to do it," Sandy said. "I thought he just hadn't gotten around to it."

"He must have had some sort of premonition of his death,"

Laddie said. "It was certainly unlike him to do anything precipitously on the spur of the moment."

"Yes, that's true," Sandy said. He was getting his heartbeat under control, now.

"What do you want to do?" Laddie asked. "I'm at your disposal."

"Laddie, I don't want your company," Sandy said. "Tell you what: Let's get your accountant together with my accountant; the two of them can choose a third man, and the group can evaluate the company. I'll pull the wine division out of the corporation, and I'll sell you my share of the liquor company for whatever the three men say it's worth. The company has no debt; you won't have any trouble raising the cash for a buyout. That way, each of us will remain his own boss."

"Done," Laddie said, slapping his palm onto the desk top.

Sandy stood. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'd like to take a walk."

"Of course."

The two men shook hands and parted.

Sandy walked up Park Avenue, the May sunshine in his face, the air unusually clear and crisp. He was his own man; he felt omnipotent. After a lifetime of toil for Jock Bailley, he had been paid off, and paid off well. He'd have been happy with just the wine division, but now, as Joan's heir, he'd have enough cash from Laddie's buyout to expand the business, open a West Coast branch, maybe even buy a small vineyard or two. He'd always wanted to grow wine, to have his own vineyard's output sold in his own shop. Now he was going to have everything he'd ever wanted, and more.

He walked all the way uptown to his apartment house. As he let himself in, he heard Angus on the phone. He walked into the kitchen.

"Hi," Angus said. "You weren't gone long."

"I didn't feel like working," Sandy replied. "Many calls?"

"A steady stream," Angus said, handing him a handful of slips. "And one wrong number. We don't have anybody named Bart living here, do we?"

"Who?"

"Some guy called and asked to speak to Bart."

Sandy's feeling of omnipotence vanished.