Chapter IX, Part 8
Glawen lunched alone at the Old Arbor, then, with nothing better to do, sat quietly drinking what remained in the decanter of the wine, while Syrene moved across the sky.
The time became middle afternoon. Glawen could wait no longer. He took himself to the jail, where, without comment, Marcus Diffin admitted him to the cell.
Floreste sat at the table writing across sheets of orange paper, using black ink. He looked up and gave Glawen a curt nod. “I am just finishing.” He inserted the papers into a heavy envelope, upon which he wrote: “Not to be examined until sunset!”
He sealed the envelope and tossed it to Glawen. “I have done your bidding. You must heed the instruction.”
“I don’t understand it but I’ll do as you ask.” Glawen thoughtfully tucked the envelope into his pocket.
Floreste turned him a quick wolfish grin. “Tomorrow, or even sooner, my motives may become clear. Our transaction is now complete, and you must abandon your litigation.”
“It depends on what is in this envelope. If it is nothing but breast-beating and claptrap I will take every dinket you own. So think well, Floreste, and make your changes now, if any are needed.”
Floreste shook his head ruefully. “I would not dare thwart you! I know something of your mettle. You are merciless!”
“Not so. But I will do what I can to help my father.”
“I cannot fault you for your loyalty,”‘ said Floreste. “I wish I could feel the same emotion in those I am trusting to guard my interests.” He jumped to his feet and paced up and down the chamber. “In all candor, I am troubled. I wonder if my associates are as truly dedicated to my goals as they claim.” He halted beside the table. “I must be logical. Can I truly trust Namour? Will he subordinate his own interests to my goals through loyalty?”
‘“The answer would seem to be no,” said Glawen.
“I tend to agree,” said Floreste. “As for Smonny, she also claims to share my ideals, but there is small evidence in this direction at Yipton. When she thinks ‘Araminta’ she thinks ‘vengeance,’ not glorious new honors. Again let us be brutally realistic: if she had access to my money, would she work toward the new Orpheum or would she invest in flyers and weapons? What is your opinion?”
With great effort Glawen managed to conceal his stupefaction. Could Floreste be saying what he seemed to be saying? Glawen managed to say: “My opinion is the same as yours.”
Floreste, pacing back and forth, paid Glawen no heed. “Perhaps I have been too trusting. My account at the Bank of Mircea includes not just my personal moneys, but also funds listed to Ogmo Enterprises. This is an account used by Smonny for her convenience, and includes some very large recent deposits. Your litigation of course froze these funds and denied them to Smonny, causing her great anxiety. Namour prevailed upon me to write out a will, bequeathing all properties to Smonny, who would then turn over my personal fortune to the Fine Arts Committee, and this is where my doubts arise. Would she in fact do so?”
“At a guess,” said Glawen, “I would think not.”
“I incline in this same direction. My new Orpheum will be realized only in the context of present conditions. I wonder –”
Floreste stared thoughtfully down at the table. “Perhaps it is not too late to make a few small changes.”
“Why not? Call in Namour and retrieve your will.”
Floreste gave a bark of sour laughter. “Is it not clear? But no matter. I am only concerned with consequences and now I see a way to assure my goals. Just as a matter of curiosity, how did you learn so much about Smonny? It was supposedly a great secret. Zaa told you, of course, but I wonder why.”
In this case falsehood was easier and cleaner than the truth. “Zaa planned to kill me, after I had serviced enough of her females. She took a perverse pleasure in telling me anything I wanted to know.”
“Aha! ‘Perverse’ is the proper word for Zaa. I could tell a hundred strange tales in this connection. It was Zaa who conceived the Thurben Island events, that she might teach her torpid Zubenites to breed. At least that was the pretext. Sibil contrived the tactics, and since she had what is called a love-hate kink in her nature for pretty young girls, she did her part with zeal. Smonny provided the girls, indifferent to their fate. And I? I ignored the affair, and turned my back on details, so long as I was paid the money, and there was little enough remaining after Smonny took her share. Though now, is it not ironic? All the money is in my account, and Smonny has never even collected her expenses.”
“It is a good joke on Smonny,” said Glawen.
“So it is! Though she has absolutely no sense of the absurd.”
“How did she arrive at her present position? Zaa told me nothing of this.”
“Smonny married a rich rancher, a certain Titus Zigonie, on the world Rosalia. The two visited Yipton to contract for Yip labor. Old Calyactus was then the Oomphaw. By some means they inveigled Calyactus into visiting them on Rosalia. Poor old Calyactus was never heard from again.
“Smonny and Titus returned to Yipton. Titus began calling himself Titus Pompo. But he had no taste for authority and the real Oomphaw was Smonny - a position which brought her untold pleasure.
“Namour somehow became involved in the situation – perhaps as Smonny’s lover? Who knows? Namour is a man of iron discipline and no scruples whatever - a dangerous combination. That is all I know.”
For a period he paced up and down. Glawen said: “Our transaction is complete, and now -”
Floreste made an imperious gesture. “Not yet! Grant me still a few moments.”
“Certainly; just as you like.”
Floreste strode back and forth. “For years I have been a man of far vision; my gaze has ranged the horizons and meanwhile I ignored the ground at my feet. Now, in these final hours, I must make changes.” He went to the table, and seated himself; taking up pen and paper he indited a short document with great care. He raised his head and listened. “Who is out in the front office?”
“Marcus Diffin, or so I suppose.”
“Someone else is with him. Ask both persons to step in here.”
Glawen rapped on the door. Marcus Diffin looked through the peephole. “What do you want?”
“Who is out there?”
“It is Bodwyn Wook.”
“Floreste wants the two of you to step in for a moment.”
The door opened; Marcus Diffin and Bodwyn Wook entered the chamber.
Floreste rose to his feet. “I have come to an important decision. It may seem strange to everyone here, but I consider it right and proper, and at last I find myself at peace.” He indicated the document he had just composed. “This is my will. It is dated and the exact hour of the day is specified. I will read it:
“To whom it may concern:
“This is my last and final will, inscribed during the afternoon previous to my death. I am of sound mind and calm in disposition, as the witnesses will attest. This will supersedes all others, specifically and particularly that will wherein I bequeathed my belongings to Simonetta co-Clattuc Zigonie: which will is here and now declared canceled and invalid in each and all of its provisions. Now, of my free will and upon careful judgment, I bequeath everything of which I die possessed, including all monies, bank accounts, items on deposit in the vaults at the Bank of Mircea in Soumjiana, all precious articles, gems and works of art, all lands, properties, estates, personal effects and all other possessions, to Captain Glawen Clattuc, in the hope and expectation that he will put these funds and derived income to the uses which he knows to be dear to my heart: namely, the construction of a so-called New Orpheum at Araminta Station. I sign this will in the presence of the undersigned witnesses.”
Floreste took up the pen and appended his name to the document, then handed the pen to Marcus Diffin. “Sign.”
Marcus Diffin signed.
Floreste gave the pen to Bodwyn Wook. “Sign.”
Bodwyn Wook signed as instructed.
Floreste folded the will and handed it to Bodwyn Wook. “I entrust this into your keeping. Execute it quickly and make sure of the property! There will be great complaint since in my account are funds which Smonny reckons to be her own. Namour is on his way to Soumjiana to execute my previous will and withdraw those funds.”
“So this is the reason for Namour’s anxiety at the meeting. Is there a ship leaving today?”
“There is indeed,” said Floreste. “The
Karessimuss
. Namour will be aboard.”
Bodwyn Wook ran from the room, to avail himself of the telephone in Marcus Diffin’s office.
“That is all,” Floreste told Glawen. “You may go, and I will sit here reflecting upon the strange lands I shall be wandering through tomorrow.”
“Would you like a bottle of wine to enliven your thoughts?”
Floreste asked suspiciously: “What kind of wine? The last you brought was proper gut-wrench.”
“Marcus will bring in some good Green Zoquel.”
“That will do.”
“I will make sure your money is used as you would wish.”
“I have no worries on that score. I am at peace.”
Glawen departed the chamber. He told Marcus: “I promised Floreste a bottle of Green Zoquel. Will you see to it?”
“I will do so at once.”
Bodwyn Wook came slowly away from the telephone. “The
Karessimuss
departed over an hour ago. Namour was aboard. Somehow he gave my men the slip. Ysel Laverty is out looking for them now.”
“When Namour arrives at Soumjiana - what of Floreste’s money?”
“It is safe. First of all, it is still bound tight by your litigation, which has not yet been lifted. Secondly, such affairs go with deliberation. The will must be validated, and the records searched; and Floreste must be proved dead. The process might take anywhere from a month to three months. In the meantime the latest will can be probated here, and much more quickly. Floreste’s property is safe.”
“Now we also know why Floreste insisted on writing his information.”
“How so?”
“Are you ready for a shock?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Why do you think Titus Pompo is so careful to remain unseen and unknown?”
“I have often wondered.”
Glawen provided the explanation.
At last Bodwyn Wook found his tongue. “This may be the principal reason for Namour’s hurry to leave. He is now demonstrated to be at least a passive coconspirator in Ogmo Enterprises and the Thurben Island affair, and he would not escape stringent punishment: at least twenty years at Cape Journal. Perhaps worse. We will not see him at Araminta Station again. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a few melancholy details to arrange.”
“At least Floreste will be drinking good wine when the gas enters his cell.”
“There are worse ways of dying. Do you have your information?”
“I am not allowed to look at it until sunset.”
“It makes no difference now. Namour has flown the coop.”
“Still, I’ll honor Floreste’s last wishes. I’d feel strange otherwise.”
“Glawen, you are either overly sentimental or extremely superstitious, or both . . . Upon reflection, perhaps here is the essential definition of ‘honor.’”
“As to that, I can’t say.” Glawen turned away and departed the jail.
Chapter IX, Part 9
Glawen walked slowly down Wansey Way. Sunlight slanted through the trees along the riverbank, striking long pink blurs upon the road. Glawen looked over his shoulder. Syrene still hung its own diameter above the western hills; sunset was an hour away.
Glawen stopped to look into the Old Arbor. Late afternoon activity filled the air with the sound of lighthearted voices and muted laughter, somewhat at discord with Glawen’s mood. In a far corner sat Kirdy, morose and alone, staring into nothingness.
Glawen had no present inclination for the Old Arbor. He continued down Wansey Way past the avenue leading up to Wook House, then a second similar avenue to Veder House, and a third to Clattuc House. Glawen paused and surveyed the familiar façade. Tomorrow he would look in to make sure that the work was going properly, without improvisations, shortcuts and that general scamping of the job which Spanchetta would be sure to attempt.
His thoughts turned to Spanchetta. How intimately was she involved in Simonetta’s machinations? How much, in fact, did she know? Certainly, with pious indignation, she would deny all knowledge. At the moment Glawen refused to so much as speculate. He looked toward Syrene, still a pink-orange globe not yet in contact with the hills. He tucked the envelope securely into the inside pocket of his jacket and continued down Wansey Way. He passed the lyceum, now still and quiet but reverberating with a multitude of memories. He looked across the river to the site of Floreste’s projected new Orpheum. Floreste’s account at the Bank of Mircea included Ogmo Enterprise funds, and Glawen laughed aloud. The news of Floreste’s final arrangements would bring consternation to Yipton.
Wansey Way joined Beach Road. Glawen crossed the road and went down upon the beach. The surf was running high; a series of storms out at sea had generated massive swells; one after the other they rolled against the shore, to tumble and crash into foam.
Glawen went to stand where the sheets of hissing bubbles almost wet his feet. The envelope weighed in his pocket; he took it out and examined it on both sides, and read the inscription. The envelope was of excellent quality, fabricated of stiff glossy parchment, mottled tan and gray, of the sort used to enclose legal documents. Had Floreste intended to emphasize the significance of the message within? Hardly necessary, thought Glawen. Perhaps Floreste was merely indulging himself in a final dramatic flourish. Or perhaps this was the only envelope he had on hand.
It made no great difference one way or the other, he thought, so long as the message within was explicit. Glawen forced his mind away from speculation and tucked the envelope back into the inner pocket of his jacket, and buttoned down the flap. He looked back at Syrene, now almost brushing the hills. At the edge of the road a man stood watching him. Glawen squinted against the sunlight, and his heart sank. The brooding posture was unmistakable. It was Kirdy, who apparently had followed him from the Old Arbor.