The Cooperman Variations (8 page)

A fresh noise exploded in the corridor. It came with the sound of the elevator doors opening in a sort of cushioned groan. I heard the sharp crack of Vanessa’s coffee cup hitting wood and the name “Devlin” hissed through her set teeth, as though the name unlocked a chestful of pestilence. Vanessa jumped up behind her desk. Sally’s eyes were wide. She was on her feet and ran into Vanessa’s sanctum sanctorum. They both came out a second later, shoulder to shoulder, to meet the man in a grey suit with a hat, a briefcase and his topcoat over his arm. He was accompanied by a dark, curly-haired man half a head shorter. There was no mistaking which was the bishop and which the clerk.

“Raymond! Raymond, you shouldn’t have!” This was Vanessa as she came within bussing distance of the newcomers. He kissed her soundly on each cheek without even noticing that Sally stood next to her. “I would have sent the contracts down to you by courier. You didn’t have to come all this way.”

“Vanessa, I don’t trust people. When I want something done, I do it myself. That’s the only way to survive. Besides, with all these changes in the air, I thought I’d better get the ink on the paper as soon as possible. By the way, you know Roger here, I think.”

“Changes? What changes? What are you talking about, Raymond? Do you mean our revised fall schedule? Revising is what we do best around here.” Vanessa smiled broadly, but I could tell that she hadn’t liked what Raymond had blurted out. Raymond, too, was now looking like a child who had said too much and now was being badgered to say more. Raymond took the fatter of the two briefcases from Roger here, and began a paperchase with its contents. Roger here stood by and watched.

“Oh, I must have thought that you’d be taking some time off now. Because of the shooting, I mean. By the way, I called Ted and Whatshisname, you know, from your plant department, or whatever you call it, to sign for the engineering side of things.” At this point, Vanessa introduced Sally and me to Raymond Devlin, who was acting as though that name was better known than it was. Roger here turned out to be Roger Cavanaugh. Even with a last name, he remained the acolyte of his boss. Sally passed a man with a bald dome and black-rimmed glasses as she went out in search of beverages. He turned out to be Whatshisname.

“Oh, here you are, Harry.” Vanessa introduced Harry Parlow, head of Plant and Services, whatever that meant. The bald head bobbed, almost bowing, over handshakes.

Devlin boomed, “Glad you could make it, Harry. I don’t have long, so I’m glad you’re on time.”

“Raymond’s legal firm is the executor of Dermot Keogh’s estate, Benny. Thanks to Keogh’s estate, NTC is building a new concert studio and Raymond has generously allowed us to use Dermot’s name. He’ll remain as a consultant on the sort of things that the studio will be used for. We hope that it will rival the CBC’s Glenn Gould Studio.”

“Rival? Hell, Vanessa, it will make the CBC hall look like a swill bucket to this Limoges tureen we’re putting up.” Raymond Devlin looked like a young Henry Kissinger, with jowls poised to start sprouting after his next corned beef sandwich. Fussiness was written all over him. He fairly quivered with fastidiousness. His eyes drank you in and spat out the seeds, leaving your innards on his hard drive for later use. His weight was doing damage to an expensive, well-cut suit. He managed to make it look like he picked it up off the rack in a “Reduced to Clear Sale.” Roger Cavanaugh gave me the look he’d learned from his master. He was out for learning.

Sally arrived back not with coffee but with proper drinks. There was an array of bottles on a trolley and a nearby credenza yielded biscuits, glasses and napkins. While she was working on the refreshments, Vanessa was laying out four copies of the contract for all to sign. Raymond Devlin brought out a package of cigarettes. Menthols. “I don’t suppose that here on the twentieth floor we are free from the prohibitions that obtain elsewhere in this building?”

“You’ll have the security squad down on you in a minute. And you’d better not take it up with Ted Thornhill when he gets here. He’s a former smoker, Raymond, so you’ll be dealing with a convert. You know what they’re like.”

“The world is conspiring against smokers, Vanessa. The only way I can fly these days is Air India, and you’d be surprised at the places where Air India doesn’t fly. Why, in my own office I had to install a vent through the window. The owner is still furious at me, but we do rent the whole floor.”

Vanessa told me that she’d need Sally and me to sign as witnesses. When I asked her what this was all about, she told me to play along; she’d explain later. Just as we were about to make the papers immortal, someone introduced as Ted Thornhill, the CEO of NTC, came through the door with a photographer whose camera was already loaded and poised. Introductions were not attempted. I was the only odd man out. I could see that Harry Parlow was feeling good about it; he didn’t get to meet the top dogs every day. Vanessa was on her toes, playing hostess. Raymond didn’t sweat, but his brow showed a certain tension. His donation of Keogh’s hard cash gave him points and he knew it. Roger came into his own, pointing out small changes, places to initial and so forth. When we had had a go at examining the four copies, passing them around like it was a game, criss-crossing and twice getting mixed up, Raymond plainly relaxed. Ted Thornhill supervised all of this, glancing down over a cascade of double chins. His eyes were small but alert, his mouth the thinnest part of the whole anatomy. His suit showed the wear and tear that a large body can give to the best imported serge. Sparse blond hair betrayed a recent attempt to comb it with water. I found that likeable.

For a quiet, informal gathering, the signing itself was accomplished with sober deliberation. The principal pen was picked up and handed to all the signers by Ted Thornhill. All eyes watched as the ink moved along the paper. The pen was a Montblanc. It fairly blushed from black to grey with the weight of the honour entrusted to it. “There!” said Thornhill with a flourish after all the signatures had been applied. “We make a little history every day. The public event will be next …”

“One week from today. Wednesday at 4:30 in the library, on the mezzanine floor, southwest end of the Royal York Hotel.” Vanessa stepped in to help the forgetful Thornhill.

“Of course, I remember now. There’s a press conference to begin with. Right? I’ll call on you, Ray. You knew Keogh better than anyone, except maybe Philip Rankin. Not many speeches, just what’s necessary to hit the right celebratory note.”

“And then the drinks,” said Devlin. “I hope you’ve not ordered those bits of coloured cheese, Ted?”

“Cheese?” He looked puzzled. “I don’t ordinarily see to the catering, Ray. We might have better receptions if I did. Vanessa, will you look into that? We want the announcement of Dermot Keogh Hall to be a major cultural event. The usual cheese and crackers will not do. Not in any way. Please see to it.” Vanessa smiled one of those pasted-on smiles, the sort you get in opera when the clown’s heart is breaking.

“It has a good ring to it, that name: Dermot Keogh Hall,” mused Devlin. “The hall will seat five hundred, with ample backstage and lobby space.”

“We’ve got a logo that uses his signature, Ray. It will be on all stationery and, of course, above the doors. I’ve got a firm of architects working on it now. I want you to be pleased with this every step of the way.”

“Good. I knew you wouldn’t sell me out. This is a redletter day for the Plevna Foundation.”

The name Plevna stabbed me in the ear. I’d heard the name earlier in connection with Bob Foley, the independent-minded technician.

This sideshow didn’t last long. Nobody really drank more than a sip of his drink—Sally and I were excluded from the libations, by the way. Roger grabbed a drink when Raymond wasn’t watching.

“I don’t mind saying that I’m uneasy with even an
un
signed document in my safe,” Raymond said. “Having the fully executed documents will plague my sleep, Vanessa. You keep those two copies and I’ll take the other two.”

“Why don’t you leave the original and all the copies here and I can get two of them matted and mounted for framing. I’ll send your copies over by courier. They should be ready by Monday or Tuesday. Lots of time before the reception on Wednesday.”

“I hate to let things get away from me, Vanessa. The world around us is fragmenting in every direction. I can’t do much about that. But I
can
try to keep a few things in order.”

“Don’t be a fusspot, Raymond. I won’t lose them. When did I ever let you down?”

“Vanessa, a man isn’t safe in your hands. All right, keep three copies. I’ll take one along with me. But you keep the others under lock and key.”

“I’ll put them in my new safe. I just got it this morning.” Vanessa shot Ted Thornhill a look that coloured the flesh over his cheekbones. He cleared his throat and didn’t meet Vanessa’s eyes.

“I don’t blame you for worrying, Raymond. I’ll personally see to it that nothing happens to them. But remember this: it’s not every day that NTC commits so much of its resources to one big project. We’re in this together. There’ll be glory enough for all.” Raymond thought that this was the cue for an informal embrace, which caught Vanessa off guard. She entered into the momentary entanglement in a lively spirit, then extracted herself without a hair mussed.

I missed the moment of Ted Thornhill’s departure. It must have been right after the photographer, who’d changed films at least half a dozen times. Thornhill had that rare skill of being able to retreat silently without taking away the feeling of his presence in a room. He and Raymond both made you feel as though you’d just witnessed the signing of a major peace accord.

“Now, tell me,” Raymond said, his voice in another register, and following Vanessa to a free couch, “how are you making out since this horrible murder? Are you all right? Are the police giving you the protection you need?”

“I’m fine, really I am. If I can only escape north again for a long weekend, I’ll be completely recovered.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. No, no, no. I should think that you’d be more vulnerable at the lake than here. Have they let you go back to the house yet?”

“I don’t want to go back just yet, Raymond. I’ll go when I’m ready. It’s not for the police to decide. They’ve finished taking the place apart, I’m told. But I’m not up to putting it back together again.”

“It’s a Humpty Dumpty situation,” I volunteered.

“What?” said Raymond Devlin, examining my face as though it were turning purple. He seemed to be not so much at sea in Mother Goose as he was surprised that I had uttered at all. “What?” He looked at Vanessa with a quizzical expression. For a moment I thought that my remark might have made it necessary to sign the contracts all over again. But it was only my own craziness. He soon packed up his briefcase, watched over by Roger Cavanaugh, and began shaking hands with the remaining principal signers. The witnesses got a half-smile just before he turned and walked briskly to the elevator. Harry Parlow’s exit was less dramatic and took place not two minutes later. His expression showed a picture of the back room he was returning to.

I sat there for a few minutes, watching the rooftops below me. Time and place had been distorted by this meeting. It made me jumpy. Vanessa went from her valedictory posture near the entrance directly to Sally.

“Damn it, Sally! How was he able to get up here without my knowing it? Isn’t that why we have security? I want you to find out who’s responsible for the slip-up. I mean it. I want to see the name. Do you hear?” Sally immediately picked up the telephone.

“Commander Dunkery, please,” and waited.

“I hate surprises, Benny,” Vanessa said, checking the polish on her fingernails. “I didn’t want Raymond Devlin walking in on me unprepared. I’m lucky it went as well as it did. But I should have been warned.”

Soon Sally was explaining what had happened to the security chief. Meanwhile, Vanessa used the time to return telephone calls that were waiting for her on top of her desk. From the blur of blue message slips, she selected three, dumping the rest into the recycling bin. I tried to follow what she was talking about and make a note of the name of the caller. She used a slightly different voice with each call: Vanessa the repentant procrastinator, Vanessa the wheedler, Vanessa the straight-talking manager, Vanessa of the walking wounded, carrying on under difficulties and against doctor’s orders, Vanessa the neophyte seeking professional help. When I couldn’t take any more, I mimed my departure from the door, and she acknowledged it with a wave of coiled telephone cord.

Outside, there was Sally. Sally who wouldn’t be my pal. Sally who had to be watched. Sally whose loyalty lay outside this office. I wasn’t up to asking her for favours just then, so I skirted her desk heading for the burgundy elevator and the outside world.

SIX

Much later, in the dying minutes of rush hour, Sykes and Boyd were sitting opposite me in a Second Cup coffee place across the street from 52 Division on Dundas Street. The kid behind the counter, the one with the metal rings in his ear and nose, knew the cops when we came in, and gave me a look that tried to guess whether I was a suspect in a bank hold-up or a serial killer about to be brought to book. Boyd was still taciturn, Sykes still suspicious. I warmed my hands on the coffee mug and pulled at a Danish pastry contributed by Boyd. In the back of my mind, I was reviewing my last meeting with the official police team. I wondered whether this conversation would lead to another awkward confrontation with my client.

“Have you been talking to those people over in TVland?” Sykes asked, licking his fingers and shaking his head to tell me that he had been as bewildered by them as I had. “I don’t know how they get off being so full of themselves. It was like every one of them imagined he was being photographed and recorded all the time. Like they were being chased around by a film crew. Like they lived under a follow spotlight. I can’t believe it.”

“What do you honestly think of Ms. Moss’s theory that someone is trying to murder her?” I looked at Boyd, challenging him to offer a theory, a word, a grunt.