Double, Double, Oil and Trouble Read online

  “That poor woman,” the file clerks had said, opening their brown bags in the courtyard. “How awful for her not to know if her husband’s dead or alive.”

  When the long-awaited good news flashed from Istanbul, the first tendrils of domestic complication became apparent to the typing pool.

  “You know,” they said, bending over their trays in the employees’ cafeteria, “it was Mr. Cramer who flew to his side, and not Mrs. Wylie!”

  But all this was mere preparation for the day when Mr. Engelhart’s approaching visit led to several incautious remarks by Mr. Shute. Proudly his secretary produced these nuggets at the regular weekly outing of her associates.

  “Oh, it’s been going on since long before the kidnapping,” she reported over her shrimp salad. “Mrs. Wylie was actually in Germany when she heard what happened. She came back to England to make things look better.”

  Now, with the makings of a classic triangle assembled under one roof, the company gossips waited for the next development.

  It was certainly no accident that Gwen Trabulsi’s, by day Mr. Cramer’s secretary and by night most emphatically Victor Trabulsi’s wife, had decided on the Tidewater as the place to meet her husband after work. One swift glance around the poolside lounge told her that she was in luck. Two of the principals were on hand, but instead of hurling reproaches at each other, or even icily ignoring each other, they were sharing drinks at an umbrella table.

  “That’s Mr. Wylie,” she hissed at her husband as soon as the waiter left, “and that’s Mrs. Wylie. Can you believe it? They act as if there’s nothing wrong.”

  “Maybe she isn’t his wife,” suggested Trabulsi. “Maybe Wylie is finding consolation the time-honored way.”

  This time Gwen’s examination was more critical. Francesca Wylie had thrown herself into a lounge and was pulling off a wet bathing cap; her glorious mane of titian hair cascaded down her back. Beads of moisture spangled the long lovely body overflowing a minimal bikini.

  “That’s her all right. Paul Volpe described her and you’ve got to admit she’s pretty unmistakable,” said Gwen in an undertone. “The nerve of it! First she brings her lover here. Then she calmly goes swimming with her husband.”

  Vic Trabulsi had a better eye for detail than his wife. “Wylie hasn’t been swimming yet,” he argued. “They probably just bumped into each other.”

  Gwen sniffed. She had to admit that if you checked into a motel with both your men, accidental encounters were likely. But her soul thirsted for melodrama. If she could have heard the Wylies she would have despaired at their misuse of promising material.

  “I don’t see why you had to come here,” Wylie was saying with almost judicious detachment. “We had everything figured out. You could have simply stayed in London.”

  “In fact, that’s what you were counting on, wasn’t it, David?” Francesca asked sweetly.

  “I don’t know what you mean. That was our arrangement.”

  “Our arrangement was that we were going to share 50-50.”

  “But, honey,” said Wylie, leaning forward persuasively, “that’s exactly what we’re doing. You know I’ve always wanted us to split everything equally.”

  “And everything includes the land in River Oaks.”

  For a moment Wylie stared at her. Then his features relaxed into a grin and he chuckled. “So that’s what the fuss is all about. But my poor darling, that lot is peanuts compared to the rest. You could have saved yourself the trip if you’d only asked me.”

  Francesca’s smile could have meant anything. “But then, David, your conception of peanuts has become so grandiose lately. I never know whether you mean a $100 or a $100,000 or a million.”

  “For heaven’s sake! We’re talking about one measly little lot. You know perfectly well we paid $22,000 for it. I’ll gladly offset it as part of my share.”

  “I’m sure you will. But what we paid for it and what we can get for it are two different things.”

  Wylie shook his head pityingly. “Now who in the world has been putting this idea into your head?”

  “The realtor I went to see this morning.” Her voice was creamy with satisfaction. “His figure was $60,000.”

  “Realtors always talk big when you ask for a valuation, but a bird in hand is different.”

  “It certainly is. And I hope you remember that, David, about all our birds in hand. But this realtor was making a firm offer to buy.”

  Her husband might not have heard her. He frowned, then said thoughtfully: “Since when do you know any realtors in Houston? You’ve only been here on short trips.”

  “Klaus found him for me.”

  “I might have known.” He hesitated before continuing: “Look, this isn’t the best time for you to be snuggling up to Engelhart. Can’t you cool it for a while?”

  “I don’t see why he shouldn’t make himself useful, even if he is in for a little surprise. Don’t worry, I can always handle Klaus.”

  Wylie was half-grudging, half-admiring. “You probably can,” he admitted. “But don’t get carried away. I don’t need any demonstration of your expertise. And Engelhart is all right as a little playmate, but I don’t want him nosing into my affairs.”

  “You think it might be dangerous?”

  “Francesca!” he growled. “Engelhart is in the oil business. And he’s damn savvy ... at least about everything except you.”

  She was now openly mocking. “Really David, you act as if we have something to hide. As far as I am concerned our life is an open book, even though it is not necessarily a book that I plan to lend to Klaus.”

  “I’ll bet you don’t!”

  The barb missed its mark. Head bent, Francesca was rooting inside an enormous beach bag, engaged in a search that ultimately produced a long emery board. Then, without a care in the world, she concentrated on shaping her nails to perfection. Her husband, too, seemed to have lost interest in the dispute, leaning back in his chair to watch a youthful group of swimmers leave the pool in a burst of horseplay. If it was a war of nerves, it was Davidson Wylie who broke.

  “I don’t see why we couldn’t have settled this by phone,” he complained, breaking the silence.

  “We still haven’t settled it. Unless you’re ready to offset your share by $60,000.”

  “Like hell I am,” he said promptly. “We’ll sell the lot to that realtor of yours and see how much we really get—unless, of course, you’d like to offset it.”

  “I’m almost tempted,” she confessed. “It’s a perfect location.”

  “I don’t see what’s so wonderful about land in Houston.”

  She sighed with exasperation. “Really, David, you can be juvenile at times. You fall in love with romantic names. In case you haven’t noticed, Houston is rich and exciting and expanding. If we’d had any sense we would have settled here instead of in Europe.”

  “You’re impossible, Francesca. I’ve taken you to Rome and Paris and London, and you complain about not living in Houston.”

  The slight foreign accent became more pronounced. “Perhaps you have forgotten, but I knew Paris and Rome long before I met you. And in Rome we lived like dreary bourgeois—we shopped in their stores, we used the beaches they chose for their children, we met them in restaurants.”

  Davidson Wylie was stung. “In Rome we knew a lot of artists, too.”

  “Artists!” Francesca scoffed. “Architects who had never built a house, actors who had once been in a crowd scene, writers interminably doing background for a book that would never be finished. Can you name one who amounted to anything?”

  “And what makes the people in Houston so marvelous?”

  “They’re rich,” said Francesca succinctly.

  “Not all of them.”

  “The ones I would have known are. They’re the kind who go to Acapulco and Barbados and Caracas,” she continued dreamily.

  “God, and you have the gall to claim I get carried away by names. That’s just St. Tropez and Davos in a differ
ent language.” He took a deep breath. “Anyway, Rome is where we started out. We did a lot better in Paris and best of all in London.”

  She laid down her file and regarded him with clinical interest. “We’d still be in Rome if I hadn’t nagged you into leaving. But then, David, it’s never been difficult to drive you into action, as long as I planned exactly what we should be doing.”

  “Sure!” He gave a harsh bark of laughter. “You’ve always loved that vision of yourself as some sort of strategy queen. Just don’t underrate what the rest of us do. For starters, I’ll come with you to your tame realtor tomorrow and see what we can really get for that lot.”

  Her eyes widened. “Don’t you trust me?”

  “Not your competence. I’ll probably be able to jack up the price. You make the appointment, will you? I’ve got to be going now.”

  “But you never had your swim,” she protested as he rose to his feet.

  “That’s your fault,” he said. “It’s already past six and I’ve spent the whole hour on your problem.”

  “Not my problem,” she corrected him. “The only problems are our problems. And remember, when you’re counting all those lovely dollars, that it was my idea in the first place.”

  He shook his head impatiently. “All right, all right. We’ve been through that already.”

  “And I won’t keep you from your schedule. A domani.”

  With a glint of malice Francesca held out her hand as she uttered the Italian leave-taking. Moved by some obscure reflex, Wylie bent to kiss her fingers.

  She crowed in genuine delight. “Dear David,” she murmured. “Always so continental.”

  Meanwhile, two tables away, Gwen Trabulsi’s eyes were bulging. “Did you see that? He kissed her hand,” she whispered, choking on the words. “Do you think they’re having a reconciliation?”

  “It sure didn’t sound that way,” her husband replied incautiously.

  “You mean you could hear them?” Gwen had chosen the chair with an unobstructed view of the Wylies. Vic, on the other side of the table, was closer to her quarry and that much farther from the clatter of the service bar. She looked at him with silent indignation.

  “I only caught a word here and there,” he said, hastening to mollify her.

  He was not getting off the hook that easily. “Well?” she demanded. “What were they talking about?”

  “About splitting their assets, 50-50.”

  Her face fell. “Is that all? Didn’t they fight about Klaus Engelhart or anything?”

  “No, they weren’t very interested in him at all. I suppose they were haggling about their property settlement.” His voice trailed off dubiously before he went on again. “Sure, that must have been it. After all, I didn’t hear much more than half. But I’ll tell you one thing, Gwen. They sure as hell were talking money.”

  “Then we’ve agreed on sixty-six point five,” said the realtor the following day. “I’ll have my secretary start typing the papers right away.”

  Francesca flashed him a brilliant smile. “With payment by certified check.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” In spite of frigid air conditioning, the realtor passed a wadded handkerchief across the nape of his neck. “You sure know how to drive a bargain, Mr. Wylie,” he acknowledged.

  Dave was already on his feet, restlessly collecting his belongings. “You’ll do well out of the lot,” he said, losing interest. “Coming, Francesca?”

  “Say, folks, don’t rush away like this. There’s a little place downstairs where we could celebrate the deal. I like to think we’re all doing pretty well out of it.”

  Dave did not give his wife a chance to reply. “Sorry, some other time. I’m in a hurry to get back to the office.”

  Francesca eyed him but said nothing until they were smoothly incorporated in the traffic flowing back to the center of town. “You were marvelous, David. I would have sworn that sixty-four was his top price.”

  “These real estate boys are all born actors,” he said indifferently. “You don’t want to pay attention to what they say.”

  Francesca was the world’s ranking authority on the moods and caprices of Davidson Wylie. Ordinarily, he would have been basking in his triumph, lapping up her admiration. After ten years of marriage, an automatic impulse set her conning the possible reasons for his preoccupation.

  “Did you mean that, about going back to the office?” she probed. “I thought we might have lunch.”

  “Something’s come up, and I’m in a bind for time. Why don’t you take the car on to the Tidewater? I’ll get a cab later.”

  She ignored the transport problem, having reached her own conclusion.

  “While I was waiting for you, I spoke with one of the secretaries. She was quite thrilled because an Interpol man is coming to Macklin this afternoon.”

  “That’s right. The Turkish police have thought up some more questions to ask me.”

  She settled her back against the car door and half-turned, examining him from beneath lowered eyelids. “That’s natural enough,” she decided calmly. “You were held there for three weeks. The police have to go through the motions, at least.”

  “They’re doing a lot more than making motions. From what the embassy says, they’re scouring the city to find that apartment.”

  “Well, why not? You’re not the one who has to get nervous.”

  “I’m not nervous!”

  He punctuated this declaration by slamming his foot on the brake as the light ahead turned red.

  “There’s no need to snap at me. Any more than for driving like a madman.” Gingerly Francesca rubbed an elbow that had made jolting contact with the window crank. “As usual you’re working yourself up for nothing. What can a man in your position tell the police? That you saw some ski masks and heard some strange foreign voices. It’s that simple.”

  “Like hell it is,” he said through clenched teeth. “They’re convinced I can come up with all sorts of details if I try hard enough.”

  “I suppose that’s possible.”

  The more excitable Wylie grew, the more reflective Francesca became. This progression was not having a beneficent effect on his temper.

  “I don’t like thinking about those three weeks, and—” he glared his fury across the front seat “—and I don’t like talking about them.”

  Francesca shrugged. “It’s your own funeral. But I know how you go to pieces under pressure. They’re not going to let you pretend this never happened. Take my advice, give the police the details they want, and then you can relax.”

  “You act as if the police are the ones I have to worry about. This isn’t just between me and them. There are other people involved.”

  For a moment Francesca failed to understand. Then she burst into protest.

  “Why you’re afraid, that’s what’s wrong with you. For heaven’s sake, David, this is Houston.”

  With a vicious twist of the wheel he swung sharply onto the approach ramp of Macklin’s executive building and let the car roll to a halt with a thump.

  “You make it sound like it’s on the moon. You managed to get here, didn’t you?”

  Angrily he heaved himself out to the pavement, then had to lean back for his attaché case.

  “I came to sell a lot,” she stammered in confusion.

  Slowly he spelled it out. “You thought you had a reason to come to Houston, so you bought a ticket in Europe and caught the first plane over. Anybody else can do the same thing, and I’m not about to forget it.” Snatching up the case he turned and strode into the building.

  Five minutes later the Macklin guard had to ask Francesca to clear the driveway. She was still sitting in the passenger’s seat, staring at the revolving doors with a puzzled frown.

  Chapter 9

  Texas Towers

  Wives come in a variety of guises: saints and floozies, doormats and shrews, earth mothers, and prima donnas. But, one and all, they share the habit of keeping a weather eye on their husbands’ emotional states
.

  Not so business associates. From the moment that Macklin’s revolving doors accepted Davidson Wylie into their maw, he was in a world where people wanted to know what he was doing, not how he felt about it. News that a representative from Interpol would be chewing up most of his afternoon had already percolated through the upper reaches of the company. Predictably it was the chewing-up aspect that exercised Wylie’s colleagues.

  At first Arthur Shute saw a straightforward administration problem. “He may tie you up for hours, Dave. So be sure you got everything squared away first. He’s not arriving here until two-thirty.”

  Charlie Trinkam introduced a more realistic note. “There isn’t a hope in hell that we can be finished by then. We’ll just have to let it ride over the weekend.”

  Thus far discussion had been amiable, because of the nature of the participants. Arthur Shute, as a quasi-public figure, had learned that being a good citizen always costs something. A slight inconvenience, graciously accepted, was the lowest price an imperfect world could impose. Charlie Trinkam’s resignation about trips away from the Sloan approached Oriental fatalism. Delays in New York, however maddening, caused him no personal inconvenience.

  Therefore, in New York, schedules were always met, personnel arrived on planes that landed on the dot, and appointments meshed like clockwork. In the field Charlie became a veritable Job. Strikes, epidemics, and natural catastrophes followed him in his travels as faithfully as his carry-on suitcase. If Davidson Wylie was essential, then he was sure to be hors de combat. What difference did it make whether fate produced a man from Interpol or a bout with Hong Kong flu?

  This elevated detachment was challenged the moment Hugo Cramer learned of the shattered timetable. He came roaring up the corridor determined to get the train back on track.

  “Look,” he said hoarsely, “until we get that escrow account operating, we can’t do a thing, and that includes signing on the local road contractor. Every week’s delay on the access roads now is going to mean three weeks in the fall. If we can’t wrap it up today, we’ll have to do it over the weekend.”