The Betsy (1971) (18 page)

 Chapter Thirteen

Dan Weyman’s voice was dry and flat. “What you’re doing, Angelo, is asking us to throw away our dirty water before we get clean. That doesn’t seem good business to me.”

“Then we go thirsty,” Angelo said. “But I’m sure that we’ll have what we need.”

“Sure?” Weyman’s voice was unchanged. “Between the new plant on the Coast and research, we have already invested over sixty million dollars and we haven’t even got an idea of what our new car will be.”

“Maybe,” Angelo replied. “But we do know what it will not be. And that’s a step in the right direction.”

“It’s a negative step,” Dan said. “What we have to take before the board is something positive.” He looked across the desk at Loren, who had been silent. “I, for one, can’t go along with Angelo’s idea to scrap the Sundancer for a car that nobody knows and may never be built. Half a loaf is better than none and in one year without a new car we may never get back into the market.”

“According to the figures you gave me,” Angelo said, “that half a loaf cost us almost forty-one million last year. If that’s true, dumping the car will in one year pay for the original capital investment in the new plant.”

“I pointed out that was an extraordinary loss,” Dan said. “Almost half of it was due to the failure of Sundancer Super Sport to sell.”

Angelo refrained from mentioning that he was the only member of the board who had been against the hot car, that he had correctly predicted the turning of the market.

“Let me just recap your recommendations so that I clearly understand them,” Loren said. He placed his palms together judicially on the desk in front of him and studied them. “It is your recommendation that the Sundancer line be converted to a production line for the engine and transmission of the new car so as to create greater space on the Coast for final assembly. Is that correct?”

Angelo nodded.

“Have you taken into account the cost of shipment to the Coast of those items and then the reshipment of the same parts in completed cars back East to market? Wouldn’t that be a wasteful additional cost?”

Angelo nodded again. “It might. Perhaps it would be better to ship shells for the eastern market back to Detroit for assembly here, if we can find room on the line for it. I don’t know yet and I won’t know until the car is designed and approved. Then we can refine manufacturing procedures.”

“I fail to see the rush to disavow the Sundancer,” Loren said.

Angelo looked at him. “Because it’s yesterday’s automobile and I want to establish a brand-new outlook. A point of view that reflects today’s market in both attitudes and concerns.”

“Have you spoken to Number One about this?” Loren asked.

“Not yet,” Angelo said.

“Do you think he will like the idea of stopping production of the Sundancer?” Loren asked. “After all, it was the car that built this company.”

“I don’t think he will like it,” Angelo answered.

“Then why don’t you try to find a compromise, a middle ground, one that will be easier for him to accept?”

Angelo looked at him. “Because that’s not what he asked me to do. He asked me to build a new car that would get this company back into its former position in this industry. That’s what he asked me to do and that’s what I’m going to try to do. He didn’t ask me to make him like it.”

“I know my grandfather,” Loren said. “And I suggest you better talk it over with him before the board meeting.”

“I intend to do that.” Angelo rose to his feet. “Thank you, gentlemen. See you later this afternoon.”

They watched the door close behind him, then looked at each other.

“What do you think?” Dan asked. “Is he holding something back on us? Like maybe the design plans for the new car?”

“I don’t know,” Loren said thoughtfully. “I really don’t know.”

“He’s talking awfully positive for a man who doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

Loren looked at his friend. “Don’t you make the same mistake that I did once.”

“What do you mean?” Dan huffed.

“Once I thought he didn’t know what he was doing and you saw what happened. In his own quiet Machiavellian manner, he almost destroyed us.” He picked up a cigarette and lit it. “I’m not in the mood to give him another shot at me.”

“Then what do we do?” Dan asked.

“We sit tight and wait,” Loren said. “He’s the man in motion, he has to prove himself. We don’t have anything to prove. Our end of the business is paying the freight for all of us.”

There was a message to call John Duncan at the Coast lying on his desk when he returned to his office. He picked up the telephone and held on while the operator put the call through.

The old Scot’s voice came burring through the lines. “How was the party, laddie?”

“Fine,” Angelo replied shortly. “But that’s not what you called me about.”

Duncan laughed. “What’s happened to your sense of humor, Angelo?”

“Gone,” Angelo snapped. “Along with eight missing hours of sleep. What’s up?”

“I want your okay to do some work on my gas turbine engine.”

“You finish the tests on the Japanese Wankel?”

“Not yet. But we already know it’s good. Very good.”

“Then maybe we can make a deal.”

“Not a chance, laddie. One, they’re planning to come on strong in the States next year; two, Ford’s already wheeling and dealing for a share of Toyo Kogyo and they have the inside track. And with GM making their own deal with the Germans, we might as well forget it. They’ll royalty us right out of the market.”

Angelo was silent.

“I’ve been going over the turbine with Rourke,” Duncan said. “And we’d like to try some experiments with titanium and steel castings. We have a feeling that we can get it to take the heat and stress as well as the nickel and carbon alloys. If it can, we may have a way to bring down the cost.”

“Okay,” Angelo said. “Try it.” He reached for a cigarette. “Do you have the aerodynamics report on the designs yet?”

“No,” Duncan said. “We have the models sideways in the wind tunnel to see what will give first but nothing’s come through from them.”

“Keep me posted,” Angelo said.

“I will, laddie.” Duncan hesitated a moment. “Tell me, how does Number One look to you?”

“Good.”

“Have you spoken to him about the Sundancer yet?”

“No,” Angelo replied. “I’m going to try to get to him before the meeting.”

“Good luck, Angelo,” Duncan said.

“Thank you. You too.” Angelo put down the telephone. It rang again. He picked it up.

“Lady Ayres on the line,” his secretary said.

He switched over. “Hello, Bobbie.”

“You could have called me, Angelo.” Her voice was faintly reproachful.

He laughed. “Stop putting me on. Mere vice-presidents don’t call the boss’s intended.”

She laughed. “Now, you’re putting me on. I thought I might invite you to lunch.”

“I’d love to,” he said. “But I have a hectic afternoon coming up. I thought I’d grab a sandwich at my desk.”

“That’s funny,” she said. “That’s exactly what Loren told me. Is that common among American executives? A sign of diligence or something?”

“I don’t really know,” he answered.

“Then come upstairs,” she said. “I promise not to eat you.”

“Wrong promise,” he laughed.

“You come upstairs,” she said, “and I’ll promise to give you my latest American discovery for lunch.”

“What’s that?”

“A hero sandwich,” she answered.

He laughed aloud. “I’ll be right up. You certainly know the way to an Italian boy’s heart.”

“Take the last elevator on the bank,” she said. “I’ll clear the switch so that it comes up to the penthouse.”

She was waiting at the door when he came off the elevator. The doors closed behind him and they stood there silently for a moment, just looking at each other.

“I’m only a bird in a gilded cage,” she sang in a cracked voice. She tried to smile but she couldn’t make it. Then she came into his arms and they stood there very quietly for a long time.

After a while she stepped back and looked up at him. “You’ve lost weight.”

“A little.”

“I’ve missed you.”

He didn’t speak.

“I’ve really missed you,” she said.

He remained silent.

“You don’t know what it’s like, staying up here. There were times I thought I would go crazy.”

“You could have left any time,” he said. “You weren’t chained here.” He turned and pressed the call button for the elevator to return.

“Where are you going?”

“Back downstairs,” he answered. “I was stupid to come up in the first place.” The doors opened and he stepped into the elevator.

She placed a hand on the door to keep it from closing. “Stay.”

He shook his head. “If I do, I might blow it for you. Do you really want that?”

She stared at him.

“Do you?” he repeated.

She let her hand fall from the door. He saw her turn and walk away as the doors rushed shut. Slowly, the elevator began its descent.

Number One sat quietly at the foot of the long directors’ table. “Then we’re all agreed, gentlemen,” he said. “We’ll approve production of the Sundancer until April of ’71 and if Mr. Perino has completed satisfactory plans for the new car by that time, we will entertain a motion to convert.”

He looked at Angelo. “Is that acceptable to you?”

“No, sir,” Angelo said steadily. “But do I have a choice?”

“You don’t,” Number One said.

“Then there is just one further item I would like to call to the attention of the board,” Angelo said. “I had set as a target for production and sales of the new car, five hundred thousand units in the first year. What you are doing is making that goal impossible to achieve by half, simply because it will take that much time to break down the old assembly line.”

“We’ll make a note of that in the minutes,” Number One said. “In that case, with no further business to come before the board, I declare the meeting adjourned.”

The door chimes finally made their way into his sleep. He opened his eyes and it took him a few moments to realize that he was in his suite at the Pontchartrain. He got out of bed and staggered through the living room to the door and opened it.

Betsy stood there. He couldn’t tell which of them was the more surprised. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d be asleep so early.”

“I was wiped out,” he said groggily. “I’ve only had about four hours sleep in the last three days.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize any more. You’ll make me feel guilty. Come on in.”

He led the way into the living room. “What time is it?” he asked.

“About ten thirty.”

He pointed to the bar. “Help yourself to a drink while I get my robe.” He padded off into the bedroom, his pajama trousers flapping around his legs.

When he came back she was drinking a Coke in a tall glass choked with ice cubes. He crossed to the bar and made himself a Canadian and water. He turned to look at her, taking a long sip of his drink. “Now, Miss Elizabeth,” he said heavily, “what can I do for you?”

She looked at him for a moment, then her eyes fell. “I need a favor,” she said. “A very important favor.”

He took another pull at his drink. “Like what?”

Her eyes came up and met his gaze. “You’ll think I’m being silly, or stoned, or something.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Angelo,” she said in a small voice.

“Yes?” he said, beginning to feel annoyed.

She hesitated a moment.

“Yes?” he repeated.

“My chart says it will work out okay.”

“What will?”

“You know,” she explained. “You, me. Taurus and Virgo.”

“Oh, sure,” he said, completely bewildered.

“Then it’s all settled,” she smiled. She put the glass down on the bar. “And we can go to bed.” She placed her arms around his neck.

“Wait a minute!” he protested. “Don’t I have anything to say about this?”

“Not really,” she said. “It’s all written in the stars.”

“But I’m not a Taurus,” he said. “I’m Leo!”

An expression of hurt came into her eyes. “What’s the matter, Angelo?” she asked. “Don’t you want to marry me?”

 Book Three

 1971

 Chapter One

A hush fell over the small hearing room in the old wooden building that served as the country courthouse in the little town midway between Seattle and Spokane. Quietly, the coroner’s jury filed into the room and took their seats on the wooden chairs that were placed near the table that served as the coroner’s bench. The coroner, a tall man with a weatherbeaten face, ambled to his chair and sat down. He nodded to the bailiff.

The bailiff turned to the room. “The coroner’s court is now in session to hear evidence into the cause of death of one Sylvester Peerless while driving a test car in the employ of Bethlehem Motors Company.” He glanced down at a sheet of paper he held in his hand. “The court calls Miss Cindy Morris as witness.”

Cindy turned in her chair and looked at Angelo. “I’m nervous. What do I tell them?”

Angelo reassured her. “Tell them the truth. You can never go wrong that way.”

She got to her feet. An appreciative murmur went through the little room as she made her way to the witness chair, the form-fitting jump suit with the words
BETHLEHEM MOTORS
lettered across the back, left no one with the illusion that she wasn’t a girl.

The bailiff administered the oath quickly and asked her name.

“Cindy Morris.”

“Please sit down,” he said and went back to his own chair.

She sat down as the county prosecutor got to his feet. Like all the men in this portion of the country, he was a tall man who gave the impression that he might have stepped out of a Marlboro Country advertisement. But the outdoorsy look did nothing to hide the keen intelligence of his gray eyes.

He stopped in front of her. His voice was soft with a deceptively gentle western twang. “How old are you, Miss Morris?”

“Twenty-four,” she answered.

“Twenty-four,” he repeated, nodding.

“Yes.”

“You are an employee of Bethlehem Motors?”

“Yes.”

“In what capacity?”

“Test driver and design consultant.”

“Please explain your duties.”

“I drive the cars and report to the design and engineering chief as to a woman’s point of view about the cars.”

“How long have you been thus employed by Bethlehem Motors?”

“About a year and a half.”

“How many cars have you driven and tested in this time?”

“Approximately nineteen.”

“Do you regard your work as dangerous?”

“Not really.”

The district attorney looked at her. “That’s a curious answer. What do you mean by it?”

“I feel much safer driving a car on a test track where every possible safety precaution is taken than I do driving in ordinary everyday traffic.”

He was silent for a moment, then he nodded. “I see.” He walked back to his table and picked up a sheet of paper. Holding it in his hand, he walked back to her. “Were you acquainted with the deceased driver, Sylvester Peerless?”

“Yes.”

“In what manner?”

“We were good friends.”

The attorney looked down at the paper. “I have here a copy of the registration card at the Starlight Motel. It reads and I quote, ‘Mr. and Mrs. Sylvester Peerless, Tarzana, California.’ In brackets after that, ‘Cindy Morris.’ Were you ever married to Mr. Peerless?”

“No.”

“Then how do you explain the registration?”

“I said we were good friends. We shared the room. I wasn’t aware of how Fearless registered us.”

The attorney smiled. “You mean to say you were roommates and that’s all?”

Cindy smiled back at him, her nervousness disappearing completely. This kind of talk she understood. “I didn’t say that, you did. If you are interested in whether Fearless and I ever had sexual relations, why don’t you ask?”

“Did you?” the attorney shot back.

“From time to time,” she said calmly. “When we felt like it.”

The attorney stood there silently. Then he shrugged his shoulders and went back to his table. He put the sheet of paper back on it and turned to her. “Were you present at the test track the day the deceased met his death?”

“Yes.”

“Was there anything unusual about the circumstances of that day?”

“Yes.”

“What were they?”

“Fearless got himself killed.”

A small ripple of laughter ran through the room. The attorney made a face and waited for it to pass. “Was there anything else?”

She thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. That was unusual enough.”

Again the ripple of laughter. Again the attorney waited for it to pass. “I mean,” he said, “was there anything unusual about the performance of the car he was testing?”

“I didn’t think so,” she answered. “I turned the car over to him after my two-hour trick and it was behaving perfectly.”

“Did he say anything to you that might have indicated his concern over the performance of the automobile?”

“No.”

“Did he say anything at all to you at that time?”

“Yes, he did.”

“What did he say?”

“He made a remark. A joke. You know.”

“I don’t know,” the attorney said.

“A private joke,” she said uncomfortably. She glanced around the room. “The kind of thing you don’t say in public.”

“What did he say?” the attorney insisted.

Her face flushed and she looked down at the floor. She spoke in a low voice. “He said he felt so horny he hoped his cock wouldn’t get caught in the steering wheel.”

The lawyer’s face reddened as a murmur ran through the room. “Did you say anything to him?”

“Only what I usually say.”

“What was that?”

“Drive carefully.”

The lawyer was silent. “What did you mean by that?”

“Nothing,” she answered. “I always say that whenever someone gets behind the wheel of a car.”

“You didn’t mean that to indicate something special that might be wrong with the particular car you were driving?”

“No,” she replied. “I always say that.”

“Did you see the accident happen?”

“No, I did not,” she said. “I went back to the motel and went to sleep.”

The attorney looked at her for a moment, then walked back to his desk. “I have no further questions.”

The coroner leaned across his table. “Do you have any ideas or opinions as to what might have caused the accident that resulted in Mr. Peerless’ death?”

“No, sir, I do not,” Cindy answered.

“I understand that the car was powered by a new kind of engine,” the coroner said. “A gas turbine. I also understand that kind of engine could sometimes explode under certain conditions. Do you think something like that might have happened and caused the accident?”

Cindy looked at him thoughtfully. “It might have but I doubt it. That engine had over thirty thousand miles on it and if it was going to blow up, it would have done so long before then.”

“But it might have?” the coroner persisted.

Cindy’s voice was level. “I don’t know. But isn’t that the purpose of this court? To determine what happened?”

The coroner looked at her. His voice was cool. “We expect to do just that, young lady.” He glanced at the jury. “Do you have any further questions?”

A murmur of no’s came from the jurors and he turned back to Cindy. “That will be all, Miss Morris. Thank you. You may step down now.”

The room was silent as Cindy walked back to her seat. She looked at Angelo. “Was I all right?”

He patted her hand. “You were fine.”

“The son-of-a-bitch,” she whispered. “He didn’t have to ask me all those questions.”

“You told the truth,” Angelo said. “Don’t worry.”

The bailiff’s voice came through the room. “Will Mr. John Duncan take the stand?”

The Scotsman got to his feet. He didn’t look his sixty-five years as he walked firmly to the stand and took the oath.

“Your name, please?” the bailiff asked.

“John Angus Duncan,” he replied and sat down.

The country prosecutor rose and walked toward him. “Would you please tell us your position with Bethlehem Motors?”

“Vice-president, engineering.”

“How long have you held that position?”

“One and a half years.”

“And before that?”

“I was for twenty years vice-president of automotive production at that company. At the age of sixty I retired. Two years later I rejoined the company in this present capacity.”

“Would you please define your present responsibilities?”

“I am in charge of the engineering part of the Project Betsy.”

“What is Project Betsy?”

“It is the building and development of a new car presently being considered by the company.”

“Can you elaborate on that?”

“No.” The Scotsman was terse. “It would be disclosing confidential information privileged to my employer.”

The country prosecutor glanced at his notes. “I understand that you hold certain patents in connection with a turbine engine. Is that true?”

“Yes,” Duncan nodded. “I might point out that they are held jointly with my employer.”

“Is that the engine used in the vehicle in which Mr. Peerless met his death?”

“A variation of that engine was used.”

“Can you elaborate on that?”

“No.” Duncan was firm. “For the same reason mentioned by me before and also that certain patents are currently pending and disclosure would give information to our competitors.”

The country prosecutor went back to his table. “Were you present at the scene at the time Mr. Peerless met his death?” he asked.

“Yes, I was.”

“Could you tell us about it?”

“Mr. Peerless entered curve number four at a speed of one hundred and seventy-one miles per hour despite our warnings to him and went off the track into the wall.”

“You say he was warned. How was this done?”

“We are in constant radio communication with the driver of the car.”

“You were able to judge the speed of the vehicle?”

“Yes. Our test cars are equipped with radio sensor devices which constantly send information back to a control computer which records the performance of every part of the automobile.”

“Would it be possible for us to see this record?”

“No,” Duncan replied. “For all the reasons I mentioned before.”

“But your sensor devices indicated there was nothing mechanically wrong with the car?”

“The car was operating perfectly.”

“Do you have a record of your warning to Mr. Peerless?”

“Yes. There is a tape of that communication.”

“Is it possible for us to hear that?”

Duncan looked across the room at Angelo. Angelo turned to Roberts, sitting next to him. The attorney nodded.

“Yes,” Duncan said. “I have a tape playback unit in my attaché case which I left on my seat and can play it for you right now.”

The coroner leaned forward. “Would the bailiff please fetch Mr. Duncan’s case?”

The bailiff brought the case to Duncan. The Scotsman opened it and took out a cassette playback unit. He looked questioningly at the coroner.

“It’s all right, Mr. Duncan. You can place it on the table in front of me.”

Duncan got up and set the small machine on the table. He pressed the button. A faint hum filled the room. He turned up the volume control. The hum grew louder.

“I don’t hear any engine sound,” the coroner said.

“There is very little,” said Duncan. “This is a turbine engine and the noise level is negligible compared with the normal I.C. engine. The only background sounds you might hear are the wind and the tires.”

A man’s voice broke into the tape. “I read one seventy-five on the speedometer. Verify. Over.”

Duncan’s voice came on the tape. “One seven four point nine nine seven, verified. Better start taking her down. You’re coming up on number four. Over.”

For a moment there was nothing but the background hum on the tape, then Duncan’s voice came on again. “We read you at one seven three point one two five. Bring it down. You’re running out of time. Over.”

Silence again, then Duncan’s voice. This time there was a note of urgency in it. “Duncan to Peerless. We read you at one seventy-one point zero five zero. Bring it down! This is an order! Over.”

Silence. Duncan’s voice, harsh and angry. “Are you crazy, Peerless? Bring it down before you get yourself killed! Over.”

Peerless’ voice came on. He laughed. “Don’t be such an old fuddy-duddy. I can take her through.”

Duncan’s voice overrode him. “You’ve only got a four percent grade, you’ll never make it!”

“You got no faith in your own machine, old man,” Peerless laughed. “Leave it to Fearless Peerless. I know what I’m doing. I drive with the angels.”