The Lockwood Concern (41 page)

two minutes between here and Gibbsville if he felt like it." "Be retired in another year," said Schissler. "Ed? No, Ed got closer to two years yet. Well, there he is, whistling for Schmeltzer's Crossing." Ike Weimer took out his watch. "He made it up. I wouldn't like to be firing for Ed when he's real late." The door of the baggage car was already open as Number 8 pulled in. The conductor and two members of his crew pushed the casket, which rested on a dolly, on to the station hand-truck. "Careful, now, careful," said the conductor, his crew, Schissler, and Wehner. One of the trainmen, young and fresh, said to Wehner, "I guess they left the woman back in New York, huh, Wehner?" "Ah, shut your face," said Ike Wehner. The trainman laughed. Wehner signed for the casket, handed the slip of paper to the conductor, and pulled the hand-truck down the platform to the hearse. Schissler, his assistant, and Wehner transferred the casket to the hearse. "Thanks, Ike," said Schissler. "So long." "So long," said Ike Wehner. Schissler bowed deeply to Andrew, George Lockwood's chauffeur, to signal him to follow, and the cortege was on its way. Already waiting at the grave was young Faust, assistant pastor of the Lutheran Church, wearing an ordinary suit. He had got there under his own power - walked, more than likely. Schissler wondered whether to offer him a ride back to town. It was a small item, but it would bring the total closer to $500. The service took less than ten minutes, and there was no sign of emotion by any of the seven mourners, Schissler watched the widow particularly, but she showed nothing. Considering how Penrose Lockwood died she could not be expected to show much grief, but she showed nothing else, either. She might as well have been witnessing the burial of a dead cat. Young Faust nodded to George Lockwood, indicating that the service was at an end. George and the widow thanked him, and they all headed for their cars. At that moment two strangers with cameras took flashlight photographs of the group. Where they had come from Schissler did not know. He had not seen them before, and they hurried away when they had taken their pictures. He wondered if he had got in the picture. He followed George Lockwood to his car. "Everything satisfactory, George?" he said. "Everything but those photographers, but I can't blame you for that. I thought we were going to have a policeman here." "Well, we're not in the Borough, George. We're just outside the Borough limits here." "Oh, well," said George. "Straight home, sir?" said Andrew. "Straight home," said George Lockwood. "Deegan knows the way from here, doesn't he?" "Yes sir. He knows all these roads, better than I do," said Andrew. "All right, let's go," said George. He got in the Lincoln and sat between Wilma and Geraldine. "I'm sorry about those photographers," he said. "They didn't get much for their trouble, a woman with a veil," said Wilma. "Do you think they came all the way from New York just for that?" "I don't know, but they'd better not try anything at the house. Deegan, the man that's driving the other car, is a private detective. Actually a watchman, who works for a detective agency. One word to him, and there'll be some cameras smashed. Maybe even a nose or two." "Oh, dear, are we going to have trouble?" said Geraldine. "Let's not have anything like that." "Seems to me you've had the least trouble of anybody, this past week," said George. "I was thinking as much of Wilma as of us," said Geraldine. "Oh, sure," said George. "This is really very pretty country," said Wilma. "I love those great big red barns. They build them right into the side of the hill, don't they?" "For a reason," said George. "For several reasons, as a matter of fact. On the lower level they keep the livestock. The cattle, the horses. On the upper level they store the grain, the hay and straw. The corn cribs of course are separate. But the hay and straw and grain are kept dry, on the upper story of the barns." "Not the animals?" "Oh, they bed them with straw, but the farmers believe that animals are healthier standing on the ground than on wooden planking." "George will embark on a lecture at the drop of a hat," said Geraldine. "I never knew any of this." "You never asked the right questions," said George. "I have resources of information that you haven't tapped, Geraldine." "I'm sure you have," said Geraldine. "Some of them I'd hesitate to ask about." "Then they wouldn't be considered the right questions, would they? Wilma was only interested in the Pennsylvania Dutch barn, and since I was born and raised here, it's a subject I know something about." "But you tore down one of those barns to build your own house." "I had no intention of becoming a farmer. I was building a country place for you - and me, dear. Just you and me." "Fiddlesticks. You were building a manor house for future generations of Lockwoods," said Geraldine. "If I was, I made a big mistake, didn't I?" "Speaking of which, I wonder what happened to Bing? He was going to be here today," said Wilma. "He could have missed connections in Chicago, or he may have changed his mind without letting you know. Or whose car is that going up our road? If it's those damned photographers, I'll have them out of there in a hurry." He spoke to Andrew through the tube. "Andrew, do you recognize that car, going up our driveway?" "No sir. It's a last year's Cadillac but I don't recognize it. One of them four-door coops. There's two of them like it in Gibbsville, but I know both of them." "He's going right in our driveway, too," said George. "You don't recognize the car, do you, Wilma?" "No." "Now he's getting out. He's alone," said George. "And do you know who it is? It's my son!" "Oh, I'm dying to meet him!" said Geraldine. "Well, don't wet your pants. You're about to meet him," said George. "It is he, isn't it?" said Wilma. "Oh, I'm really glad he got here." Bing Lockwood was standing at the front door, waiting to be admitted, when the Lincoln pulled up. He was wearing a blue serge suit, white button-down shirt, and black knit tie. He was deeply tanned, almost of another race among the white faces that now got out of the Lincoln. "Hello, Father," he said. "I went to the wrong house." "Hello, son. The wrong house? What wrong house?" They shook hands. "The old house. Home. Hello, Aunt Wilma." He put his arms around her and kissed her cheek. "Your stepmother," said George. "Hello, stepson," said Geraldine. "I'm so glad to meet you at last." "Of course, you've never seen this place," said George. "Well, shall we wait for the others? Here they are, so let's get the introductions over with. Mr. and Mrs. Sherwood James, cousins of your Aunt Wilma." "We met a long time ago," said Bing, shaking hands with Dorothy and Sherwood James. "And Mr. and Mrs. Desmond Farley, also cousins of your Aunt Wilma's." Bing Lockwood shook hands with the Farleys. "Geraldine, will you take them in, please. I have to have a word with Deegan. Andrew, will you take my son's bag? Where did you come from, son?" "Philadelphia. I got in early this morning and a friend of mine lent me this car, but I got lost on Stenton Avenue, and then when I got here-" "Stenton Avenue? What were you doing on Stenton Avenue? We haven't gone that way in years," said George. "Well, I won't go that way again," said Bing. He put his arm about Wilma's shoulders, and a shy sadness came into her eyes. George saw it, and at first was shocked by the hypocrisy of it, but she was not being hypocritical, he saw: she was simply being affected by the magnetism of his son, whose sorrow was genuine and infectious. George spoke to Deegan about the newspaper photographers. "Andrew will see to it that they don't come through the main gate, but you might keep an eye back gate," said George. "They won't be coming over the wall, that's sure and certain," said Deegan. George did not feel that it was quite necessary for Deegan to remind him of the spikes in the wall, but he made no comment on that. "I'll rely on you to keep them out," he said, and returned to the house. The mourners had dispersed to various lavatories. Luncheon was to be served whenever Geraldine gave the order, a time unfixed because of the unpredictability of the length of the funeral service. For the moment George was alone in his study. The Farleys and Sherwood James were returning to New York on an early afternoon train. Dorothy James and Wilma were staying overnight. Wilma had the inevitable papers to sign, and was seeing Arthur McHenry in the morning. All plans were known to George except his son's. Geraldine appeared. "What do you think? Serve cocktails here, or in the front room?" she said. "Be a little crowded in here," he said. "Did you find out anything about George's plans?" "Yes. He's going to wait over and take Wilma and Dorothy as far as Philadelphia in his car, tomorrow. Then they'll go from there by train." "He is spending the night, then," said George. "Yes, he seemed to take for granted that we expected him to. He's very attractive. He asked me to call him Bing, by the way. He said nobody in California calls him George." "I'm sure they don't," said George. The luncheon proceeded according to the improvised rules of the particular occasion: no mention of the dead, some sketchy local history by George Lockwood, some discussion of the petroleum industry between Desmond Farley and Bing Lockwood, and finally a half-apologetic reminder by the hostess that if the Farleys and Sherwood James had any packing to do, they should allow fifteen or twenty minutes for the ride to the railroad station. Soon the Farleys and Sherwood James were gone, and Geraldine, Wilma, and Dorothy James retired to Geraldine's sitting room. George Lockwood and his son were alone for the first time in six years. "Have a cigar, son." "Believe I will, thanks. I've taken to cigars. A lot of times we're not supposed to smoke on the job. One careless match could raise hell with us, so I always carry a few cigars to chew on. Don't light them, just chew on them. A habit I picked up." "I'm told you're doing extremely well. Preston Hibbard was here and gave me a full report. He even brought along some pictures of your wife and children." "Yes, we had a nice visit from Hib. Quite a guy. I never thought much of him in school, but Harvard must have made a man out of him. I guess it was Harvard. Anyway, he found out what he wanted to do, and he's doing it. That's what's wrong with a lot of guys our age. They don't know what the hell they want to do, and if they have no financial problem, they just sit on their asses till it's too late." "I gather you have no financial problem," said George. "Personally, no. By that I mean, with the first big money I made, I socked it right into a trust fund for my wife and children. Nobody can touch it. I can't, they can't. Once that was taken care of, I could take some chances, and I have, and they've been paying off." "Fifty thousand to St. Bartholomew's and fifty thousand to Princeton," said George. "I was interested in the Princeton donation." "Yes. Well, I said to myself, God damn it, I did learn a few things there. The kind of stuff you go there to learn. But I learned something else when they kicked me out. Not about cheating. I didn't have to go to Princeton to learn that that was wrong. Mother was always strict about that, and so were you. But a couple of men at Princeton taught me to take my medicine." "How?" "Well, by being tough. Firm. There was never any question about my being kicked out. But they could have made my offense seem like some paltry misdemeanor, and it wasn't. In that world, it was a major crime, and deserved major punishment. On the other hand, they assured me that I'd get full credit for any good things I'd done, and I don't only mean academic credit. If anybody wanted to find out why I'd left Princeton, they would be the judge of how much to tell them. Fortunately, the only man I ever worked for knew exactly why I'd been kicked out, and he gave a lot of men their second chance." "Do you think I was too tough?" said George. "I did, but I don't anymore," said Bing. "What made you change your mind?" "Oh - distance, I suppose. And meeting the right girl and marrying her. Making a home of my own. And financial success." "All adding up to independence," said George. "Yes. When I heard about Mother dying, I was completely on my own. Ernestine, of course. But what is a sister going to be in a man's life except a sister?" "What about a father?" "Well, I have two of my own, now, and I wonder about that. I may be as tough as you were, but not in the same ways. As I look back on our relationship, you had your own ideas of what you wanted me to be, but they weren't necessarily mine." "You didn't know what you wanted to be. As a matter of fact, you were well on the way to being what I wanted you to be." "That's true. I know that. But that may be why I cheated. Underneath it all, I didn't want to be a carbon copy of you or of Grandfather Lockwood. I'd had six years of that at St. Bartholomew's and nearly four years at Princeton, and began to think it was so much shit. What are we, anyway? Your grandfather was a murderer, and what his father was, nobody knows. Mother's father wasn't much, and as far as the Richterville branch of our family's concerned, we probably have cousins up in the hills that are screwing their own sisters. NO. I never thought we were so God damn elegant." "Elegant is a housemaid's word, like swell," said George Lockwood. "I noticed you used that word at lunch. In any event, it never seemed to occur to you that there was anything worthwhile in what my father was trying to do, and I've tried to do, and was hoping you would do, and your children would do." "What's that?" "Make this family, that started with a murderer, mean something. You're a snob. In your mind you've probably compared us to the old families in England, with inherited titles and the rest of it, going back three or four hundred years. But little do you know how many murderers and rapists and thieves there were in those families. Or the American aristocrats that brought niggers from Africa and sold them as slaves. I give you some of the great fortunes that were made in this country in the last century, big contributors to Princeton and Harvard. The dirtiest kind of money." "Yes, but they're the people you most admire." "No, they're not. I wanted us to be better than they are," said George Lockwood. "All right. I will be. But starting with me, not with you or your father or his father." "Why, you impudent ignoramus, you must think the doctor brought you here in a satchel. You came from your father's balls, just like anyone else. There isn't the slightest doubt about that, either. You even look like your great-grandfather. The murderer, by the way." "Well, he had balls. I'll say that for him. I'd rather be like him than some of those that came