year. He was always going off alone. It made people nervous. He had apartments and houses here and there, and it was hard to tell just where he'd be. But I never ran out of work, no matter how long he was out of touch. And he hated publicity of any kind."
"You are not lying to me," she said. It was more statement than question.
"No. While he was alive I wasn't supposed to tell anybody what I did for him. Now I guess it doesn't matter too much. The notoriety he got in the very beginning—I guess it made him secretive."
"What notoriety?"
"A long time ago. My parents were drowned in a boating accident when I was seven, and I went to live with Uncle Omar and Aunt Thelma. She was his older sister. She was good to me, but she certainly made Uncle Omar's life miserable. We lived in an old house in Pittsburgh. Uncle Omar taught high school chemistry and physics. He had a workshop in the basement where he tried to invent things. I guess it was the only place in the house where he was happy. Aunt Thelma was always crabbing about the money he spent on tools and equipment and supplies, and complaining about the electric bills. When I was eleven years old he quit right in the middle of a school term and went out to Reno and won a hundred and twenty-six thousand dollars. It was in all the papers. They called him a mathematical genius. They hounded him. Every nut in the country made his life miserable. He put money in the bank for us and disappeared. He was gone almost a year. He reappeared in Reno and lost a hundred thousand dollars there, and then nobody was very interested in him any more. After that he took us down to Texas where he'd built a house on an island in the Gulf off Brownsville. He set up a trust fund for Aunt Thelma and sent her back to Pittsburgh. I stayed there with him for a little while before I went back. By then he had a lot of business interests all over the world. He supported me and paid for my education and gave me my job when I graduated. But—he didn't leave me anything, and I don't know anything about his business interests. In fact, I didn't know him very well. The papers say it's a fifty-million-dollar estate. He left me his watch and a letter to be handed to me one year from last Wednesday."
"And you told Charla that?"
"Yes."
"And told her what you've been doing for a living?"
"I guess I did."
"And you've gone all these years without even trying to make any guesses about your uncle?"
At the moment Betsy Alden irritated him. "I may act like an idiot, but I have average intelligence, Miss Alden. My uncle left that cellar all of a sudden. And how many high school teachers become international financiers?"
"So he found something that gave him an edge."
"An edge over other people, so he gave a lot of the money away. Maybe it was conscience. At least it made him feel better."
She nodded rather smugly. "And so Charla is terribly interested in that letter. Isn't it obvious?"
"But she can't—I can't get it for a year."
"Mr. Winter, any explanation of how one little man could terrorize Charla and her group, fleece them, and end up worth fifty-million dollars is worth a year of effort. And by the end of the year she can have you in such captivity, you'll turn the letter over to her without even opening it, and whinnying with delight at the chance to please her in some small way."
"You have a dandy opinion of me."
I know Charla. I've seen her at work."
"Where do you come in? What do you want? Do you want the letter?"
"All I want, believe me, is some leverage. I don't care how or where I get it, but I want to be able to pressure Charla into fixing it so I can go back to work where I belong. She brought pressure down on me." She stabbed Kirby in the chest with her finger. "And if I can use you to get her off my back forever, I would be a very happy girl. And at the same time I might be doing you a favor, like keeping you from sinking into a swamp."
"Do you hate her that much?"
"Hate is complex.
"You are not lying to me," she said. It was more statement than question.
"No. While he was alive I wasn't supposed to tell anybody what I did for him. Now I guess it doesn't matter too much. The notoriety he got in the very beginning—I guess it made him secretive."
"What notoriety?"
"A long time ago. My parents were drowned in a boating accident when I was seven, and I went to live with Uncle Omar and Aunt Thelma. She was his older sister. She was good to me, but she certainly made Uncle Omar's life miserable. We lived in an old house in Pittsburgh. Uncle Omar taught high school chemistry and physics. He had a workshop in the basement where he tried to invent things. I guess it was the only place in the house where he was happy. Aunt Thelma was always crabbing about the money he spent on tools and equipment and supplies, and complaining about the electric bills. When I was eleven years old he quit right in the middle of a school term and went out to Reno and won a hundred and twenty-six thousand dollars. It was in all the papers. They called him a mathematical genius. They hounded him. Every nut in the country made his life miserable. He put money in the bank for us and disappeared. He was gone almost a year. He reappeared in Reno and lost a hundred thousand dollars there, and then nobody was very interested in him any more. After that he took us down to Texas where he'd built a house on an island in the Gulf off Brownsville. He set up a trust fund for Aunt Thelma and sent her back to Pittsburgh. I stayed there with him for a little while before I went back. By then he had a lot of business interests all over the world. He supported me and paid for my education and gave me my job when I graduated. But—he didn't leave me anything, and I don't know anything about his business interests. In fact, I didn't know him very well. The papers say it's a fifty-million-dollar estate. He left me his watch and a letter to be handed to me one year from last Wednesday."
"And you told Charla that?"
"Yes."
"And told her what you've been doing for a living?"
"I guess I did."
"And you've gone all these years without even trying to make any guesses about your uncle?"
At the moment Betsy Alden irritated him. "I may act like an idiot, but I have average intelligence, Miss Alden. My uncle left that cellar all of a sudden. And how many high school teachers become international financiers?"
"So he found something that gave him an edge."
"An edge over other people, so he gave a lot of the money away. Maybe it was conscience. At least it made him feel better."
She nodded rather smugly. "And so Charla is terribly interested in that letter. Isn't it obvious?"
"But she can't—I can't get it for a year."
"Mr. Winter, any explanation of how one little man could terrorize Charla and her group, fleece them, and end up worth fifty-million dollars is worth a year of effort. And by the end of the year she can have you in such captivity, you'll turn the letter over to her without even opening it, and whinnying with delight at the chance to please her in some small way."
"You have a dandy opinion of me."
I know Charla. I've seen her at work."
"Where do you come in? What do you want? Do you want the letter?"
"All I want, believe me, is some leverage. I don't care how or where I get it, but I want to be able to pressure Charla into fixing it so I can go back to work where I belong. She brought pressure down on me." She stabbed Kirby in the chest with her finger. "And if I can use you to get her off my back forever, I would be a very happy girl. And at the same time I might be doing you a favor, like keeping you from sinking into a swamp."
"Do you hate her that much?"
"Hate is complex.
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