from the airport.’
'The cab driver?’ Neil laughed. 'What would he know?’
'I don't know. Cab drivers listen and learn, don't they?’
'And this particular cab driver thought that this fire was started on purpose?’ asked Neil. The diamond ring on his right pinkie suddenly sparkled as he turned the wheel.
'Well, who knows? In any case, he promised to keep his ears open in case he heard any gossip from any of his fares. Apparently he picks up Brooks executives quite regularly.’
'And you overtipped him for that favour?’
'I guess you could say that. A hundred bucks.’
'A hundred bucks? What's the guy's name? We ought to employ him in our accounts department.’
Randolph shrugged. 'I don't know. Stanley somebody. Wait a minute… he said no relation to the barbecued-ribs restaurant.’
'Vergo,’ said Neil smartly.
'That's right. Stanley Vergo. And what a philosopher. His pet theory seems to be that Elvis never died, that he was only pretending in order to avoid his fans.’
'I've heard that theory before,’ Neil said. 'Some people have the same theory about Adolf Hitler.’
They arrived at the processing plant. The buildings and the surrounding storage tanks covered over eighty-eight acres that were surrounded by miles of chain-link fence. The driveway was landscaped with mature magnolias blossoming like soft curds of cream, and the offices were set in a picturesque Victorian mansion with a white-pillared portico and fan-shaped skylights. But behind the stately facade there was one of the most modern and functional cottonseed-processing factories in the whole of the South, with a highly advanced solvent-extraction facility for extracting the crude oil out of the seeds, and a special research department for exploring ways in which the seed hulls that were left over could be converted into lacquers and resins and other profitable products.
The parking lot was still crowded with rescue vehicles and demolition trucks. Randolph said nothing as they approached but Neil remarked, 'It was pretty bad. I tried to tell you on the phone, but I think you'd better be ready for a shock.’
They drew up outside. The plant manager, Tim Shelby, was there in a crumpled cotton suit, looking drawn and tired and sweaty. He came over, opened Randolph's door and shook his hand.
'I'm sorry about the vacation,’ he said. Randolph dismissed his condolences with a wave of the hand. I’m sorry you lost Bill Douglas.’
They were joined by the technical manager and the wintering-plant supervisor, and then they walked in silence around the side of the Victorian offices until they reached the factory itself. Randolph had dramatically expanded the No.2 plant over the past three years and the wintering plant was shiny and gleaming and modern, with chilling equipment that looked as if it were part of a spaceship.
At least it had looked like that, before the fire. Now, under a battery of arc lights, there was nothing but a cavernous ruin of twisted girders, tangled wires, pipes distorted beyond recognition and scorched stainless-steel vats. Neil Sleaman had been right: it was far worse than he had been able to describe over the telephone, and Randolph stepped into the ruins with a profound sense of shock. As he looked around, he felt as if he were standing in the ruins of a bombed-out city. There was a sharp stench of smoke as well as that distinctly nutty odour of burned cottonseed oil.
'The man who was burned?’ Randolph asked.
'He was standing right over there by the refrigeration controls, according to his buddies,’ Tim Shelby said. 'There was a terrific explosion. The wintering tank burst apart and three hundred gallons of purified oil came bursting out and caught fire. He didn't stand a chance. They saw him struggling, they said, but he was just like a burning scarecrow.’
'How about the others?’
They were trapped in the corridor outside. They weren't burned but the door wouldn't open because it was buckled, and nobody
'The cab driver?’ Neil laughed. 'What would he know?’
'I don't know. Cab drivers listen and learn, don't they?’
'And this particular cab driver thought that this fire was started on purpose?’ asked Neil. The diamond ring on his right pinkie suddenly sparkled as he turned the wheel.
'Well, who knows? In any case, he promised to keep his ears open in case he heard any gossip from any of his fares. Apparently he picks up Brooks executives quite regularly.’
'And you overtipped him for that favour?’
'I guess you could say that. A hundred bucks.’
'A hundred bucks? What's the guy's name? We ought to employ him in our accounts department.’
Randolph shrugged. 'I don't know. Stanley somebody. Wait a minute… he said no relation to the barbecued-ribs restaurant.’
'Vergo,’ said Neil smartly.
'That's right. Stanley Vergo. And what a philosopher. His pet theory seems to be that Elvis never died, that he was only pretending in order to avoid his fans.’
'I've heard that theory before,’ Neil said. 'Some people have the same theory about Adolf Hitler.’
They arrived at the processing plant. The buildings and the surrounding storage tanks covered over eighty-eight acres that were surrounded by miles of chain-link fence. The driveway was landscaped with mature magnolias blossoming like soft curds of cream, and the offices were set in a picturesque Victorian mansion with a white-pillared portico and fan-shaped skylights. But behind the stately facade there was one of the most modern and functional cottonseed-processing factories in the whole of the South, with a highly advanced solvent-extraction facility for extracting the crude oil out of the seeds, and a special research department for exploring ways in which the seed hulls that were left over could be converted into lacquers and resins and other profitable products.
The parking lot was still crowded with rescue vehicles and demolition trucks. Randolph said nothing as they approached but Neil remarked, 'It was pretty bad. I tried to tell you on the phone, but I think you'd better be ready for a shock.’
They drew up outside. The plant manager, Tim Shelby, was there in a crumpled cotton suit, looking drawn and tired and sweaty. He came over, opened Randolph's door and shook his hand.
'I'm sorry about the vacation,’ he said. Randolph dismissed his condolences with a wave of the hand. I’m sorry you lost Bill Douglas.’
They were joined by the technical manager and the wintering-plant supervisor, and then they walked in silence around the side of the Victorian offices until they reached the factory itself. Randolph had dramatically expanded the No.2 plant over the past three years and the wintering plant was shiny and gleaming and modern, with chilling equipment that looked as if it were part of a spaceship.
At least it had looked like that, before the fire. Now, under a battery of arc lights, there was nothing but a cavernous ruin of twisted girders, tangled wires, pipes distorted beyond recognition and scorched stainless-steel vats. Neil Sleaman had been right: it was far worse than he had been able to describe over the telephone, and Randolph stepped into the ruins with a profound sense of shock. As he looked around, he felt as if he were standing in the ruins of a bombed-out city. There was a sharp stench of smoke as well as that distinctly nutty odour of burned cottonseed oil.
'The man who was burned?’ Randolph asked.
'He was standing right over there by the refrigeration controls, according to his buddies,’ Tim Shelby said. 'There was a terrific explosion. The wintering tank burst apart and three hundred gallons of purified oil came bursting out and caught fire. He didn't stand a chance. They saw him struggling, they said, but he was just like a burning scarecrow.’
'How about the others?’
They were trapped in the corridor outside. They weren't burned but the door wouldn't open because it was buckled, and nobody
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