Villiers Touch by Brian Garfield Page A

and didn’t serve. By this time, of course, you were already living on forgery—you wrote a lot of bad paper against the checking accounts of various people who couldn’t afford to expose you because they couldn’t afford scandals. A bit sordid for a Wyatt, you must admit. I’ve got photocopies of some of the canceled checks here with your forged signatures on them.”
    Wyatt jerked violently. The back of his hand struck his cigarette, showering sparks over his pants. He brushed them awkwardly and straightened up, trying to smile; the effect was tremble-lipped, white, ghastly.
    â€œTo go on. You ingratiated yourself with Sylvia Hunter, and in the absence of Farris Hunter, you moved into their Palm Beach estate, living ostensibly in a guest house, but actually, of course, sleeping with Mrs. Hunter. But Mrs. Hunter’s daughter was underfoot all the time—Amy. You seduced the girl, of course. Amy was—is—a careless pretty blond who grew up with several stepfathers in seasonal homes in New York, Palm Beach, and the Adirondacks, with the usual visits to Riviera spas. She hated her mother. When you seduced her, she taunted her mother by revealing that she was taking you away from her mother. It was too much for Sylvia. She died of what the doctor friend called heart problems caused by an accidental overdose of reducing pills. The fact is, Mrs. Hunter didn’t take reducing pills, she didn’t need to. Was Mrs. Hunter so enraged by the way you let her daughter capture your attentions that she threatened to throw you out and expose you? And when she threatened you with exposure, did you kill her to keep her quiet? Probably not—and anyhow, I doubt anybody could prove premeditated murder at this late date. But the doctor who signed the false death certificate can be reached, and there’s enough circumstantial evidence lying around to put you in a bad fix if anybody decides to resurrect the case. Any comment?”
    Wyatt’s crooked smile slipped. “You’re asking all the questions, and you’re answering them. What am I supposed to say?”
    â€œI’ll go on, then. Mrs. Hunter died. You must have been sick of the kept-man role by then anyway—you could live in style, but you’d never accumulate the fortune you wanted, not even by forgery and blackmail. You’ve always wanted to restore the family fortune.”
    Wyatt snorted.
    Villiers picked up the folder and turned pages. “In April of nineteen-sixty-seven you persuaded Howard Claiborne, through your mother, to recommend you for an executive training program in a Wall Street firm, not Claiborne’s firm. You spent a year as a trainee, and with your brains and character you were well qualified to become a stock-market swindler. You—”
    â€œYou sound like you’re describing yourself.”
    â€œNo. I’ve never been a cheap swindler. One thing I learned early—if you’re going to take the risk, you may as well steal big. The penalty’s the same either way if you get caught. That’s something you’ll learn for yourself if you survive long enough.”
    Wyatt cocked his head; for the first time, his curiosity seemed stimulated.
    Villiers said, “Up to now, what I’ve described is ancient history, for you and for me. I have no interest in it, and I won’t use it unless you force me to.”
    â€œForce you?”
    â€œLet’s pick you up in May of nineteen-sixty-eight, when you went to work in the bullpen at Bierce, Claiborne & Myers. Your mother had to work hard on Howard Claiborne to persuade him to take you into his organization. He knew some of your background—he had a vague idea of your history. But you promised that was all behind you. You said you’d just been sowing wild oats, and now you were ready to take on adult responsibility. Claiborne swallowed it, provisionally. Not because he wanted to, but because your