Текст книги "Chain of Fools "

Автор книги: Richard Stevenson

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"Tidy lives out there in an apartment that adjoins the condo of Ann Marie Consolati, who runs a body-waxing and electrolysis hair-removal parlor in town. I've been reliably informed by a friend in the construction business that there's a hidden door that opens between Tidy's clothes closet and Ann Marie's—even though Tidy has been engaged to Debbie Stockton, the boat-cushion heiress, for six years. And I can also tell you—although I cannot divulge my source of information on this point—that Tidy Puderbaugh does not have a single hair on his body from the neck down."

Stankie colored a little as he mentioned this eccentrically lubricious detail and cracked a droll little smile. Then, looking instantly somber again, he said, "Tacker's a sad loser, and Tidy is ineffectual and a little bit comical, but Chester and Pauline Osborne's son, Craig, should not be taken lightly at all. Craig Osborne is highly intelligent, shrewd as they come, and altogether ruthless. He's in Attica doing twenty-five to life for killing a guard in a diamond heist last year. Before that, Craig had a record as long as your arm for robberies and assaults and god-knows-what-all, going back to when he was just twelve years old. Craig Osborne, I can tell you, is a thirty-year-old man with no moral conscience whatsoever, and I'd say he is capable of just about anything."

Stankie stopped talking and looked at me again—as if I were somehow supposed to supply the point of his discourse on Tacker, Tidy,

and Craig. I said, "Craig couldn't possibly have been Eric's killer, could

he?"

Stankie shook his head and kept watching me. "Nunh-unh," he

said.

"When was Craig sent up?"

"December tenth, and he'd been in custody since June of last year, when he was wounded in a shoot-out at the jewel heist in Tarrytown." He looked at me some more.

"Why are you telling me this?" I finally said.

Stankie leaned forward and said quietly, "Eric Osborne was a fine young man."

"That's what I keep hearing."

"If Grubb didn't kill him, I want the man who did kill him apprehended."

"Good."

He said, "A snitch at Attica reported that Craig Osborne talked about Eric's death and said there was more to it than the investigators knew." Stankie was motionless, but now he seemed to be watching two things: me and the door behind me, which opened into an outer office and was ajar.

Stankie said, "This got back to me through channels, and I asked that the snitch press for details. He claimed to the warden out there that he wasn't able to pry anything else out of Osborne."

"That's too bad," I said. "Maybe it was just talk, a sociopath's braggadocio."

"That could be. But Craig said one other thing to the snitch that might give you pause. It did me. On one occasion, Craig was talking about Eric's murder and how there was more to it than the investigation had turned up, and he made a crack to the snitch about his own murder conviction and how, 'Anyway, offing people runs in the Osborne family.' Those were the words he used: 'Offing people runs in the Osborne family.' "

"I've heard about a tendency toward violence in some Watsons and Osbornes. But the jewel guard's was the only actual homicide by an Osborne, according to Janet."

"It's the only one I know of," Stankie said. "Of course, Chester, Craig's father, has a couple of assaults in his record—or did, before they were erased."

"I heard about that too. And I've met Chester. He's creepy enough."

"There's an Osborne intrafamily fight going on," Stankie said in a matter-of-fact way. "It's over the ownership of the Herald. Eight million dollars is at stake, plus, of course, the paper's reputation. You're up-to-date on that, I take it."

"I am."

"And the ins and outs of the upcoming board of directors' vote, and how Eric's death means one less vote for selling the Herald to a quality newspaper chain at a loss to the family of eight million dollars."

"Funny you should mention that, Captain. It's exactly the angle on this whole thing—Eric's murder and the two Jet Ski attacks—that a number of people close to the situation are currently considering." I said, "Are Craig and his father close?"

"They seem not to be," Stankie said. "In fact, Chester disowned Craig a long time ago. But I can tell you confidentially, Mr. Strachey, that Chester Osborne has visited Craig in Attica twice in the past five months, once just before Eric's death in mid-May, and again on June fourteenth."

"I see. Is there anything else you'd like to tell me confidentially, Captain?"

"No. Just that I can't carry the Osborne-family angle of the investigation any further than I have. I can't question Craig without betraying the Attica snitch, who is considered too valuable an asset for the warden out there to transfer. I can't question Chester because I have no evidence whatsoever connecting anybody but Gordon Grubb to Eric's murder, and Chester is liable to accuse me of spreading false rumors about himself and the Puderbaughs. He'll have some State Street lawyer down in Albany visiting the commissioner and threatening to sue me for slander." Again, he waited.

"So what do you expect me to do?" I said. "The investigative work of the New York State Police?"

"Yeah, I'm kind of hoping you will," he said. "Of course, I can't be of any assistance to you, or be associated with your work in any way. Until, of course, you nail that arrogant asshole Chester Osborne. Then I'll see he's strung up real good."

"Oh, so you know Chester pretty well then?"

"We went to school together," Stankie said. "We played on the same varsity hockey team for three seasons, in fact—until the day at prac-

tice when I checked Chester for the third time that afternoon and he turned around and pounded me in the face with his stick so hard that he knocked all my teeth out."

Stankie opened his mouth and popped out a double set of dentures, uppers and lowers.

12

Stu Torkildson and Chester Osborne kept me waiting in Torkildson's outer office ten minutes past our 9:30 appointment time, giving me a chance to peruse that day's Herald. I looked over the thoughtful mix for which the Herald was esteemed—national and international news from The New York Times and Washington Post-L.A. Times news services, clearly written and carefully edited local stories on matters that affected people's lives, editorial and op-ed pages with commentaries that were both serious and lively. Parson Bates's column, "Our Eden," ran that day too. In it, Bates attacked the "multicultural-ist" Tex-Mex items cropping up in recent months on the menus of so many local restaurants. He wrote that he couldn't understand why people wanted to eat food that made their necks sweat. Public neck sweating was put forth as yet another symptom of the nation's moral rot.

Chester Osborne was there in his stockbroker's outfit when I was ushered into Stu Torkildson's office. Osborne gazed at me morosely and didn't get up from his chair, but Torkildson came over and twinkled with approval at the sight of me.

"It's the investigatory man of the year," he said, and squeezed my hand and grinned as if I were a long-lost Dartmouth fraternity brother.

"That's a view not unanimously held in Edensburg," I said, tossing Chester a quick look. "But thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr. Torkildson."

"I'm Stu," he said.

"I'm Don."

And that was Chester over there sulking.

"Coffee?" Torkildson said.

"Black," I said.

He didn't buzz for his secretary, as many men of his station might have, but personally maneuvered a carafe and a mug with the Herald's logo on it. Torkildson was sixty or so, starting to settle around the middle, but still solid looking in a well-cut dark suit, blue shirt, and polka-dot bow tie. His black loafers gleamed, as did his pate, which was as bald as a rapper's and as carefully waxed and tended. He was a phrenologist's dream—not that I was tempted to ask him to bend down so that I could study his bumps. He had a wide, pleasant face that was as hairless as his head, and a warm, steady gaze that could have meant he was without guile, or it could have been the practiced affectation of the craftiest man in Edensburg. I wondered, but not for long, which it might be.

"I was sorry to hear about your friend Timothy hurting himself yesterday," Torkildson said. He took the one empty chair by the coffee table—Chester occupied the other one—and I got the low couch. "I was happy to hear that the injury wasn't serious, but the incident must have been frightening for both of you."

"It was. It looked as if the Jet Skier was trying hard to run somebody down—almost certainly Janet, since the same thing happened last week when she was on the lake herself."

"Janet always did have an overly active imagination," Chester said sourly.

Torkildson gave me a genial don't-mind-him look and said, "Chester is the skeptic in the Osborne family."

A tendency he'd been known to express with a hockey stick. I said, "The police are taking the incident seriously, as they ought to. It was either gross negligence or attempted murder—serious stuff, either way."

"I couldn't agree more," Torkildson said, and Osborne sniffed and shook his head. "I saw Janet when she came in this morning," Torkildson ^,went on, "and while she's one tough cookie, she's been badly shaken by yesterday's events. I've known Janet for more than thirty years, and I think I know when that girl is hurting. I talked to her, and I hope I was able to pep her up some."

"Did Janet discuss her suspicions with you?" I said. "That Eric's murder and the Jet Ski attacks might be related to each other and to the fight over control of the Herald!"

Osborne slumped low in his seat looking glum, but Torkildson said

conversationally, "No, Janet and I spoke only briefly, but Chester has filled me in on that aspect of the story. It's pretty lurid stuff for Edens-burg, I have to tell you." He grinned and made mock shivering noises. "Sounds more like a thriller you'd pick up at the airport than real life, to be perfectly candid."

I said, "No, it sounds to me more like real life—a valuable family asset being fought over by too many heirs, all of whom have different values, and varying motives for either holding on to an asset or disposing of it in one way or another, and some of whom are desperate in their need for one outcome or another. And once in a while, in situations like this one, that desperation turns murderous. It happens. History is full of it, and newspapers are too. Even the Herald, I'll bet, sometimes reports on family members obliterating other family members over money."

Osborne glared at me and said, "This is actionable. Strachey, if you talk garbage like that outside this room, I'll see you in courtl"

Torkildson must have been used to Chester's eruptions and appeared unfazed. He said, "Chettie, I can see why you're ticked off—I'm sure I would be too if I were in your shoes. But try to understand that Don here is an outsider coming into a situation where he's unfamiliar with the lay of the land, and he's feeling his way. The first people he talks to are people who've suffered a tragic loss, and on top of that they've had the daylights scared out of them by some nitwit on the lake who ought to be barred for life from going anywhere near a device with an internal combustion engine attached to it. Naturally this one-sided combination is going to suggest that the Herald's current situation will represent a legitimate line of inquiry into these other difficult matters.

"So, on the one hand, Don's pursuing that line of inquiry is entirely understandable. While on the other hand, however, there's the indisputable fact that no evidence exists tying these violent acts to the Osborne family's disagreements over the Herald's disposition. There's been a lot of emotion, and that's led to certain fears, but a professional investigator like Don here, Chettie, is not about to be swayed by fear and emotion." Torkildson looked me in the eye and smiled and said, "For a pro like yourself, it always has to be, 'Just the facts, if you please, ma'am.' Have I got it right, Don?"

It was like listening to the Okefenokee Swamp talk. I was surprised Torkildson had never run successfully for national office. Nor could I

respond to Torkildson's verbal miasma with crisp candor. Bringing up Chester's ominous and suggestive threat to his mother—in order to prevent the Herald's sale to the good chain, "somebody else might have to get hurt"—would only have provoked a furious denial from Chester. And Captain Bill Stankie's report on Chester's two prison visits to the son he had supposedly disowned—and who had hinted to another Attica inmate that an Osborne family member had been involved in Eric's murder—was confidential. My repeating the report would both betray Stankie's trust and trigger who knew what kind of unwanted-at-this-point hysterical reaction on the part of Chester Osborne.

So I said to Torkildson: "Stu, you make an excellent case for open-mindedness, and open-minded is what I plan to be. But tell me, besides the conflict over the Herald, can you think of any other reason why anyone would try to kill Janet? There is evidence that the Jet Ski attacks were not accidental. The skier came at her on two separate occasions. He made repeated runs at her the first time—last week—and two runs yesterday, which I witnessed myself. Why might anybody do that, do you think?"

Osborne shifted in his seat and muttered, "Jealous dykes, if you ask me."

"I'm wondering what Stu thinks," I said. "He knows Janet well– works with her every day."

Torkildson screwed up his face. "Of course, I don't keep an eye on Janet's private life at all, you have to understand. And at the Herald the business and editorial sides of the paper are separate, so days will go by when we don't even see one another. But my impression is that Janet and Dale are a devoted couple. So it seems unlikely that these attacks—and I'll take your word that that's what you think they were– were the work of some type of crazed lesbian. Otherwise—what? A disgruntled former employee? I suppose the Herald has a few of those out there . . . every business does. Janet herself would be the one to ask about that, I would guess. Or Bob Comongore, our director of human resources. Perhaps it was an outraged reader." Torkildson chuckled and said, "I know we've got one or two of those. Although generally a testy letter to the editor lances any boil growing on the average incensed reader's butt. Attempted murder by an irate reader would be a first, in my experience."

I said, "What about Eric's murder?"

"It broke our hearts," Torkildson said without hesitation. "Eric Osborne was one of the finest human beings it has ever been my honor to know."

"Why is he bringing that up?" Chester whined. "Do you see what I mean, Stu? Let's put this all in the hands of a good attorney before this guy runs roughshod."

"Don, why are you bringing Eric into this?" Torkildson said coolly. "In his case, there couldn't have been any connection to the Herald situation. Eric was murdered, according to the State Police, by a serial killer who went on to attack other outdoors people in Pennsylvania. Are you suggesting there's even the possibility that this Gordon Grubb character was an agent of one of the parties in the disagreement over the Herald's disposition?"

"No," I said, "that sounds farfetched. But the evidence against Grubb is sketchy and circumstantial. He was actually last spotted near the murder scene a full two days before Eric was killed. The police say that Grubb admits to nothing, and the case is still open. I met with the investigating officer, Bill Stankie, earlier this morning, and while he considers Grubb his prime suspect, that's all Grubb is. Stankie is open to following any actual evidence that turns up, wherever it might lead."

I watched Chester Osborne when I mentioned Stankie's name; his face tightened and his mouth formed a hard little button.

"Don, now that's exactly my point," Torkildson said. "Legally the case against Grubb is circumstantial, yes—as are most murder cases that result in convictions. But the police suspect Grubb because there is no evidence whatsoever, circumstantial or otherwise, linking anyone else to the crime. I wouldn't go so far as to term any linkage between Eric's death and the Herald's situation a paranoid fantasy—or, as Chester seems to regard it, a malicious and actionable accusation. But the idea does necessitate a quite severe stretch of the imagination, considering that not a shred of evidence exists to support such an egregious criminal linkage.

"In journalism, as you may have heard, Don, we take immense care to check our facts before we send them out into the world. At the Herald, we have a three-independent-sources rule on matters as important as—conspiracy to commit murder is what we're talking about here, and that's a capital crime in the state of New York. Now, you're going here and there spreading this idea of members of the Osborne

family involved in a conspiracy to murder without—correct me if I'm wrong—even a single source to support your speculation? That's thin, mighty thin, and it would not pass muster even at newspapers with ethical standards one heck of a lot lower than the Herald's. This I can tell you without fear of contradiction by the Pulitzer board. It's an awfully slender limb you've climbed out onto, ethically speaking, and I think the question you've got to be asking yourself, Don, is this: 'What dire result might accrue, to the Osbornes, to the Herald, or to myself?'

"You know, Don, an awful lot is at stake in the outcome of the disposition of the Herald. On that point, you're right on the money. And as you may know, I favor the paper's sale to Crewes-InfoCom. Harry Griscomb's is a fine organization, but with newspaper publishing costs escalating the way they are, Griscomb won't survive for long in this climate. So why shouldn't the Osbornes come out of this unhappy situation with a few dollars to the family name? I'd say, after more than a hundred years' dedicated effort and high-minded community stewardship, they've earned it. Both InfoCom and Griscomb, I should also point out, are sensitive about their public images—Griscomb maybe even more so than InfoCom—and either buyer could become suddenly skittish if word got back to them that a business deal they were attempting to complete involved—or suddenly was reported to have involved—a conspiracy to commit murder. Neither bid is binding, and I personally wouldn't want to wake up one day to discover that all bids had been withdrawn and that Griscomb and InfoCom had stopped taking my calls. The tragic upshot of that would be the Herald company's creditors would seize the paper in September and sell it to the highest bidder—probably InfoCom—and the paper would be gone and the family would end up with zip.

"Now, do you want that to happen, Don? Does Janet? Talk to her, is my best advice. Explain the situation, and see if Janet doesn't agree that the best course for both the Herald and all the Osbornes at this point is for you to drop your well-intentioned but potentially explosively disruptive investigation, and for you to pack your bags and head on back down to Albany. If Janet is afraid for her safety or her mother's or Dan's, a good private security firm can be brought on board to allay their fears until the Herald directors meet on September eighth. But as for this Oliver Stone-style conspiracy-to-murder scenario that's boiling away and threatening to blow up in everybody's face, I'd put a lid on

that real fast if I were you. This may not be what you want to hear from me, Don. I realize that. But it's my best advice, and I'd be an s.o.b. if I didn't give it to you straight. That's what I do. It's what I'm paid for. It's how I've made my way in Edensburg, and I think Janet will tell you, what I have to say is as worth listening to today as it was back when Tom Osborne was winning Pulitzers and the Herald was the envy of American journalism Do you hear what I'm saying, Don? Do you catch my drift? Do you comprehend the extraordinarily high risks here for so many good people, and for yourself?"

The swamp thing ceased burbling and sat watching me with an unctuous grin Chester sat there looking sly, as if finally I had been boxed up and sealed for delivery out of Edensburg I thought, Why had Tor-kildson rattled on and on about a conspiracy to commit murder? I hadn't mentioned anything about a plot involving more than one person. I'd thought it, but I hadn't mentioned it.

I did not speak my thoughts aloud. Instead, I said to Torkildson, "If your advice is so wise and farseemg, Stu, how come your advice in 1988 resulted in the Herald sliding into the ugly fix it's in now' You're the last man in the world I'd come to for advice about the Herald, or about anything else—except, maybe, where to shop for a bow tie. But thanks, anyway."

Chester sat twitching with rage. But Torkildson gazed at me thoughtfully as I bade them so long until we met again, which I knew beyond a reasonable doubt that we would.

13

Before I left the Herald Building, I stopped in Janet's office and gave her a rundown on my meeting with Chester and Stu Tor-kildson. She asked if Torkildson had either sold me a souvenir dinner plate from Spruce Haven or picked my pocket. I held out both hands and said, "No plate." My wallet was still in my pocket too.

"Did Chester say anything else about having Mom locked up?" Janet asked.

"It didn't come up. Chester was in with Torkildson when I arrived, so Torkildson might have told him to shut up about that. Or, Chester's threats last night could have been empty bluster. Or, Chester's threats could have been part of a calculated attempt to spook you and your mother into some precipitous action that could be used against you legally, and Torkildson knew all about it but didn't want to be associated with it and if I'd brought it up he'd have acted surprised. But they didn't bring it up, and I wanted to avoid discussion of it until I heard what your lawyer advised."

"I spoke with Slim Finn fifteen minutes ago," Janet said, looking anxious, "and he said that as long as Mom isn't a danger to herself or others, nobody can haul her off against her will or mine. However, they might conceivably get a judge to entertain the idea that she's incapable of carrying out her legal duties as a director of the Herald Corporation. A judge might issue an order blocking Mom's vote, or even forcing her removal from the board. The result, of course, could be Tidy coming onto the board and voting for InfoCom, and the paper would be sunk."

"Couldn't Finn stall a court order until after September eighth? Surely there's some legal cloud of ink he could spew out, leaving the other

side thrashing around uselessly for a month or so. There are even those who claim that this is what lawyers are for."

"Maybe it could be done or maybe not," Janet said. "There's so much at stake in this board vote, Slim says, that a judge might be obliged to act immediately. Otherwise, the vote on the sale of the paper would have to be postponed, and if that happened, the bank holding the mortgage might refuse to wait and simply seize the Herald. And nobody involved wants that."

I said, "Who's in line for the board seat if a vacancy opens up—your mother's seat or yours or Dan's—and Tidy for some reason can't serve? I'm not offering to knock off Tidy or have him kidnapped to Bishkek. I'm just interested to know what the line of succession is, in case there's another pro-Griscomb vote somewhere down the line that you might now be maneuvering into position as plan B."

Janet shook her head. "Chester's son, Craig, is next in line after Tidy, but he's in prison and the company by-laws stipulate that board members must be present in order to vote Which is too bad, because Craig hates Chester so much he'd probably vote for Griscomb just to get back at his father."

"Get back at him for what?"

Janet hesitated. She looked almost flustered, which was out of character for her. She said, "You've met Chester." She gazed at me sorrowfully.

"I have. He's not ideal parent material."

She said, "It's worse than that."

"Oh."

"I think he beat Craig."

"You think so?"

"Eric and Dan and I always suspected it. But we never felt we had enough evidence to confront Chester or to bring in an outsider to investigate. The injuries were never that serious—no broken bones or internal injuries that we knew of. But that kid had more bruises than any child I ever saw, and he acted like an abused kid: uncommunicative, withdrawn, listless.

"And then, of course, there's the circumstantial evidence of the way Craig turned out. From adolescence on, he was a liar, a thief, and a fighter—a dirty fighter too, according to word around town. In hindsight, somebody in the family should have stepped in, and maybe we

could have saved Craig from wrecking his life. Twenty-five years ago, of course, child abuse wasn't as recognizable as it is today, or taken as seriously by the law or society. Back then, a parent could get away with treating his child in a way that, if he treated anybody else's kid that way, he'd be convicted of assault and sent to prison for years. Still, some of us did suspect what was going on, and now I wish we'd tried to intervene."

I said, "Physical abusers were usually abused themselves when they were young. Was that true of Chester?"

Janet blushed and said, "Uhn-uhn. No."

"You're sure?"

She shuddered. "I'm sure. Your suggesting it is disconcerting, though. Neither Mom nor Dad was particularly affectionate toward– or effusive in their expressions of approval of—any of us. And Dad was particularly hard on—even cold with—Chester. Chettie was the oldest, and when it turned out he had no interest in the journalism profession—acquisitiveness was Chester's main interest in life from about the age of three—Dad had no more use for Chester. I think I can safely say he didn't like him. And it showed. Dad's characteristic way with Chester was either to ignore him—that's the way it was most of the time—or to snap at Chettie over niggling matters.

"Was there physical abuse? No. Can you term what I just described as psychological abuse? Maybe. Although, if it is, the legislatures had better not make it a felony without first spending billions of dollars on more prison cells. From what I've observed, as a style of parenting it comes dangerously close to being the norm in this country. Not that the current Congress is about to outlaw it, of course. Among the traditional family values cherished by the religious right, emotional abuse is surely high up in their pantheon, if their own biographies are any guide."

I said, "Your overall assessment of family life in America, Janet, seems to me unduly bleak. Anyway, you and Eric both turned out emotionally healthy. That must have come from somewhere in the Osborne family."

A wistful smile. "I guess so. They say every child experiences the same family differently. Eric's and my peculiarities—and our interests—were much more in tune with Mom's and Dad's than Chester's were, or June's. Even our both turning out gay seemed to fit in with

the Osborne tradition of defiant rugged individualism. On the other hand, June, the social-climbing ditz, was never appreciated for who she was. And of course as Chester's tendencies toward violence surfaced, that didn't particularly endear him or add to his opportunities in the family dynamic."

"And you think it's possible that what Chester experienced as psychological abuse in your parents' home was so traumatic that he passed it on in his own home as physical abuse?"

She said, "I'm afraid so."

I asked Janet if I'd heard correctly the day before when I thought she said that Chester had "disowned" Craig—meaning presumably that their disaffection was so complete that they no longer had any contact with each other at all.

"That's the impression I have," she said. "It's certainly the impression Chester leaves on those rare occasions when anybody dares mention Craig's name in Chester's presence."

I said, "Then why would Chester have visited Craig at Attica twice in the last twelve weeks?"

She stared hard. "He did? Chester visited Craig in prison?"

I nodded. "It's important to my source, a good guy who wants to keep his job, that you don't repeat this."

"All right." I could all but hear the wheels whirring inside her head.

To protect the Attica warden's informant, I did not repeat the—possibly unreliable—hearsay evidence of Craig telling the prison snitch that there was more to Eric Osborne's death than the investigators knew and that at least one homicide had been commited by a member of the family other than Craig. But I did say: "With his criminal history and criminal connections—and now with these unexplained visits from his suddenly not-so-alienated father—Craig at least bears looking into. I may drive out there and interview him myself."

She still looked dumbfounded. "Well ... I just don't know what to think."

"If somehow Tidy is unable to serve on the Herald board of directors," I said, "and Craig can't do it on account of being locked up, who's next in line to move on to the board? Anybody helpful to the good-chain cause?"

"It would be Tidy's brother, Tacker Puderbaugh. But he's no factor, believe me, Don. Tacker has no interest whatever in the Herald He's

could have saved Craig from wrecking his life. Twenty-five years ago, of course, child abuse wasn't as recognizable as it is today, or taken as seriously by the law or society. Back then, a parent could get away with treating his child in a way that, if he treated anybody else's kid that way, he'd be convicted of assault and sent to prison for years. Still, some of us did suspect what was going on, and now I wish we'd tried to intervene."

I said, "Physical abusers were usually abused themselves when they were young. Was that true of Chester?"

Janet blushed and said, "Uhn-uhn. No."

"You're sure?"

She shuddered. "I'm sure. Your suggesting it is disconcerting, though. Neither Mom nor Dad was particularly affectionate toward– or effusive in their expressions of approval of—any of us. And Dad was particularly hard on—even cold with—Chester. Chettie was the oldest, and when it turned out he had no interest in the journalism profession—acquisitiveness was Chester's main interest in life from about the age of three—Dad had no more use for Chester. I think I can safely say he didn't like him. And it showed. Dad's characteristic way with Chester was either to ignore him—that's the way it was most of the time—or to snap at Chettie over niggling matters.