HOUSE OF YATES
It was again a dark quiet night about the Yates estate. What little traffic there was on Primrose Path was imperceptible from the dark block of limestone that formed M. Roger Yates' dreamhouse.
Georgette was the housemaid. She was very loyal to Yates and considered him a considerate and altruistic boss. As for Yates, he had wanted a French housemaid, a hot French housemaid, so he hired Georgette for her looks.
It was to Yates' disappointment that he soon discovered Georgette favoured a very conservative French maid's outfit.
Still, it was rumoured that Yates was also having an affair with Georgette. But Georgette had another target for her attractions. Besides, Yates had been taken aback (and extremely disgusted) when Georgette had assured him her first week that she looked upon him as a father-figure.
Georgette was very annoyed to hear the whine of a V8 motor, followed by the ring of the front doorbell; at this late hour, it would potentially annoy her boss.
"Monsieur Yates, he should get zee butler" said Georgette to herself. "Like in all zee great houses. "Here I am, late in my cleaning, and forced to answer the door."
Georgette's old fashioned black and white uniform, her coiffured black hair and petite form suggested she had just stepped out of a picture-book. A French maid in the most innocent form. Only her rosy cheeks and hazel eyes portrayed any colour.
"Oh, it eez you" said Georgette, unhappy to see Barb's form at the glass paneled door. "Why don't you go back around to zee service entrance."
"The nineteenth century called" sneered Barb. "They want their lackie back. Get out of my way, I'm going straight to Yates. I haven't time for this."
She roughly pushed Georgette aside and onto the floor.
"Ooh!" said the maid. "I will tell zee Monsieur."
Barb stepped through the high-ceilinged foyer quickly, crossing to a small door that opened onto a narrow hallway. Here, she almost stepped into a young man the same age as Ethan, Benny and Rory.
Like Ethan, the man was black haired and naturally wan. This man had a long scar on the right side of his face. But he also matched Georgette in one respect. With black suit, black tie, and shadow on his chin he looked as if he stepped out of an old photograph. The most colourful part of him were the steely grey-green eyes that surveyed the scene without apparent emotion.
"Artie" said Barb.
"He'll see you right away" said Artie coldly, putting his hand inside his jacket.
"Has Yates been brought up to date?" said Barb. "Has he decided?"
"You know we don't speak, only business" said Artie icily.
Barb laughed melodically.
"Going to shoot me?" she said at last.
"Only if I have to" Artie replied, stepping aside to let Barb pass. "I'm not a murderer."
Artie walked in a mathematically straight line to Georgette. He helped her up.
"Oh, Artie!" said Georgette. "Elle . . . she is terrible!"
"You won't see much more of her" said Artie, whose voice tended to a dull monotone.
"What does she want?" said Georgette.
"A big payoff and an all expense-paid vacation in Venezuela" said Artie.
"But zee Venezuela is a terrible place to live" said Georgette.
"But Caracas won't extradite anyone to Canada" said Artie. "And Barb will have a steady stream of cash that will allow her some luxury in a seaside resort, even in that basket-case of a country."
"Monsieur Yates should call zee surete and send her to prison!" said Georgette huffily. "To Devil's Island! To zee guillotine!"
"Monsieur Yates will do what's best for Monsieur Yates" Artie growled.
"I know all about zee murder attempted" said Georgette. "Just because Monsieur Yates' mistress took it upon herself to play spy and to try to murder one of Monsieurs Abbotts and McMurdos engineering architects is no reason to shelter her. Monsieur Yates, he is too generous!"
Artie raised an eyebrow, and was silent a second.
"Surely you can, how you say, intercede?" said Georgette. "After all, he is your . . . ."
Artie held up his left-hand, in a gesture that plainly meant stop.
"She does not deserve to get away" said Georgette petulantly. "She deserves the striped prison suit breaking rocks on the stone-pile."
"We don't always get what we deserve" said Artie quietly, and, thinking of his own wrongs, "And we don't always deserve what we get."
Yates himself was impatient and unimpressed by Barb's late night visit.
"You've thoroughly screwed things up!" Yates spat, pacing irritably under the cathedral ceiling of his stony, Spartan study. "I'll be lucky to avoid a scandal and the loss of a few million in contracts! I thought you were a damned professional! Yet you can't even kill a little worm like that . . . what's his name . . . that Ransom Keating."
"Rory Keener was lucky" shrugged Barb. "And now Rosetter's gone to the police."
"And he'll inform on you" said Yates acidly. "Of course, I'm not afraid of you informing on my role. It's your word against mine, you know. And I am too big to fail. Quinton Haggard Yates has been voted the 5th most innovative and 4th most progressive employer in Canada, 8 years running. We donate to all the cool causes. And it would be such a shame if I were to decide to declare bankruptcy and liquidate the company. Roderick Abbott's fusty bastion of nepotism doesn't hold a candle to me. They only rank well in customer and employee satisfaction, reputational and corporate integrity surveys."
"Would you like to see if you're too big to fail?" asked Barb pointedly.
Yates pulled open a drawer.
"Remember, Artie is armed. He's useless for anything underhanded, but he's good as a bodyguard."
Barb stood sullenly, with her arms crossed.
"As my lover" Yates continued, "It's natural that I should provide you with a large bank account and my suite at the Margarita Ritz Resort on Margarita Island, Venezuela. I don't suppose you mind the criminal element."
"Of course not" laughed Barb. "A tourist might not be able to venture the streets of Venezuela at night, but I could handle any ordinary thief."
"I'm sure you know all about walking the streets at night" Yates returned acidly.
"I also know how to break your neck this instant, if I didn't want your services" retorted Barb.
Yates glared at her a moment.
"ARTIE!" Yates finally ordered, as Artie walked in the room followed by Georgette with a feather duster. "Drive Barb to Pearson, Terminal 3."
"Will do, Mr. Yates" said Artie.
"NO . . . YOU . . . . WON'T" said a loud voice, amidst the crash of breaking glass.
It was Orson Bates, the armed engineer from the thirteenth floor archives of McMurdo Abbott. Bates broke through the glass sliding door above the door-handle, sending off a piercing shriek of an alarm system. Yet Bates walked in oblivious to the noise.
Barb was deeply amused, and laughed out loud. Inaudibly, as the alarm drowned out everything else.
"Why the hell did you set the alarm so loud, you moron!" said Artie, forgetting himself and putting his hands to his ears. His gray eyes blazed.
"Oh, zee noise, c'est terrible" cried Georgette. "The cook was baking a cake for Artie, it will be ruined."
"It's the thought . . . that counts" said Artie, who tried to look appreciative to Georgette while protecting his ears. Given he was a naturally stone-faced man, he failed miserably.
Yates also covered his ears and looked annoyed more at the noise than Orson's appearance. Yates pushed a button and the siren finally shut off.
"You forget yourself, Artie" Yates said quickly. "My apologies Georgette. Now, who the hell are you! And what do you think you're doing breaking my window?"
"It's Orson Bates" said Barb with exasperation. "My number one dupe."
"You complicate things, Orville" said Yates. "What the hell do you want!"
"I know now that I was used" said Orson, who didn't seem the least bit discomfited by all the eyewitnesses as he drew a gun on Barb. "Barb used me as a font of information to give her sugar daddy here and ruin McMurdo Abbott."
"Sugar daddy!" exclaimed Yates. "How old do you think I am?"
"I would say, Monsieur Yates, that you are about . . . ." started Georgette.
"That's all Georgina" ordered Yates. "Hey Orville, put down that gun. What my mistress says to me in the privacy of my home doesn't concern you at all. Run along to Mr. Roderick Abbott and tell him I'll have my lawyers allege you're doing all this in the normal course of your employment. Now that will ruin McMurdo Abbott if nothing else will."
"I've been fired for security leaks" said Orson. "They finally found out Barb wasn't on the level."
"Cry me a river" said Barb sarcastically. "I gave you more fun than you ever had in your pathetic life. You didn't think I'd actually be in love with a loser like you?"
"I'll shoot you Barb, and the old man there."
"IF you haven't done it by now" cackled Barb, "you'll never do it!"
BANG! A thud.
A scream
CRACK!
Another thud.
BANG! BANG!
Barb had been shot dead, straight in the heart. Georgette has screamed.
Artie had drawn his own firearm (a Glock) during the latter part of the conversation, but failed to shoot.
Yates had quickly ducked and covered behind his metal desk. That crack was Orson's second bullet ricocheting off the desk.
At that moment, Artie pushed Georgette safely down to the floor.
Then, Artie had finally returned fire. He wasn't such a good shot, but his two bullets finished Orson Bates.
"Dead" said Artie glumly, who had checked the pulses of Barb and Orson in turn. "It's on security camera, and it's obvious self defense. At least I won't be going to prison."
"And all the world knows or can prove is that Barb was my mistress" Yates gloated. "Of course there will be a little scandal, some rumours of corporate espionage, but all it will be is a deadly love triangle of which I am the sole survivor. And you, Artie, are my trusty killer. In obvious self-defence as you say. Georgina and you will testify to that, if need be."
Artie had turned to rub Georgette's hands, to revive her from her faint. Having seen she was alright, although in a daze, he stood up straight and stared at Yates with his blazing grey-green eyes.
'Georgette trusts you, so you can rely on her testimony" said Artie in a stony voice. "But I don't like two dead bodies on my conscience. So, Uncle Marmaduke . . . ."
"Never call me Marmaduke" hissed Yates. "And never call me Uncle."
"Then I'll call you Unc" returned Artie, who now sat at Yates' desk. "It's close enough. And you'll call me Arthur G. Smythe-Yates, oldest son of your only sister. You know, Unc, I want to propose to Georgette. And she's not going to marry a glorified rent-a-cop. Scraping by on the annuity my grandpa left my mother and the rest of us."
"You want to marry the maid?"
"Georgette's not going to be a maid" said Artie, now putting his feet up on Yates' desk. She's going to be wife of the executive vice president of Quinton Haggard Yates. And further to that . . . my side of the family will have, say, 50% of the company. You know, I respect my cousin, your son, Marmaduke Roger Yates III. Man, Unc, how can you send your son to military school with a first name like Marmaduke? But, the point is, I don't want to cheat him out of his share of the company, the way you cheated us out of ours. I mean, you should be generous with your blood relatives.
"Why?" spat Yates.
"Blood is thicker than water" said Artie. "You know, you're going to have to deal with Roderick Abbott . . . he might not be able to prove anything criminally, but his lawyers can tie you down and embarrass you for years alleging the tort of unlawful interference in economic relations. So, Unc, is it Executive Vice President Arthur G. Smythe-Yates? Hurry, the police will be here."
"This . . . is . . . blackmail."
"And Unc?"
Artie knew he had won when Yates began to grind his teeth.
