“What’s been going on? What are you talking about?”
Doyle explained it to them. In careful, rational detail, he showed the men sitting across from him what had happened, how the books had been manipulated, how they had been juggled by someone who knew what he was doing. But just a little at first, Doyle said, pointing to the pages of neat figures, then in larger and larger amounts as the months passed. And all very cleverly, in a kind of sleight of hand, as a CPA might do it if he had in mind to do something neat and criminal. Doyle said it had taken him days to understand how it had been done. Finally he had, though. “Oh, it was careful,” he said. “I’ll give them that much.”
The men sat silently, looking at the opened books on the desk. They picked at their hands and refused to look at one another. For his part, Doyle Francis sat back in his chair watching them.
At last Arch Withers said: “All right. If what you say is true, who did it? Who’s them?”
“What?”
“You said them. Who do you mean by that?”
“Who do you think I mean?”
“How the hell do I know? Do you mean Charlie Soames?”
“Why not? Charlie did the books, didn’t he? He did the books when I was here before and I assume you boys kept him on after I left.”
“That son of a bitch,” Bob Wilcox said. Wilcox was the young man on the board. “Goddamn that old—”
“And Burdette?” Withers said, interrupting him. “What about him? Was he in on this too?”
“Of course he was. Don’t you think he had to be? Why else was he going to charge those new clothes on Main Street and then disappear and not come back home again?”
“By god,” Wilcox said. “He’s another son of a bitch. We ought to—”
“Shut up,” Withers said. “It’s too late for any of your hysterics.”
“That’s right,” Doyle said. “It’s too late for a lot of things. Except I believe that Charlie’s still in town, isn’t he?”
“He’s still in town.”
“Then I’ll go get him, if none of you will. I’ll bring that—”
“Damn it,” Withers said. “I already told you to shut up. Now do it.” Young Bob Wilcox started to say something more, but Withers turned and stared at him. Then Wilcox closed his mouth tight and Withers turned back to Doyle Francis. “So what do you suggest we do about this? You seem to of thought about it.”
“Oh yes. I’ve thought about it,” Doyle said. “It’s about all I have thought about for the last two weeks.”
“So? Are you going to tell us what to do or not?”
“There’s only one thing to do. We let the sheriff’s office handle it now. We call Bud Sealy and tell him to go over to Charlie Soames’s house and arrest him and lock him up and then we wait for the trial. What else is there?”
“But there’s still the money, isn’t there? What about the money?”
“What about it?”
“Well goddamn it. It was our money. It was all us shareholders’ money.”
“Sure it was,” Doyle said. “And you can tell that to the judge too, when you get the chance. But I don’t suppose that will get it back for you. Jack Burdette’s been gone for a month a half and god only knows where he’s gone to. But wherever he is, he’s already begun to spend it. You can count on that.”
There was silence again while this new thought sank in. The men stared hatefully at the accountant’s books on Doyle’s desk. After a time, Arch Withers roused himself once more.
“Go on, then.” he said. “What are you waiting on? Make your goddamn call. Call Bud Sealy.”
“No,” Doyle Francis said. “I don’t think I will. I think one of you boys ought to be able to call him. It’s your funeral. I’ve been thinking about this mess for too long already.”