Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 11, November 1982

A stately pleasure dome decree.

The Cadillac braked to a halt, and immediately there was a uniformed man opening the door on Landry’s side to let us out. DuBose continued his running description of the house and grounds without faltering or stopping for breath one single time.

“This here cost me six million to build in 19 an 56. That was a time when six million went considerable further than it does today, m’friend. Ah’ve had offers t’sell over the years, mostly from Texas oilmen like m’self, an ah’ve never considered em for more’n a second. No, thank y’all very much, I say, cause there’s s’much of my life wrapped up here. Where would I go if I was t’leave? Move into an apartment in Dallas? No, thank y’suh, I always say...”

He led us into the house, the uniformed servant slamming shut the door of the Cadillac after us. A second later, the chauffeur shot off down the road, presumably in the direction of the garage, which, for all I knew, might have been located in a neighboring state.

Once we were inside the house the contrast was startling. DuBose stopped speaking at once. His voice, along with the plaintive warbling of a mockingbird somewhere in the dying afternoon sun, had provided a cacaphony of sounds peculiarly Texan. Now all was silence, and it seemed to dwarf everything else, even J.J. DuBose himself.

Our footsteps echoed throughout the cavernous interior of what I assumed was the foyer as we paced across the marble floor just behind the rangy Texan. DuBose approached one particular door from among a half dozen, and swung it wide for us to enter after him.

We were in what looked like a library. Every wall but one seemed to be packed solid with books. In the center of the one bare wall was a long, polished mantel. Hung with great care on the dark oak wainscoting above the mantel were framed portraits under glass showing a younger but still recognizable J.J. DuBose, here with his arm around a smiling Ernest Hemingway in safari garb, here shaking hands with Joe Louis, both the boxer and the oil millionaire offering toothy smiles to the cameraman, and here kneeling beside Robert Ruark, in the twilight of his life, in the middle of what looked like an African veldt.

It is always a shock to see someone of your acquaintance in the company of the powerful or famous; in a sense it legitimatizes them, and so it was with J.J. DuBose, though I still had my doubts. Perhaps it was to assuage them that DuBose had brought us here.

“This yer’s m’den,” he said, indicating the room with a sweep of his enormous arm. I took in certain of the details: a gigantic writing desk, made of mahogany, complete with Rolodex, blotter, telephone, in/out tray, and an overstuffed, oversized easy chair. Everything is bigger in Texas.

“You boys hungry yet?” DuBose asked. “I’m starvin, m’self. You go on ahaid. Ah gotta make a phone call.”

We made our way out of the den with little difficulty, only to find ourselves in a corridor.

It was the first time I’d been alone with Landry Since meeting the Texan. I took hold of his arm. He turned around to face me. “We’re in a very dangerous situation,” I said.

Landry stared at me in disbelief. “Dangerous? What the hell are you talking about? I have a check for ten thousand dollars in my pocket, and we’re having dinner with probably the wealthiest man in this whole state. Dangerous... I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He turned to go. I tightened my grip on his arm. “Steve,” I said. “We’re dealing with a crazy man. There’s no telling what he has in mind. Let’s get out of here.”

Landry stared hard at me. His eyes held a gleam I had never seen there before. “Let go of my arm,” he said coldly.

At that moment a small, dark-skinned man in a spotless white uniform appeared from a door at the end of the corridor and spoke to us in what was apparently English underneath an indecipherable accent. Then he waved his arm, indicating we should follow.

I let go of Landry’s arm. He turned his back on me and headed toward the door. After he disappeared inside the little man remained, waiting. Reluctantly, I followed.

J.J. DuBose joined us at the dinner table. After 15 minutes of small talk, to which I made only a minimal contribution (but in which Landry engaged readily, asking DuBose question after question regarding his wealth, holdings, and property), the Filipino cook returned, bearing a dinner tray, and began to lay out the courses one by one.

It must have been about then that I happened to look down at the places set for us, and gasped.

I had not noticed them before, but the eating utensils — fork, knife, spoon, and soup spoon — were fashioned of solid gold.

“They say y’can’t eat money, but dint say nothin bout eatin with it,” DuBose said. I looked up, startled at having heard my thoughts spoken aloud, and found the Texan seated across the table from me, doing his best to enact the role of the kindly benefactor, who, for all his wealth, was still just a touch provincial.