She had only a small idea of what she was up against. I knew exactly what Van Ostrand was up to, and, for the moment, I was glad Nikki Varden didn't. She was scared enough as it was.
Jerome Van Ostrand was a lawyer, and a good one. Presumably, he worked for Marcus Varden Enterprises; I say "presumably," because obviously he didn't work for the company, but against it. Or at least, for himself only. I didn't know how much control he now had over Marcus Varden Enterprises, but I suspected that it was more than he was entitled to have. Nikki had gotten wise to him just a little too late.
But Van Ostrand had been prepared, even for that eventuality. Without Bob North inside to shut off the great mansion's electronic defenses, he would never have made it into the house alive, nor would he have been able to manhandle Nikki the way he had. But the way things stood, Jerome Van Ostrand was in complete control.
The silence became heavy. Giles Jackson, the mouse-faced little triggerman, shoved his gun into his pocket holster and sat down. He lit a cigarette and stared at the tips of his shoes.
Van Ostrand rolled an expensive, pungent cigar in his round, fat face, while Bob North contented himself with looking at Nikki with obvious thoughts showing on his face. I just stayed at the door, being very quiet and wishing I could do something else.
Nikki couldn't take it. "For the love of God!" she shouted finally. "Say something! Tell me what you want!"
Bob North started to open his yap and make the obvious remark, but Van Ostrand cut him off with a wave of his pudgy hand.
"Your father," he said, after removing the cigar from between his heavy lips, "is a very great man. Indeed, one might almost say, a genius."
"What's my father got to do with this?" Nikki asked with irritation. "My father's been dead for seventeen years."