Whirligig

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  May we hope to hear from you in the near future.

  Sincerely,

  Johan Klees, Secretary-Treasurer

  Pittsburgh Farm Equipment

  JK/ln

  “Beautiful!” Kek said. He breathed the word almost reverentially.

  Lisa was studying her carbon copy.

  “There are just two things,” she said slowly.

  “Just two?” Kek asked sarcastically.

  “At the moment.” Lisa looked up, not in the least intimidated. “This telephone number the printer put on here …”

  “What’s wrong with it? It’s the same one I gave the bank.”

  “But suppose—I mean, isn’t it dangerous? Suppose the bank wants to contact you, and they call it?”

  “Then they’ll get a sweet voice which will say: ‘Pittsburgh Farm Equipment. May I help you?’” He grinned at the frown on her face. “It’s an answering-service number. I rented five of them, one each from five different answering services. Should anyone actually call—which I seriously doubt—I’ll be given the message the next time I call the service.” He smiled at her a trifle triumphantly. “Does that answer your question, miss?”

  “Mrs.,” Lisa said, “I know that much English.” She frowned. “How on earth do you keep your names and numbers and companies and banks and everything separated?”

  “I’d love to say my head, but it wouldn’t be strictly true. It’s my chest—or to be more accurate, the inside pocket of my jacket where I keep my notebook.” He grinned. “And your other question?”

  Lisa glanced through the letter again to make sure she wouldn’t be tripped up twice, and then looked at him.

  “My other question isn’t really a question, though I suppose it is at that. In the whole letter you don’t mention the kind of equipment this impressive company of yours manufactures.”

  Kek looked at her, grinning. He ran a hand through his thick hair a bit embarrassedly.

  “For a very good reason, my sweet,” he said. “If there is anything in this world that I know less about than agricultural equipment—especially of the kind used, or even needed, in Belgium—I can’t imagine what it is.” His grin disappeared; he glanced at his wristwatch and sighed. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to stop at the library as well as the banks. It looks like a busy day—”

  “My darling Kek,” Lisa said, now actually irritated. “You continue to insist that a girl raised on a farm in Maastricht knows nothing about anything. If you want to know about the agriculture of Belgium, why not ask a Belgian raised on a farm?”

  “I suppose it makes sense when you think about it,” Kek conceded, and dropped into a chair, his eyes twinkling. “All right. Teach me.”

  “I will,” Lisa said, a bit smugly. “I think that your Pittsburgh Farm Equipment Company from that town I can’t begin to pronounce produces harvesters—no, we already have a harvester company, don’t we? Then they produce combines.”

  “And what are combines?”

  “A combine cuts and threshes the wheat at the same time, but of course when it’s wet you have to harvest it and arrange it in a windrow to dry and then pick it up several days later with a combine. So you see, we can use both companies very nicely.” She beamed at him, and especially at the startled expression on his face, and then went on. “And I think your Northern States Equipment Company would handle tractors. It sounds like a heavy sort of company, and all the farmers in Belgium need tractors right now. And then, of course, we have a lot of cows …”

  Kek’s grin returned. “How does one agriculturally equip a cow?”

  “With a milking machine, for one. And one buys automatic churns for butter and cheese.” She smiled at him pityingly. “I had no idea you knew so little, darling. There are plows and harrows and seeders and reapers and binders and silos—”

  Kek was truly amazed. “One sells silos for overseas shipment?”

  “Well, darling, they don’t grow in place. Of course one sells silos. Steel silos, in sections, to be assembled at the point of delivery, or at least I’ve heard the Americans are doing it.” She shook her head at his abysmal ignorance. “You know, darling, I think it might be much better if I were to handle the correspondence, don’t you?”

  “It appears so,” Kek said, almost reluctantly, and then raised a warning finger. “As long as one thing is clearly understood—that I get to read and edit the letters before they’re mailed out. I shouldn’t mention that research institute in Berne in any of the other letters, for example; and I should hate for our Northern Equipment Company to be selling chums one day, and egg beaters the next.”

  “The Northern States Equipment Company sells tractors,” Lisa informed him icily. Her smile had disappeared. Her jaw hardened. “You really do think I’m just a stupid farm girl from Maastricht, don’t you? You don’t think I know anything, do you?”

  “I think you know a lot about cows,” Kek conceded with a smile, and moved to the door.

  “And pigs!” Lisa said angrily, and swung back to the typewriter.

  The uniformed elderly guard at the Battery Bank’s Lexington office almost came to attention as he listened to Huuygens’ polite request for an audience with an officer of the bank. This handsome, distinguished-looking young man obviously rated something more than a mere account manager in the open bullpen of the main lobby, and the guard therefore requested Kek to wait while he tried to arrange for a vice-president at the very least.

  Kek agreed quite equably and stood at his ease, idly studying the richly paneled walls, the obvious disregard for the cost of square-footage, and expensive furnishings and costly pile carpeting behind the mahogany railing, and the apparent excess of employees, undoubtedly all extremely well paid. All of these riches, he realized, had to be paid for in one form or another by the little people patiently lined up before the stretch of marble counters that filled one generous wall. Possibly I should have been a banker, he thought; possibly I’m in the wrong business. He considered the legalities involved and unconsciously smiled. Possibly not, he added, and wiped the smile away instantly as the guard returned. A few moments later he had emerged from an elevator, was being ushered into a luxurious office and being seated across a wide desk from a handsome white-haired gentleman who waited for him to be comfortably settled before reseating himself in his leather swivel chair. A mahogany plaque with gold-leaf letters informed Kek that he was facing Mr. Eugene Fairbanks, VP.

  Mr. Fairbanks tented his fingers with expert accuracy and smiled at him comfortably. His experienced eye instantly realized the correctness of the guard’s appraisal of his visitor.

  “I’m told you wished to see an officer of the bank?”

  Kek glanced at the plaque and then allowed his eyes to circle the room. He looked embarrassed.

  “It really wasn’t necessary to take up your time, Mr. Fairbanks. I merely wanted to open an account, and when the guard asked me to wait—” He shrugged, as if to say, I had no idea I would be taken to someone as important as you, but now that I’m here, I suppose I’m here. I’m truly sorry, and I’ll get out as soon as I decently can. He reached into his pocket for his calling card and extended it across the table.

  Mr. Fairbanks took it and studied it. He continued to hold it when he was finished, his trained fingers stroking the intaglio engraving and being impressed by it, as well as by the excellence of the resilient card stock. His eyes came up to his guest, warm and friendly; prepared, banker-style, for anything.

  “It’s no trouble at all, Mr. Vrebal; I assure you. It’s what we’re here for.”

  “Yes. Well, my brothers and I have this small company in the state of Washington. It’s been in the family a long time and until recently we never thought of expanding, but since the war”—he shrugged humorously—“well, today it’s rather difficult not to expand just to stay in business. You just can’t stand still. And since I’m the youngest, and I’ve spent some time abroad, and my brothers thought the export market might be a possibility, I was elected t
o open this New York office.”

  He smiled and then looked embarrassed again.

  “But I’m taking up a lot of your time, and for no good reason. I’m sure any one of the people downstairs can handle the simple business of opening a company account for us. As I say, we’re just a small family-owned company, and the account is a small one, and I hate to bother anyone in your position.”

  Mr. Fairbanks beamed. He wished that certain other customers of the bank—whom he could easily name—would be as considerate.

  “Not at all, not at all, Mr. Vrebal! I’ll be most delighted to handle the matter, Mr. Vrebal.” He dug into his desk, smiling. “Vice-presidents aren’t just ornamental you know, though I realize that’s the prevailing impression of the public.” He withdrew some forms and slid them across the blotter. “If you care to take these cards with you and fill them out …” His bony finger indicated certain dotted lines. “Name here, address, telephone number, authorized signatures …”

  “Would it be possible to fill them out now? I know I’m taking up a lot of your time, but since I’m the only authorized signature for our new office, and since this account will be just for our business in the East, I’d like to save the time.”

  “Of course, of course! You have a pen, Mr. Vrebal? Good! How much were you thinking of starting the account with?”

  Kek completed filling in the necessary information on the small blue cards before answering. He blotted them carefully on the huge blotter that covered most of the desk and laid them before Mr. Fairbanks. Once again his embarrassment returned.

  “Not very much to start,” he said unhappily. “As I explained, we’re a small company, but we do hope to expand, and rapidly.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket for his wallet, withdrew a check, and glanced at it. His facial expression seemed to say: if you don’t accept it and throw me out of your office for presuming on a vice-president’s time with such a picayune matter, I’ll scarcely blame you. He leaned over, giving the check to Mr. Fairbanks. “One hundred thousand dollars …”

  Mr. Fairbanks’ eyes widened. While one hundred thousand dollars was no spectacular amount of money by the standards of the Battery Bank, for a small family company it was far more than he had expected, especially after Mr. Vrebal’s obvious unhappiness with the amount. It was apparent that the Vrebal family itself was quite substantial, and that this member of the family might well stand cultivating. He was suddenly very glad that the guard had been bright enough to bring this particular customer to him. It would make a nice bit of conversational throw-away at tomorrow morning’s executive meeting, and wouldn’t hurt his standing with the board.

  “If you will just endorse it, Mr. Vrebal …” He handed the check back.

  Kek scrawled on the back and returned it. Fairbanks accepted it with a banker’s reverence for money in any form or amount.

  “If you’ll wait a moment, Mr. Vrebal, I’ll see that you get a deposit book. In fact, I’ll make it out myself. And see that you get some blank checks until you can have your own printed. Which we can also handle if you wish.” He dug into his desk again.

  “I would appreciate it.”

  “Fine! They’ll be ready by the time the check clears.” He looked up a moment, his eyes clouding at the thought of the necessary suspicion. Kek, reading the other’s mind quite accurately, waited expressionlessly for the statement. “You realize, of course, Mr. Vrebal, that no withdrawals can be made before the check clears.”

  “I should hope not,” Kek said. “I should hate to think I put our company’s money in a bank less careful than our small-town bankers in Washington.” He smiled to take any sting from his words. “How long do you think it will be until it clears?”

  “Three days at the most, Mr. Vrebal.” Mr. Fairbanks was writing in a small black book as he spoke, referring to the cards for his information. His handwriting, Kek could see, was spidery, but he was sure the information would be quite correct.

  “In that case I’ll wait a week to be sure,” Kek said. He looked at the man across from him. “There’s just one thing, Mr. Fairbanks …”

  The elderly man looked up. “Yes?”

  “This business of Mr. Vrebal this and Mr. Vrebal that.” He suddenly grinned; it lit up his face, making him look quite young. “I keep looking around for my father. I wonder, would you mind greatly calling me Jan?”

  “Jan? Not at all. Actually, considering the difference in our ages, I suppose it’s only proper.” Mr. Fairbanks chuckled. “It would be a pleasure.” He handed across the small black book as well as the thin sheaf of checks. Kek pushed the checks back politely.

  “If the printed checks will be ready by the time the check clears—my check, that is—I’d rather wait.”

  “Of course. Shall we mail them?” He smiled. “Jan?”

  “If you would, sir. And thank you very much for your time.” Kek tucked the deposit book into his side pocket and came to his feet, but Mr. Fairbanks tented his fingers, leaning back in his chair. The invitation to remain and continue the conversation was too obvious to be denied. Kek sank down again.

  “Ah!” Mr. Fairbanks said with nostalgia. “Centralia, Washington … My, my! It’s been a long time since I’ve been there …”

  Kek swallowed. “You—you know Centralia, Mr. Fairbanks?”

  The elderly man smiled and waved a hand negligently.

  “Yes, but from before you were born, I’m afraid. My wife and I drove from Seattle down there on our honeymoon. Had an old friend living there, went to school with. It wasn’t a very long trip, you understand, but in those days—it was 1908, you must remember—forty years ago—well, the roads were mostly dirt and the cars—” He shook his head musingly. “Haven’t thought of Centralia in years, or old Johnny Leeds, either.”

  “He’d probably be—” Kek wisely swallowed the words, but it didn’t matter. Mr. Fairbanks was lost in memories and hadn’t heard him.

  “They still have that old blockhouse in Fort Borst Park?”

  “I—”

  “But I guess of course they have! Hundred years old by now; they’d never pull down a landmark like that! Great place, Centralia. Sure wonder if Johnny is still there. Have to write him one of these days …”

  “Yes, sir.” This time Kek got to his feet significantly. “A great place.”

  Mr. Fairbanks realized he had allowed his sentiment to overcome both his manners and his banking ethics. He scrambled to his feet, reaching out and gripping Kek’s hand in a surprisingly firm handclasp.

  “Sorry I took your time, Mr.—Jan, I mean. And I wish you the best of success in your venture.”

  “Thank you,” Kek said. Mr. Fairbanks missed the slight nuance, but there was no doubt that the faintest touch of worry had entered the younger man’s voice.

  “Pindale, Arizona?” Lisa asked, mystified. She was running her finger down the huge gazetteer Kek had brought home with him.

  “Pinedale,” Kek said almost savagely, and reached. “Let me have it.”

  “I can do it. Let me practice my English.” She looked up. “Here it is. Population—” She looked up, amazed, returning to French. “Two hundred and six? They must all work in your family’s factory.”

  “They do,” Kek said shortly.

  “Even the babies? Well, never mind.” She leafed the book over to the map page containing Pinedale, held the place with a finger, and looked at him. “What on earth made you choose such tiny places?”

  “Obviously, because at the time it seemed like a good idea. And Pocatello, Idaho, isn’t so small, and neither is Alliquippa.” He shook his head bitterly. “You know, in Poland before the war—nine, ten years ago—if a man was born in Grudziadz he lived in Grudziadz all his life and never went five miles away. But here in America apparently everyone has nothing better to do with his time—and his money—than to chase all about the country visiting tiny villages nobody ever heard of!”

  “But what do you plan to do?”

  “Nothing. What can I d
o? It’s a little late to go back to Mr. Fairbanks and say—‘Oh, did I say Washington? I mean, Centralia, Ohio.’” He sighed. “Well, let us hope his friend Johnny Leeds has moved to Alaska, because I’ll be amazed if he remembers the up-and-coming Washington Harvester Company.” He stared at Lisa. “Well, we’ll keep our fingers crossed. Go ahead with Pinedale.”

  Lisa returned her attention to the map. “Well, it’s in the Sitgreaves National Forest, between a town called Clay Springs and Linden, and it’s near something called the Mongollon Rim …”

  “Let me see it.”

  Kek took the book and studied it. He put it down with a sad shake of his head. “We can’t change the stationery now. And we wouldn’t have the time. I guess we just go ahead.”

  Lisa settled back in her chair, reaching for a bonbon.

  “And another thing, darling,” she said, “what made us think you could possibly sound like an American from five different parts of the United States? Don’t they all have accents as we do at home? I don’t know about your English, but your French—it sounds—well, it has no sound, if you know what I mean. You speak it too perfectly; no Frenchman or Belgian speaks that well.”

  “One worry at a time,” Kek said, and came to his feet, putting the gazetteer aside, glancing at his watch. For no reason at all he suddenly grinned. “It was going too well, anyway,” he said, and winked at her. “I enjoy a job better when there are problems.”

  “I realize,” Kek said smiling across the broad oak desk in a self-deprecating manner, “that using the name ‘United States’ in the name of a small agricultural company such as ours, away out in a small town in Arizona, sounds a bit presumptuous; but you see, my father came to this country from Poland as a young man, a blacksmith, and he received his citizenship just about the time he left the man he was working for, and started out on his own. So—” He let it trail away.

  “I think it’s an excellent reason, Mr. Tenza. I think it would be a far better country if more people were as patriotic.” The vice-president of the Argonaut Bank sounded indignant to think more people were not. He was pleased that this handsome and obviously well-educated and intelligent young man had been directed to his office and not to some idiot in the ground-floor bullpen.