by John Lutz
At one of the big hotels on North Michigan, I got out and left my luggage in the check room. There was no point in registering anywhere yet; I had no way of knowing if my stay in Chicago would last for days or for hours. Outside the hotel I got into one of the cabs parked in single waiting line at the curb and gave the driver Roger Horvell's address.
After a drive through the hippiness-mellowing-to-campiness of Old Town, the taxi entered an area of recent renovation and pulled to the curb in front of a fairly new tall building with a glassed-in lobby that gave off a silvery mirrored effect. I paid the driver, left the cab, then watched my image ascend the concrete steps and reach for the push plate on one of the wide glass double doors.
The lobby featured a small, bubbling Florentine fountain that on close inspection appeared to be constructed entirely of plastic. I walked around the fountain and crossed the scuffed tile floor to a bank of metal mailboxes by an ornate wrought iron gate that blocked access to the elevators. I pressed the pearled plastic button beneath Horvell's mail slot.
He was home. I identified myself over the intercom and told him I wanted to see him regarding David Branly. His nasal voice betrayed confusion and maybe a little fright as he invited me to come up. I understood how he felt; my own gut was beginning to tighten with apprehension. A buzzer sounded, and I passed through the wrought iron gateway and rode the elevator to the fifth floor.
Roger Horvell was a small man in his late twenties, balding prematurely, with thick glasses and a large nose a bit too bulbous to be charitably called hawklike. He was wearing window-check pants and a loose-fitting brown knit pullover shirt with an alligator sewn above the pocket. His casual attire didn't fit his nervousness.
"What is it about David?" he asked, pacing to a large window that afforded a view of the building across the street. It was a taller building than the one we were in, with draped and private windows.
Horvell's nervousness made me feel more confident. I sat on a modern, uncomfortable and obviously inexpensive sofa, noticing that the plush blue carpeting in the new apartment was already beginning to wear. "I need some information about Branly," I said, "and unfortunately he's in no position to help me."
Horvell turned to face me, scratched a scrawny arm as if he had poison ivy. "Is Dave in some kind of trouble?"
"It could be put that way," I said.
He nodded jerkily, sighed, as if he'd expected to hear that news. "You said you were a private detective. What has that to do with David?"
"Nothing directly. Where do you know Branly from?"
Horvell hesitated, then the apprehensive, magnified eyes behind the thick lenses seemed to register the expression of a man waist deep in cold water who has decided to submerge the rest of himself. "We worked together, for the same company."
"What company?"
"David hasn't done anything, has he?"
"No," I said, and waited silently for the answer to my question.
Horvell ran a hand over his balding head as if he still had a mop of hair. "High Grade Hardware," he said in a resigned, nasal tone. "I still work there."
"How long has Branly been gone?"
"Almost a year."
"Fired or quit?"
"Neither," Horvell said hastily. "He was a good company man, one of the best at High Grade, but his job of secondary cost analyst became obsolete."
"If he was so competent, why didn't the company keep him and work him into some other job?" I asked, wondering just what a secondary cost analyst was.
Horvell smiled bitterly. "Things are tight at High Grade, as they are now in most businesses. But blood is still thick, and as in most businesses, there's a certain amount of nepotism at High Grade. David's job was primarily a backup position in a system of double checks that the company felt they could eliminate. I know for sure they didn't want to let him go, but a favored nephew was 'working his way up' in the organization, and since David had no marketing experience…"
"How long had Branly worked there?"
"About five years-the same as me. We were brought here to the main office at the same time, got to be good friends. I frankly admired him for his shrewdness and ambition."
I sat there with the feeling that all this information wouldn't get me anywhere, or Horvell wouldn't be giving it to me.
"Where did Branly go after he left High Grade?" I asked.
Horvell's mouth opened and closed and he shrugged his thin shoulders.
"I have certain restrictions on what I can tell you without my client's consent, Mr. Horvell, but I can tell you that you're not helping Branly anymore by keeping his secrets."
"You called here this morning, didn't you?"
I nodded.
He peeled off his glasses, wiped them on his shirt and looked at me myopically. "Who is your client, Mr. Nudger?"
I had a good idea of what button to press to get Horvell's cooperation. "Have you heard of Carlon Plastics?"
"Of course."
"My client is Dale Carlon, president and chairman of the board."
"Christ!"
"Almost."
Horvell paced back and looked out the wide window. That seemed to be a favorite move of his to gather his thoughts. I saw his shoulders square, and he turned to face me again and replaced his glasses on his oversize nose.
"You're investigating something criminal?"
"Yes, and I advise you strongly not to implicate yourself by lying to me. I understand your loyalty, Mr. Horvell, and I do give you my word that nothing you tell me can be used to harm Branly."
"He lived here for a while," Horvell said, "after he was let go at High Grade. It was a matter of economics. The company wasn't able to give him much severance pay. I was glad to help him."
"How long did he live here?"
"Until about three months ago. Then he got some money from somewhere, moved into an apartment with a girl he was going with."
"An apartment where?"
"He never would tell me, and that's the truth."
"Did you ever meet the girl?"
Horvell nodded. "A few times. Joan Clark was her name."
"This her?" I showed him one of the photographs Gordon Clark had given me.
"Yes, that's the same girl," Horvell said. There was something else he wanted to say. I waited patiently for him to get it out. "You'll be doing more checking, won't you? Asking questions at High Grade Hardware?"
"I plan to."
"Then there's… something else," Horvell admitted. "David Branly never worked there. There is no David Branly. His real name is Victor Talbert."
"Why did he change it?"
"He never said. He changed it after he moved out. I asked him once but he was evasive." Horvell stuttered a nervous, nasal laugh. "I really don't know much; that's why I don't so much mind trying to answer your questions."
I believed him there. He saw that he'd been drawn into something with the potential to pull him all the way under. I was in a perfect position to sympathize.
"What other friends of Victor Talbert's did you meet?" I asked.
"None," Horvell said quickly. "The only friends we really had in common were from the office, and Vic seemed to lose interest in them entirely after he was let go. He formed new friendships somewhere. I don't know what he did while I was working; one reason we shared the apartment was because of my long working hours. We knew we'd seldom get in each other's way."
"You remember him or this Joan Clark mentioning any names?"
Horvell bit his lower lip and thought hard. I expected him to pace to the window, but he didn't. "One," he said finally. "Somebody or something named Con-gram. I remember because Vic mentioned the name once and Joan seemed to get angry."
"That's all-Congram?"
"That's all he said. I don't even remember in what context."
"All the time he was living with you, was Talbert trying to land another job?"
The stuttering laugh came again. "At first he was. Executives like Vic can't, or won't, take just any job.
And as scarce as middle management positions are, his back was to the wall. Oh, he had some menial jobs offered to him, but it isn't in Vic's nature to take a step backward."
"How did you come to have Talbert's phone number, Mr. Horvell?"
"About a month ago Vic dropped by here. He said he was going away-wouldn't say where. But he left me his number for a sort of touchstone. He told me he was going to live under the name of David Branly, and he might phone me if he needed anyone, in case of trouble."
"What kind of trouble?"
"I tried to get him to tell me, but he wouldn't. He was frightened, though. I could tell that. It was the first time I'd ever seen him scared. Vic Talbert is the sort of man who exudes confidence."
"What about the girl?" I asked in a throwaway voice.
"Vic said Joan Clark would be with him. And he mentioned something about her little girl."
"Have you talked to him since then?"
"No. When I asked him what I was supposed to do if he phoned, he said 'maybe nothing,' that he'd let me know if the time came."
Horvell walked over to a small portable bar set up in a corner.
"Can I get you something?" he asked.
I told him no thanks and watched him pour himself two fingers of good Scotch. His hands trembled slightly, and the neck of the bottle clinked on the glass and seemed to embarrass him. He knocked down half the drink in one loud gulp. I couldn't be sure that he was uncomfortable because he was hiding something; he was a human nerve.
"I'd like to ask a favor of you, Nudger," he said in an unsteady nasal whine. "When you go to High Grade Hardware, try to leave my name out of it. I just can't afford to be messed up in my career."
"I don't know if that will be possible, Mr. Horvell. Victor Talbert is dead."
I thought he was actually going to drop the glass. It slipped an abrupt inch in his hand, and he staggered to a chair and sat down. "Dead?… How did it happen? Was it the trouble Vic talked about?…"
"Maybe. He was murdered, Mr. Horvell."
"Murdered! Christ! Is that what you're investigating?"
"No, the police are investigating that, and when they get around to you, I advise you to tell them what you told me. Unless you have something to add."
He shook his head absently. "Murdered…" he said unbelievingly to himself.
I thanked him for talking to me and stood to leave. Instead of showing me out he continued sitting and tossed down the rest of his drink. His myopic eyes were desperate. I could almost see his agitated brain writhing like a mass of worms.
"Nudger!" The imploring nasal voice stopped me when my hand touched the doorknob.
I turned and waited for Horvell to wring out whatever he had to say. His mouth worked before any sound came put, as if the air in the apartment had suddenly become too thin to carry sound.
"Do you promise to leave my name out of it, if possible, at High Grade?"
"If possible," I told him.
He stared hard at me and seemed to find me trustworthy, but then, he wanted to so badly.
"Vic was seeing another woman at the same time as Joan Clark," he said, as if we'd struck a deal. "Her name was Belle Dee."
"Do you know where I can find her?"
"I have her address. Vic had me pick him up there one evening," He got up and walked to a small desk near the entrance to the dining room. With a bit of rummaging about in one of the drawers, he found what he was looking for, copied it on another piece of paper and handed it to me.
"Remember about leaving me out of it," he said.
"I'll do what I can," I told him, opening the door.
"Vic, dead…" he murmured again unbelievingly, running his hand through his imaginary hair.
"Dead… dead… dead…" I repeated to myself, walking down the long carpeted hall to the elevator, as if that would help to exorcise the growing, twisting sensation of fear in my chest and stomach.
It didn't help.
11
After leaving Horvell's apartment I took a cab to claim my luggage. Then I rented a car-knowing I'd be in town for a while-this time a full-size sedan.
I checked in at the TraveLodge Motel, on South Michigan Avenue, not too far from the headquarters of High Grade Hardware. I made a few phone calls, had dinner and a few drinks to untie my knots, and slept almost as deeply as Victor Talbert.
High Grade Hardware's corporate headquarters turned out to be a tall, square building of what looked to be burnished copper glinting in the bright morning sun. Outside the imposing entrance was a tall aluminum flagpole, and beneath the American flag flew the company's smaller flag, a black crossed hammer and wrench insignia on a field of white.
The reception area inside the entrance was also done up in black and white. I walked over to an astoundingly beautiful blonde seated behind a wide, bare desk and told her who I was and that I had an appointment with T. J. Harper, the personnel manager.
Harper saw me immediately, which surprised the blonde. She didn't know that after a Dale Carlon phone call the president of High Grade Hardware had passed down the word to cooperate with me. I was beginning to experience occasional exhilarating delusions of power, but I knew that I'd still bleed.
T. J. Harper's office continued the black and white motif, with a large plaque with High Grade's hammer and wrench insignia mounted on the wall behind his desk. An affable-looking man with an air of efficiency, Harper was wearing a blue pinstriped suit and a semi-military haircut that was gray wire at the temples. He smiled a nice smile and motioned for me to sit down, then sat down himself and laced his fingers on his desk top. I felt somewhat like a job applicant.
I told him I appreciated his taking the time to see me and that I wanted information about a former employee at High Grade. He didn't seem surprised when I told him the name of that former employee.
"Victor Talbert was a fine young man," he said, "an ideal employee. It was regrettable that we no longer had a niche in which to fit him. Under present conditions it simply doesn't pay to do some of the things you'd like to do."
"Did Talbert get along all right with the other employees?"
"Certainly," Harper said, as if I'd been indelicate to ask. "He had no enemies here except within the framework of honest competition. If it were possible for Victor Talbert to walk in here today, and an opening suited his qualifications, I'd rehire him without a qualm. He was strictly the victim of declining sales, and job training that became obsolete practically overnight. That sort of thing happens frequently."
"How did he take his dismissal?"
Harper unlaced his fingers and dropped his hands out of sight beneath the desk. There were faint damp spots on the polished wood where his hands had rested. "He was disappointed," Harper said, "but I explained the situation and he understood. At least he said he did."
"Did he mention what he planned to do when he left High Grade? Or have any of his prospective employers contacted you for a reference?"
Harper stood and walked to a file cabinet. He pulled open a long drawer and withdrew a thick file folder as if he'd known exactly where to reach. Seated back at his desk, he flipped the folder open and leafed through the contents.
"It's a fine record," he said. "High scores on every sort of test, several commendations from superiors. Here's what I want-yes, a bank, First Security Trust, called on the thirteenth of last month in regard to a loan application Victor Talbert had submitted to them. They learned nothing here that would discourage them from granting him the loan."
"Loan for what?"
"That I couldn't tell you. Banks don't go into detail on such matters." Teeth flashed in a confidential smile. "Usually we here at High Grade don't reveal anything we might consider personal about present or past employees. If it weren't for the extenuating circumstances in Victor's case, you wouldn't have gotten in to see me."
I'd been put in my place. Outside Harper's window I could see the corner of the white company flag cracking in the breeze.
"Of course, you found that out
earlier," Harper said, still smiling.
The office was suddenly cold. "Earlier?"
Now the smile faded. "Yes, didn't you phone yesterday morning for an appointment?"
"This appointment was arranged for me."
"But I thought… Well, someone called here yesterday and requested to see me regarding Victor Talbert. The caller was informed that High Grade Hardware has a policy that forbids giving out any unauthorized personnel information."
"Did the caller leave a name?"
"No, that's why I thought you'd called." The intercom buzzed and a female voice informed Harper that someone named Mr. Sathers wanted to see him at his earliest convenience. That seemed to put Harper on edge. "Mr. Sathers is the top man," he explained.
I took my cue to get to the essentials. "Mr. Harper, did you know anything about Victor Talbert's social life, what he did after hours?"
He drummed his fingertips, thinking. "No… not really. He attended all the company functions, handled himself quite well. He was well mannered, didn't drink to excess and possessed an admirable sense of tact. I'd be very surprised if there was anything… irregular about Victor."
"He was earmarked for bigger things here, wasn't he, until the presence of a favorite nephew eased him out?"
Harper's expression didn't change but his color darkened and a vein throbbed briefly at his graying temple. "I don't know who you've been talking to," he said, "but that's hardly an accurate way of describing the situation. Sheer economics dictated that someone had to go. Victor's job specialty was no longer needed, and to utilize his talents anywhere else would have meant a costly retraining and breaking-in period."
"And the nephew had this training?"
"Precisely." He leaned back, laced his fingers again. "Mr. Nudger, at Victor Talbert's level, potential isn't enough."
I nodded. Harper couldn't tell me flatly that Talbert had potentially been the superior of the two employees.
"Not that it matters now," he said.
"It might matter," I told him, "only not to Victor Talbert."