“Good night,” she said rather wistfully as he opened the door. “Come back some night if you want to.”
In the morning, he felt great. It was going to be a great day! No hang-over, no remorse—he had certainly been a fool to feel the way he did last night. He took a deep breath and stretched. “We’re ready to ride, kid. Saddle up the horses.”
Fancy grinned. “No head, huh? You had a good load on last night.”
“Yeah.” Ray chuckled as he unwrapped a clean white shirt, inserted stays in the spread collar. “But notice how carefully I hung up our suit?”
He called the one good suit that served him for a front, our suit, declaring it was business property. It was a standing joke. “This is it, Fancy. Tonight we’re either busted—or we both can order three of these suits for a starter, with all the trimmings.”
They had a good breakfast of ham and eggs in the cafeteria in the next block, and rode a bus downtown to the office. Silvia greeted them brightly.
Ray said: “It’s only quarter of nine, honey. You don’t have to punch the clock so hard.”
“I don’t mind. I’m glad we’re doing business.”
“Thanks for worrying, maybe I’ll make you a partner some day.” She smiled briefly and looked down at her typewriter. Ray looked her over as he walked past. A brown, lightweight gabardine suit had replaced the white blouse and black skirt. He noted that it did not give her bust such prominence, looked well tailored around her shoulders. The kid learned fast.
He put the folder and newspaper pages into his briefcase, exchanged the snap-brim for the Homburg. Fancy had followed him in. Ray said: “We’ll need some money besides what we’ve got. It may be a wait before we can bill these accounts. Take the Ford out and sell it.”
Fancy’s mouth opened. “But, if things don’t go right—if we don’t get these accounts—”
“Stop worrying,” Ray ordered. “Get confident, like that guy in the book who spent his last few bucks for a necktie and landed the spot he wanted. Sell it.”
“O.K. Think its safe?”
“Sure. Go out on Long Island and find a car lot. You’ve got the notarized bill of sale. Take a check or let ‘em send you the money at the hotel. The deal is perfectly legitimate.”
“How much shall I get?”
“They’re priced at about six hundred in the papers,” Ray explained patiently. “Ask six and take five or four-fifty. It isn’t a bad heap.”
“O.K.”
Ray carefully inserted his folders of copy into the briefcase, in a separate compartment from the newspaper material. “Let’s see what you wrote on the Happy Day dry cleaning project.”
Fancy brought him some pages of copy. Ray read them in a few seconds, placed them on his desk without comment while Fancy watched unhappily. “We’ll go over that stuff again,” Ray told him. “One or two things to tighten up.”
He inspected himself in the small mirror, straightened the position of the Windsor knot nestling precisely in the collar-space. He could have been one of the clean-cut models in the Esquire ads. “So long kiddies,” he said, and went out.
Miss Sanderson of Russcorp appeared glad to see him. She gave him one of the genuine, rather than official, smiles, and said: “Good morning, Mister Hitchcock. Did the girl return with the money all right?”
“Yes. Thanks a lot. How’s Burke?”
She chuckled, and he was treated to a full flash of the violet-blue eyes. “I think he’s still angry.”
Ray leaned on her desk, not awkwardly, but closer than necessary. She still smelled delicious. “How about helping me out?”
“If I can, without doing anything wrong. I mean, the firm doesn’t allow . . .”
“It’s not business,” he said softly, “it’s about my morale. Now, if I land this account today, I’d like to have dinner with you tonight. And if I know that I’m going to have dinner with a beautiful blonde if I land it, I’ll work that much harder. How about it?”
She was amused. She wanted to refuse, because it usually paid to keep them guessing for awhile, and they always asked again. But this lad might be different. Something about the hard jaw and cool eyes, although he was smiling, made her believe that if she used coy tactics he’d see right through them, and he wouldn’t repeat. “All right,” she said. “Just to help your morale.”
He winked at her. “Don’t eat much lunch, you’ll have a big dinner. Now tell Maynard I’m here.”
She spoke into the intercom, and looked up as someone answered. “Go right in. Down the corridor and fourth door on the left.”
He nodded confidently and went the way she had indicated, in the opposite direction from Louis Russ’s office. He passed another business office full of clerks and stenographers, and knocked briefly before entering the door labeled Ralph Maynard, Advertising Manager.
A plump woman with an officious manner sat at a modernistic, gray oak desk. She said: “Mister Hitchcock? Go right in. Mister Maynard is expecting you.”
He went into the inner office, a plain, efficient looking room in comparison to Russ’s throne room. Maynard and a younger man were waiting for him.
“Morning, Hitchcock,” Maynard said without enthusiasm. “This is Charles Olson, my assistant.”
Ray said hello to them and shook hands quickly with Olson. The assistant was an intense young man with a wary, alert face and an attitude of false humility. Ray placed his hat and case on a long table and sat down in the chair opposite the desk. “Let’s go,” he said. “This will be a busy day.”
Maynard frowned at the abruptness. “Well,” he intoned, looking at papers stacked before him. “I suppose we might as well begin with Russcorp, itself. We have quite a program, based on promotional advertising with some institutional insertions. It breaks down like this . . .”
Ray interrupted politely: “Excuse me, is that a copy of your budget?”
“Just let me have it and save a lot of time. I can run an analysis on it when I get back to my office.”
Maynard didn’t like that. “I don’t know—we really shouldn’t give these figures out.”
“I’ll call Louis for you right now, and get authority. I thought he explained that to you yesterday. And if you can’t spare a copy, I’ll just have to write all your figures down.”
The bluff worked. Maynard took a number of sheets from the pile and almost threw them across the desk. Ray took them and shuffled them together neatly. “Now, about the subsidiaries?”
“They’re all there. That’s a combined budget for internal information only. Accounting and tax figures are kept separately.”
I’ll bet they are, Ray thought, in three sets of books. He asked sweetly: “How about a few samples of advertising material? Anything you happen to have handy will do.”
Maynard glanced at Olson. “Have you collected those items, Charley?”
Olson went to a file cabinet, came back with a large black hard-cover binder, and a bulky Manila envelope. “Here we are.” He cleared his throat and opened the folder in front of Ray. It held several dozen proofs, the first a full-color ad featuring canned juice. A voluptuous blonde in shorts stood under a palm tree holding a half-filled glass. You’ll love Arctic, the headline read, and it’s good for you.
Ray waved a hand as Olson prepared to give him a full description. “I’ll take it along.”
He stood up and gently separated Olson from the material. The young man looked disappointed—he must have rehearsed his little presentation thoroughly, and now no one would hear it.
“Thanks a lot, gentlemen,” Ray said cheerfully. “I’ll let you know if I have any ideas that you ought to consider.”
Maynard sputtered, “But—but, dammit Hitchcock, what goes on? If you’re planning any promotion, I’m the man who ought to work on it with you.”
“In a way—but I’d like to keep your opinion clear—it will give me a chance to receive an unbiased comment.”
“How’s that?” Maynard asked suspiciously.
“When I have a new program written up, you can look at the presentation with a fresh eye. If Mister Russ and I decide on something, you may be able to offer some valuable additions.”
Ray bowed slightly, collected his briefcase and hat, and went out. At last glance, neither Maynard nor Olson looked happy.
Miss Sanderson smiled at him when he came down the hall. “Success?” she asked brightly.
“Partial. You’ve got cocktails and the shrimp and salad. Now let’s see if I can score for the main dish. Ask Mister Russ if he’s ready to see me.”
She talked into the intercom, turned and said: “Miss Tully says he’s in conference.”
“Tell Miss Tully that I said she’d better let him know I’m here. Make it or else.”
The sleek blonde waves hovered over the speaking box again, one slim hand holding a receiver to her ear. “Miss Tully—Mister Hitchcock says he is expected, and Mister Russ will want to know that he arrived.”
She wrinkled her straight nose as she put down the black disk. “She doesn’t like you.”
“I’m not worried about her liking me, but what’s your first name?”
“Charlotte.”
“Tuneful. You can call me Ray when spies aren’t around.” He placed the material he had obtained from Maynard on her desk. “Keep an eye on this stuff, will you? I don’t want to lug it all inside.”
“O.K.” She stretched her head forward, giving him a good look at her lithe back and neck line. She pretended to search the corridors, then whispered, “Ray.”
“Nice going, Charlotte.” They both laughed. The intercom box buzzed and a small red light glowed. She picked up the receiver and listened, nodded, said to him: “You can go in. Miss Tully grants permission.”
“Here goes daddy for the groceries.” He went down the hall, carrying his hat and briefcase like an earnest young doctor on a hurry call.
Louis Russ, Stiles Abbott, Herman Botsch, and a stranger faced Ray in the huge office. The door closed softly behind him as Miss Tully went out. He felt a little worried—the woman’s haughty face had been too calm, as if she were conducting him to the guillotine.
Ray walked forward, said pleasantly to all of them: “Good morning, gentlemen. Am I late?”
“Hello, Hitchcock,” Russ growled. “No, we didn’t expect you at any set time.” He gestured at the stranger who sat beside Herman Botsch. “This is Derek Sullivan, one of our lawyers.”
Ray shook hands. Sullivan was a big, intelligent looking lad, in the same mold as Jim Burke, except that Sullivan’s hair was brown instead of black. He smiled and murmured something, studying Ray carefully. Ray noted that this lad could be dangerous. He was near Botsch, so he asked: “How are things today, Herman? Quiet?”
“Yes.” The bullfrog voice rumbled calmly, Botsch looking more and more like a well-fed politician of the old school, with his white hair and portly body and jovial face. “The papers weren’t too hard on us. You must have reached ‘em.”
He placed the folder in front of Louis Russ, and the man’s curiosity made him look through it, although his face was still a mixture of hostility and suspicion. Ray gave the whole pages to Stiles Abbott, who read the items which were circled with red pencil. There was a long, and for Ray, an uncomfortable, tension building silence. At last Abbott said: “Gee, these ain’t bad, Louis. No slaps at us.”
Russ nodded, closed the folder. “You’ve done a good job, I guess, Hitchcock. How much do we owe you?”
“Perhaps nothing,” Ray replied expansively. “You’ve got quite a bit of credit coming from your two thousand. You’ll get an itemized bill.”
Louis frowned, oily perspiration showed on his forehead, and his heavy jowls and drooping mouth gave him a sullen, stubborn air. “I want to talk to you about that, Hitchcock. Maynard says you don’t rate at all in this town. Nobody in advertising knows you. Your credit is nil.”
Ray chuckled, returning Russ’s look with complete urbanity. “The only other thing for you to do is shake down my office. You’ll find my files and records are just skeletons, although we do a lot of business.”
“Why?”
Ray said heavily, earnestly: “For the same reason Koshak in Chicago keeps few records, writes few business letters. I don’t want the world to know my business.”
Louis could understand that. “You mean—you’re not entirely legit?”
“I most certainly am,” Ray said indignantly. He put more power and a little anger into his tones, as if the discussion annoyed him. “I’m as legitimate as Russcorp and associated companies.”
Ray was watching them closely, although he kept his attention on Russ to flatter the man who carried the most weight. He knew that Botsch was on his side, the white haired man nodded heavily each time Ray made a point. Stiles Abbott was non-committal, probably would follow Russ’s lead. Young Sullivan was a question mark.
Russ picked up his half-smoked cigar, hurled it into the wastebasket after a brief inspection, and groped in the fancy box for another. “Maynard don’t like you, Hitchcock. He says you’re a phony.”
Ray snorted. “I don’t care what Maynard thinks. He’s an incompetent, chiseling bastard. Call him in here, and I’ll tell him that to his face.”
“Those are strong words.” Russ lit his cigar.
“Where did Maynard meet me?”
“In his office, I suppose.”
“Yes, but I just came from there. When Maynard told you what he thought of me, did he say that he had met me?”
“Well, I thought he had.”
“Sure, and he has met me, but do you know where?”
Ray growled the question, leaning forward and looking at Russ intently, his manner very serious.
Russ was confused. “I don’t know—I thought you might have seen him yesterday before you left here.”
“No, I never met Maynard anywhere—but he came to see me. Last night. And he offered to sell you out!”
The rock had to be thrown, and he let it go. It hit the plate glass window right in the middle.
Russ sat up, the lighted cigar falling onto his desk from his open mouth as he roared, “What?”
“Let’s check on this,” Abbott snarled.
Sullivan snapped, “That crumb bum.”
And Herman Botsch looked at Ray, winked quickly, and laughed his booming laugh.
Chapter 7
Russ recovered his lighted cigar before it could do any damage. The shrewd look returned to his face. “Sounds bad,” he said heavily. “Let’s get Maynard in here. I want to see if you’re giving us the straight goods.”
“My associate, Mister Peller, was in my office when Maynard discussed going to the law—ratting—singing.” Ray gave the two words just the right inflection, as if they were distasteful to him, but described the situation too correctly to evade. “I smoothed him down, because that’s part of my job. But as far as letting him dictate our advertising programs, that’s out. He’s done enough damage already.”
“What kind of damage?” Stiles Abbott barked.
“Business losses,” Ray explained. It was a chance for a pitch, and he delivered. “Your enterprises haven’t been showing the same profits as the industries as a whole. My market research indicates that. I’m almost ready to blame Maynard. He’s incompetent, and I’m looking now to see if there is graft involved—money allotted for advertising but detoured instead of doing its job. Sticky fingers in the channels. I realize that some of the poor business showing may be due to sales efforts and management, but it’s up to the advertising manager, in the modern business world, to originate and spark-plug profit making programs. Maynard hasn’t done that.” He spoke slowly and clearly, with almost sanctimonious sincerity.
“Send Maynard in here,” Russ snarled into his intercom. “Right now. Quick!”
“I think you ought to take it easy,” Ray suggested diffidently. “After you’re sure I’m telling the truth, let me handle it.”
Russ looked puzzled. “Why?”
“What will you do if he runs to the law, as he threatened?”
When Russ did not answer, Ray broke the tense silence, speaking earnestly. “I know that you may have certain ideas about handling Maynard, but consider carefully—we cannot afford any trouble at this time. We’re not sure who or what caused the Acme and Hencher incidents. We must not lay ourselves open for anything. And Maynard is too solid a citizen, for . . . ah, drastic methods.” He noted with satisfaction that they accepted the we without question, identifying him with themselves.
Abbott growled, “He needs working over, and hard.”
“He might run squealing,” Botsch objected, “and get protection and give us one hell of a time. Can’t we buy him?”
“The price might be high,” Ray said, “and it’s poor policy to keep paying for incompetence. And he’d have to be bought on the installment plan. I have a better idea, if it’s acceptable.”
“Let’s hear it,” Russ ordered.
“Fire him, and I’ll hire him. Right away, at the same salary. I’ll have him under my thumb, and I’ll keep him away from all information for a year or so. I’ll get our money’s worth of work out of him during the year, too. Then, when things are cool and tight, I’ll just ease him out.”
Russ, Abbott, and Botsch were favorable to the idea. Ray watched them, and his heart seemed to swell. Oh! Let this pitch go over for the third strike!
Russ started to speak. “Sounds practical. You keep me informed about him, and if it looks dangerous, why we’ll take . . .”
“Just a minute, sir.” The young lawyer, Derek Sullivan, interrupted. “We’re moving pretty fast, without giving Maynard a chance to speak.”
Ray looked at him coldly. “I heard him speak, and I didn’t like what he said.”
“Yes,” Sullivan said stubbornly, “but all we have is your word. Every man is entitled to his say.”
“Of course,” Ray agreed. “Perhaps you’d like to hear my associate, Mister Peller, confirm my remarks.”
“I’d like to hear from Maynard,” Sullivan insisted.
“We’ll hear him,” Russ growled. He spoke into the intercom. “Maynard out there yet? Awright, send him in.”
The Heel Page 7