Ray glanced covertly at Sullivan. The healthy looking young man was calm, his jaw stuck out with rugged confidence. You jerk, Ray thought, I wish you were hearing something—like the temple bells in Bangkok from a slow boat. Maynard came into the room, his face a mixture of question and worry.
“Mister Russ,” he said, “I was over in the art department. Sorry I was out of reach. Miss Tully said you were in a hurry. I . . . came right over.”
He noted the hard looks on the three partners, and his voice broke. His garrulous chatter made a bad impression.
Russ said, “Hitchcock told us something interesting.” He looked at Ray. “Tell it again.”
Ray looked squarely at Maynard. “I told my clients,” he declared, “exactly what happened in my office last evening. You insisted that I cooperate with you, or else.”
“But . . .” Maynard sputtered. “I told you . . . I didn’t mean . . . it wasn’t my idea.”
“Perhaps not,” Ray went on rapidly, hoping Maynard would keep quiet about Whitehall. He hoped to save the agency man for another angle. “But it certainly sounded nasty. For an employee to give away his employer’s secrets to the police. Not that we have anything to hide, of course, but it could be embarrassing.”
Maynard was gulping, his complexion oyster white.
Russ roared: “Get out of here, you cheap bastard! Get out and don’t come back!”
The burly man got up from his chair, started to circle the broad desk. Abbott rose, swearing softly, doubling up his fists and eyeing Maynard. Ray quickly moved in and blocked Maynard off with his own big body. “Come out of here,” he said with quiet urgency. “You’ll get hurt.”
“But I didn’t mean . . .” Maynard squawked.
Ray pushed him across the room, checking Abbott with his back. “Please sit down,” he said over his shoulder. “We don’t want any trouble. I’ll be right back.”
He shepherded Maynard out the door. Miss Tully was sitting with her ears practically quivering. Ray told Maynard, “Go out and sit in the reception room while I clean some of this up for you.”
Maynard gave him an agonized stare and stumbled away. Ray reentered the office and closed the door quietly. Abbott was pacing back and forth across the rich carpet. “Damn squealer,” he muttered. “Break his back. Break his back.”
“Take it easy,” Ray said to the group. “Remember our plan. I’ll keep an eye on the guy and we’ll brush him off when it’s safe.”
“Brush him off,” Russ snarled. “Ought to knock him off.”
He suddenly realized what he had said, glanced at the others. Everyone pretended not to have heard him.
“Whew!” Ray exclaimed to ease the tension. “I didn’t expect this to be such an active account. You certainly need public relations guidance.”
Botsch gurgled heartily, an odd laugh like a big tub draining. “We need some baseball bats,” he said. “Gotta keep these guys in line. We’re getting soft.”
“Possibly,” Ray said courteously, “but I think brains will be of more use than bats. Times do change.” He lifted the folders out of his briefcase. “To show you what I mean, I’ve outlined a few sales programs that I’d like you to consider. If they sound interesting, I’ll take them up with the various sales managers and try and get their approval and comment. Then, if you think the final plans are satisfactory, we can start going after business the modern way.”
“What kind of programs?” Russ asked.
“Sales and advertising. They go very closely together.”
“Ought to take ‘em up with the advertising manager,” Russ said automatically, then remembered what had happened. “Hey, well have to get a new ad man.”
“Yes, we will,” Ray agreed. “But why not let me overhaul the advertising set-up and give you my suggestions? Then we can find a good man and start him off right. The most important thing you need right now is a professional analysis of your advertising problems.”
He shuffled the papers in his hands, drew their eyes like a magician forcing attention. “What have you got there?” Russ asked.
Ray went into his pitch, made the presentation, and it was a beauty. The Arctic Fairy Frosted Food program caught their attention—the Triple-T-Doody angle, Think Through Then Do, stimulator for employees brought them up in their chairs with interest—and when he outlined the promotion for Princess Patricia Lingerie, delivering the advertising theme, Brassieres For Men! Certainly, For Men! And especially for the man you want to look your loveliest for!—even Derek Sullivan grinned and nodded appreciatively.
He gave them over twenty minutes of it, and they never interrupted him, never looked bored.
He finished, and the room was silent. It seemed as if someone should say, “Amen.”
Abbott was the first to speak. “That sounds pretty good. How much will it cost?”
“Cost?” Ray pretended to be puzzled. “I don’t understand you, Mister Abbott.”
“The price,” Russ took the bait. “How much will the ads and the folders and all that stuff cost us?”
Ray smiled quietly as he returned the papers to his case. “The cost, as you call it, is theoretically nothing. Advertising is not a cost—it’s an investment, on which you expect and should get a certain return. It’s nice in one way that the income tax people let you put it down as a cost—when it is actually an investment. Just like any other investment, if you j handle it properly, you will receive your return. Indeed, it is only the law of diminishing returns that prevents us from advertising ourselves right up to the top of the heap with all the business in any particular line.”
He had them again, they were following him like caspers. Watching the ten-dollar bills come out of a money machine, He continued: “And it actually costs you nothing where we receive our fifteen per cent from the purchase of space. Of course, there are production costs, and some research and administrative and talent charges, but they are all figured as part of the main budget and are balanced against the profits.”
Russ nodded. “Maynard,”—he scowled at the name—”never explained it to me like this.”
“I doubt that he understood it,” Ray said. “Now, if you want me to go ahead with the new programs, as well as survey your present set-up, I suggest you appropriate a supplemental budget right now.”
“Is it necessary?” Abbott wanted to know.
“No,” Ray answered casually, “but if this year’s money is allotted to projects which cannot be canceled, I’ll have to delay new promotions until next year.”
“You ought to be able to divert or hold up some of the current expenditures,” Russ observed.
“Undoubtedly, but I cannot plan intelligently unless I know that the money will be available.”
“How much do you think we ought to appropriate?”
“Two-hundred thousand would be a good figure.”
Abbott whistled. “A hell of a good figure!”
Ray shrugged. “We aren’t necessarily going to spend that sum, but it should be available. Don’t forget, you will have a chance to pass on every expenditure at the conferences which we will hold bi-weekly.”
“What’s that?” Abbott demanded. “Twice a week?”
“No. Every other week.”
“Oh. I didn’t want to be tied down that often.”
“You won’t be. The meetings can be short. Much of the material can be delivered to your office for advance inspection at your leisure.”
“That’s an awful lot of dough,” Russ complained. Ray noted that these men relaxed into the vernacular of their youth when they were concentrating on important matters. In conversation, Russ and Abbott were almost prim when they wanted to be formal, with an awkward precision to their phrases. He felt contempt for them—they couldn’t even change their speech without effort.
“It’s only about one-third of your present budget,” he said. “And it will cover public relations work, too. I expect such results that I’ll be back for additional appropriations, and get them, because I�
��ll be able to prove that we’re bringing in the business.”
“Give him the money,” Botsch boomed suddenly. Ray felt like reaching over and patting the white head.
“We ought to check up on certain things,” Sullivan objected. Ray wanted to slug him.
“We’re making a lot of dough,” Russ commented reflectively. “We can spare it. If it clicks we’re in . . . if it don’t . . .” He looked hard at Ray. Ray stared back, making it calm and confident.
“O.K.,” Russ declared. “We’ll try it.”
Ray slipped the contract out of his pocket, placed it in front of Russ. “Just a formality,” he said. “To protect our investment in preparations.”
Sullivan leaned forward expectantly. “I’d like to see that.”
Russ handed it to him. The young lawyer studied it, held it long enough to read the brief lines at least five times. When Ray felt that he could stand it no longer, or he would slug him, he said: “Maybe that’s too simple for a lawyer. All it says is that if we do our job we get paid if you like our work.”
Botsch chuckled. “Can’t kick at that.”
Sullivan glanced at Ray as he returned the form to Russ’s desk. Ray thought, why don’t you like me, Derek, you bastard?
“It looks all right, Mister Russ,” Sullivan said.
“O.K., here goes.” Russ scribbled his name with an impulsive gesture.
“Sign as a witness, please, Sullivan,” Ray requested sweetly.
The lawyer signed.
Ray took the contract and stood up. “I believe this marks the beginning of increased prosperity for your enterprises,” he said very formally. “I’m going to put my staff to work at once. At our next meeting, I intend to have some surprises for you.” He chuckled intimately. “All pleasant ones. All profit makers.”
“Let’s hope so,” Russ said. He looked as if he wished he hadn’t signed the contract. Ray said good-by to them and walked out.
It wasn’t far, the stroll across the cream toned carpet and into the reception alcove, but to Ray it was a voyage to the fabulous Indies—a soaring flight to castles in the air—a ride on a magic carpet to the sultan’s palace with an option to charter all carpets for private flights—a walk to the end of the rainbow with his feet stumbling over the pot of gold. He had it made!
Maynard was sitting huddled in one of the chairs in the main reception room when Ray floated down the corridor. He looked up slowly, showing anxiety and worry—and hate.
“You fixed me, Hitchcock, didn’t you? You fixed me, didn’t you?”
“Your needle’s stuck in a groove,” Ray said brutally. “Move it over before you bore me. You fixed yourself with your phony schemes and slow brain. I can save most of it for you.” He wanted to dominate Maynard, to mollify him and mold him into The Plan. He watched the well-fed features show confusion and then interest, but the hate was still strong in them—would always be.
“How can you save it?” Maynard asked.
“You can go to work for me, as an account executive, at the same salary you got here. Hell, you’ll be better off!” He worked up some enthusiasm. “We’ll do a better job on the account—and you’ll have less responsibility.”
“But I don’t deserve this,” Maynard complained. “It was Whitehall’s story that got me into this.”
“If you don’t like my proposition, forget it. You’ll get another job—as an ad man for sixty a week.”
Maynard shuddered, the gloomy gesture of a man without ability faced with the sudden loss of the sinecure he has come to believe is his by right of possession. “I—I don’t know.”
“O.K. The deal’s off.”
“No! Wait!” Maynard wailed. “Don’t I have time to think this over?”
“You’ve had ten years to think it over, sitting on your can when you should have been hustling. If you’d been on the ball, you wouldn’t have been wide open for an active, progressive firm like mine to move in. You and Whitehall are fat and soft with easy living.”
“All right,” Maynard groaned. “The same salary, huh?”
“Sure. Now one other thing. We haven’t mentioned Whitehall’s part in this, so—”
“Say,” Maynard interrupted. “I’m going in and tell Louis about Whitehall right now! He’ll understand that I didn’t suggest squealing.”
Ray gripped his arm. “You dope. If you go in there Russ will brain you before you finish talking. The mere fact that this mess has come up, that you’ve been giving business to a punk like Whitehall, will finish you.”
Maynard sagged back in his chair. “You’re right.”
“Of course I am. Now listen—we’ll keep quiet about Whitehall, and maybe we can keep right on working with him. Things can go along as before, except that the agency will have to put some junior account executive in contact with us as a front.”
Maynard brightened. “It might work out.”
“Sure it’ll work out,” Ray assured him. “I know you think you’ve been mouse-trapped, but you brought it on yourself by bucking me when I showed up just looking for some legitimate business.”
“What’ll I do now?” Maynard asked dismally. “I’ve got a lot of stuff on the fire. It will be a mess.”
“What you mean,” Ray corrected caustically, “is that you’ve got so many irons in the fire, that if you leave here now, somebody is going to get a shock. I suppose you’ve been getting your cut from the printers and the art people and most of your suppliers.”
Maynard’s resentful, but worried expression told Ray he was right. He went on: “You heard what Louis said. I’m supposed to check over the advertising set-up. All right, you play along with me on the level, and I’ll get hold of all your projects and cover up for you. If Russ finds out just what you’ve been doing I wouldn’t insure you for a dime.”
Maynard was looking down at the floor, wringing his hands, when Derek Sullivan came down the hall. “Say, Maynard,” the young lawyer said, ignoring Ray. “What was that you started to say in there about squealing not being your idea?”
Ray stepped back, so that he could watch Maynard without being in view of Sullivan. Maynard looked up, and Ray put a brief finger over his lips. “I—I don’t know,” Maynard mumbled. “I’m all mixed up.”
“Whose idea was it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me. Maybe I can help you.”
Ray interrupted. “Maynard has been helped enough by the wrong people. Anything we do now is liable to stir up more trouble.”
Sullivan swung around. “You’re not worrying about Maynard. You’ve moved in where he fell out.”
Ray moved forward, stood beside Maynard with a paternal hand on his shoulder. “Mister Maynard will make out all right. He’s working for me now.”
Sullivan made an angry gesture with his hands and stalked away. Ray gazed reflectively after him. The boy was pretty smart. He might not last long.
He said to Maynard: “Go in and grab your coat and whatever stuff you want to take with you. Make it snappy. If you bump into the big boys they may get rough. They’re plenty mad at you.”
Maynard hurried down the hall, and Ray sauntered over to Charlotte Sanderson’s desk. The sleek blonde head had been alert during the conversations. He wondered how much she understood. “Hello, Charlotte. I just got the price of the filet mignon, dessert, coffee, and several Napoleon brandies.”
The soft lips smiled. “Congratulations. You’re quite a salesman.”
“I’m sort of a member of the firm, now. I’ll be around a lot. Going to do an analysis of sales programs. Maynard is through. You can refer all his contacts and advertising people to me.” He gave her one of his cards.
She placed it in a slot and said, “Who-o-o. You move fast. Jim Burke will love this.”
“I’m not really fast,” he told her. “Just a hard working American boy.”
Maynard came back and Ray went as far as the street with him, to make sure he didn’t get any ideas. He told him to come to the Hitchcoc
k offices in the morning, and walked away.
Riding downtown on the subway, Ray felt the exultation rise in him until he almost danced up and down the car. In! In like Flynn! Oh, what a future. The Plan was clicking, and the amount on the meter was tops. With the Russcorp business organized and in his pocket, he’d never have to worry again.
He went to the saloon that was a second city room for the Gazette, telephoned Liney Talbot, and bought three sets of drinks for them and gave the thin man the balance of the bribe, twenty-five dollars. Liney wore the same shabby suit, the same or a twin of the soiled tan shirt, and his complexion was still that of a tanned wax dummy. “Going to have any more jobs?” Liney asked as he drained his third glass. “I’ve sorta got things organized, now.”
“Yeah, from time to time. I’ll call you.”
“O.K. Make it soon.”
“Soon as I can. I don’t have a very big business.”
“Want me to put you on to a couple of accounts? I know one outfit that needs a publicity man bad.”
“No,” Ray refused. He would have grabbed the business a week ago—now, he felt that anything Liney might offer would be a waste of time. “I’m working on a couple of angles that take up all my time.”
“I could talk you up. Get you half-way in before you talked to ‘em.”
“No, I can’t handle ‘em now. And I don’t want to get known around. Might hurt my chances. Give the business to someone else if you can land it, but don’t mention me.”
“O.K.” Liney shrugged and ordered another drink. Ray paid for it and left.
Fancy had not returned when Ray reached his office. Silvia smiled when he breezed in. “More good news?”
“Yep, honey. We’ve got a barrel of business.”
“A Mister Botsch called. He asked to have you call him back.”
“O.K. Get him. At Russcorp.”
“I have the number,” she said as she dialed.
Ray leaned on the desk and watched her, admiring the interesting hollows of her finely molded features. He wondered if you would describe her as Slavic or Oriental or American Indian. It didn’t matter—the kid was going to be a knockout. He stood close to her as he took the telephone and said, “Hello, Herman.”
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