“Hello, Ray,” the heavy voice sounded mellifluous over the wire. Botsch had the bass tones that improve with reproduction. “I liked your story today. I think you can do, something for our business. Work on my laundry account when you get time—push the linen service.”
“You bet, Herman. I’ll get at it right away.”
“Thanks. We can get along. But take a tip, boy, look out for Sullivan and Burke.”
“Thank you, Herman. I am—and I will.”
“Russ told me to ask you up to his place for dinner tomorrow night. Sort of a meeting. Bring a girl.”
“O.K., Herman. I appreciate this a lot.”
“You can do something for me sometime, so long, boy.” Herman hung up, but Ray kept the connection open. When Herman’s secretary cut in, he guessed that she had been listening. He said, “Transfer this to the reception desk, please.”
When Charlotte Sanderson answered, he asked. “What’s your address?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This is Ray. I forgot to ask you where we’ll meet.”
“Oh,” she giggled. He didn’t like that. Her controls had slipped for an instant. She gave him an address uptown, and they said good-by quickly.
Silvia was watching him. He was glad she did not know that he had just jotted down the address of a tasty blonde. “Honey, have you got a nice evening gown?”
“Yes.”
“O.K. How about going out with me tomorrow night? It’s sort of a business dinner.”
He was certain that Silvia knew how to dress, talk, and act. It would come to her even more naturally than Charlotte’s acquired polish. He would have liked to take the blonde, because she offered less problems than the younger girl, would be less complicated once you penetrated the mask, but he couldn’t show up with Russcorp’s receptionist.
Silvia said: “Well, it it’s business—I was going out with someone.”
He smiled down at the dark eyes. “It’s business, but I’d like to take you to dinner anyway. Well have fun.”
It was a sale. “All right . . . Ray.”
He went into his office, thinking of Herman’s warning about Sullivan and Burke. It worked two ways—Herman would expect an alliance with Ray, sort of an agreement to watch each other’s backs for knife thrusts. He shrugged. The ethics of modern business.
He opened his briefcase and went to work on the accounts. They were shaping up nicely, he could put the real pressure on the creative work now that he knew it would definitely lead to something. He selected three art agencies from the classified book, and told Silvia to call them and have a salesman or artist come over at once. One outfit declared they were unable to send a representative until tomorrow. Ray said: “Tell them to go to hell and select another one from the book. Pick a name you like.”
She did not use his language, but she contacted another one more eager for business. When she hung up the telephone, it rang at once, and she looked in at Ray. “Mister Maynard wants to talk to you.”
“Tell him I’m busy.”
“He says it’s important.”
Ray scowled and walked over and said into the mouthpiece, “What’s the matter? We can settle everything tomorrow.
“This is different.” Maynard sounded excited, almost hysterical. “There’s a couple of detectives here to see me. Whitehall is dead!”
Ray blinked, felt scared for a moment, then gathered himself. “So what. That’s nothing for me to work on.”
“You’ve got to tell them about last night.”
He looked at his watch, scowled. “O.K. It’s one o’clock. You can see me here at four.” He hung up.
“Go get us some lunch, honey,” he said to Silvia, and went grimly back to his desk.
Chapter 8
Maynard’s words had upset him, but he sternly forced his mind to stay on the work. So Whitehall was dead! So the cops were calling on Maynard! So what?
It was none of his affair. He was in a legitimate business, now, and getting tangled up with anything like that might stir up too much of the past. Silvia returned with chicken sandwiches, milk and coffee, and he ate. The art agency lads came in, and he gave each one the same instructions—”Let me see what you can do with some fast dummies and sketches on these accounts.”
He supplied them with the rough layouts and ideas and copy he had prepared, told them there would be plenty of business if they proved competent, and cut short their sales talks. “Show me,” he ordered, “don’t tell me. If you can’t take detailed instructions and come up with something really good, we won’t get along anyway.”
Two of the salesmen—none of the firms sent artists—mentioned payment for the roughs, and Ray told them he would pay for satisfactory work and nothing else. If they didn’t want the business there were plenty of other outfits looking for new accounts. They dropped the subject and went away with their samples and instructions.
The third man looked at Ray’s copy, asked several questions, and listened carefully. He was a plump young man with a tired, but attentive manner, like a beagle sniffing at a new scent. His name was Melvin Raport. He showed Ray only four full-color samples of art work, but they were excellent, and had been used in top media. After inspecting Ray’s material, he said: “These are big accounts, Mister Hitchcock. The Deckwood Agency has been doing most of their work. Do you really think we can land them?”
Ray grinned. This lad was stealing a page from his own manual with the we pitch. “You might say we already have them, if you can do the kind of work I want. It’s got to be good, and you’ve got to deliver without expecting me to check every item and detail. I’m looking for an art house that will work with me on advertising, not draw pictures when I tell them exactly what to do. I expect creative service plus advice plus accuracy.”
“That’s the kind of work we like. I’ll handle the liaison myself.”
“Do the artists who created those samples work for you?”
“Some of them. I can hire all the talent we need.”
“The costs have got to be kept down, because there will be certain—” he paused significantly “—certain special personal arrangements to make later on.”
“I understand. I’ll work with you any way you say. Will we bill you or the accounts?”
“Perhaps some of both.”
Raport thanked him and went away. Ray thought that he would probably get the business, and he would be a good lad to work with. He knew his way around.
Ray brought the extra typewriter into his own office and worked furiously, writing up the final suggestions and ideas for action on the Princess Patricia Lingerie and Arctic Fairy Frosted Food promotions. He had his coat off and tie open, his heart pounding, breathing heavily and perspiring like a man with a high fever, when Fancy returned.
“Hiyuh, boss,” the younger man said proudly, “I got five-twenty-five for the bus.”
“Nice going,” Ray replied. “Get the dough?”
“Check right here.” He placed the slip of paper on the desk.
“O.K.” Ray glanced at it briefly. “Give it to Silvia for deposit.”
Ray finished a page of manuscript, returned the typewriter to Fancy with orders to try again on the Happy Day Cleaners advertising plan, and went to work himself on rough layouts with pencil and ruler. He had lost all track of time, living on a plane where nerves tingled so vibrantly that the contemporary world seemed to be in another dimension, when Maynard came into the office followed by two big men. They were not particularly oversize, but a certain erect air of stolid dominance made them seem physically larger.
“Hello, Ray,” Maynard said, tension apparent in his tones as he tried to appear calm and matter-of-fact. “These gentlemen are detectives. They want to check with you about yesterday.”
“O.K.” Ray leaned back in his swivel chair and lit a cigar that he had requisitioned from Russ’s box. “Come in and sit down, boys. Maynard, bring another chair in with you. You’ll have to sit in the doorway.”
; The detectives squeezed into the chairs flanking Ray’s desk, and Fancy helped place a chair for Maynard. The room was very crowded. “Silvia,” Ray called. “Go down and get me some coffee.” He looked at his callers. “How about some coffee or coke?”
They refused, and Silvia went out. It didn’t matter to Ray whether they were thirsty or not—he wanted to get rid of Silvia until he found out the pertinent details. The man to his left, a mild-mannered, brown-faced lad who looked as if he should have been running a drugstore, reached over and put his hat on the coat tree. “Mister Hitchcock,” he said, “my name’s Doyle. That’s Cohen over there. We’d like to hear what happened when Whitehall and Maynard called on you yesterday.”
Ray shook hands, brushed off the proffered credentials, and said: “That was yesterday evening. They must have left here about six-thirty.”
“Yes,” Doyle said. “That’s what Mister Maynard told us.”
Ray puffed on his cigar as his brain worked swiftly, weighing his position. They couldn’t think they were on too hot a trail, or they would have questioned him alone, trying to cross up his story with that told by Maynard. On the other hand, what had Maynard told them? If the fool had tried to lie, Ray’s story wouldn’t match and there’d be one hell of a mess. He glanced at Maynard. The guy wouldn’t have the guts to lie. The events of the past two days had sapped his courage and he would have talked as if he had received an old fashioned third degree.
Ray said: “They got here sometime after five. We were talking business and Whitehall and I had a disagreement. I slapped him down. We settled it, and parted friends.”
Doyle nodded. “That’s what Mister Maynard said. Mind telling us something about the argument?”
“Well—it was a private matter. A business problem.”
“You must have been pretty angry with him.”
“He suggested what amounted to double-crossing a client. I objected.”
Ray watched Maynard. If that crumb bum had involved Russcorp in this, he’d bat his ears off just as soon as it was safe to start swinging. Doyle almost read his mind. “Mister Maynard said that you are all connected with Russcorp in one way or another. Did the argument concern them?”
So Maynard hadn’t talked too much! Ray felt pleased, the guy wasn’t all jelly. “Yes,” he said frankly, “but it wasn’t so serious when you look at it in the light of day.” He looked down, almost humbly. “I’m sorry about Whitehall. Sorry I lost my temper, in view of what’s happened.”
Doyle nodded soberly. “Yes, you can’t make it up to him now.”
“How did it happen? I suppose it will be in the papers, anyway.”
“He was found at the bottom of an air-shaft. He died about two or three this morning, but he wasn’t found until noon.”
“Is it definitely murder?”
“Well, it could have been suicide, but there were signs of a brief struggle. And none of the usual suicide preparations. We’ll know more when the technical men give us their report.”
Ray suddenly thought, this is too easy! Doyle was telling him everything he asked, while Cohen seemed bored by the proceedings. Watch yourself, boy! He sighed sorrowfully, waiting for the next remark. It came right across the plate. “Would you mind telling us,” Doyle asked casually, “where you were last night? Just a formality so that we can check on all possibilities.”
“Certainly. I ate and had a drink in a bar and grill, reached my hotel about one, and turned in. Mister Peller met me there.” He called, “Francois. Will you confirm the time I went to bed last night?”
Fancy came and stood behind Maynard, trying to look surprised, as if he had not been listening to every word. “Yes. You came in about one. Went right to bed.”
Doyle turned to look at him. “You share an apartment.”
“Yes.” Ray was glad Fancy hadn’t told him they shared a room in a broken-down cheap hotel.
Doyle turned around, his face expressionless. “Thank you. What was the name of the bar and grill?”
Ray thought frantically—what was the name of that gin mill? He hadn’t noticed, the pink smears of neon had guided him in, and he had left in the gray haze of alcohol. He said: “I don’t know. But I’ll find it. I just walked out of here and up Fourth Avenue and found a place to eat.”
Doyle nodded again, looking at him seriously, without menace, but more dangerous in his silent contemplation than if he had made an accusation. Ray knew what he was thinking—a man could build up a nice alibi given time and the chance to contact some friends or pay off a witness or two.
The silence was uncomfortable. “Well,” Ray said, “I guess that sounds weak, but didn’t you ever just turn into a joint, have a sandwich and a beer, and go out without noticing its name?”
“Sure,” Doyle agreed. “Let’s take a walk over and find this place.”
“I’m pretty busy,” Ray objected. “I don’t want to seem uncooperative—but if Whitehall died after I was in bed, I don’t see that I have to account for the whole evening.”
“Just a matter of routine,” Doyle said. “You’re an intelligent man. You know how we have to work on these things. More or less follow a pattern, or the boss will want to know why and why not.”
Ray almost relaxed. Then he saw the tiny bulge at the corner of Doyle’s pleasant mouth—the man used the same muscles to control his features that Ray had noticed in his own face when he practiced in front of the mirror. Ray called it give the darlings plenty of rope, they’ll get to the hook in time. An expression of earnest sincerity. Damn it! Why had he felt so depressed last night? Why hadn’t he just gone along with Fancy to dinner and to bed? Of course, the bartender and Agnes would back him up. She’d remember how she picked him up, with the old give me a light routine. Light! Matches! Advertising! Don’t forget to tell ‘em your name on the cover and inside.
He stood up suddenly, reached for the gray sharkskin on its hanger, and sat down with the coat across his lap. He searched the pockets, found a glossy finished packet of matches that screamed in bright red type on a black background Wilner’s Bar—The Friendly Place.
He grinned at the others and tossed the match-cover in front of Doyle. “I oughta be a detective,” he said. “The bartender and a regular named Agnes will remember me. I had quite a talk with her, left a fifty-cent tip.”
Doyle smiled with his mouth as he picked up the bit of cardboard. “How about that? I’ll have to take some lessons. Do you happen to have a picture of yourself handy, Mister Hitchcock?”
“Oh, hell,” Ray said, making it strong with annoyance. “I’ll run over there with you.”
Doyle stood up. “Oh, I guess that won’t be necessary. We’ll be running along. Want a ride back uptown, Mister Maynard?”
Ray said: “As long as you’re down here, Ralph, how about sticking around and going over some of that stuff we were going to do in the morning?”
Maynard looked humbly at his new employer. “Certainly, Ray.”
Doyle and Cohen said good-by and went out. Silvia came in as they left, and Ray looked at her sharply. Had she waited outside for them to leave? Perhaps this svelte little brunette had more savvy than he realized. He smiled at her as she placed the container on his desk, arranged the lumps of sugar and the wooden spoon carefully on the paper napkin. “Honey,” he said. “I think you knew I sent you out to get rid of you, and you waited until they left before coming in. Right?”
She glanced down, trailing her fingers across the desk in a soft, shy gesture. “Yes. I—it was crowded anyway. I knew you wanted to be—alone.”
“Good girl,” he said heartily. Bring it out in the open. Honesty is the best policy! “You’re a good diplomat, and I did really want the coffee.”
She smiled gratefully, pleased, because she expected a reprimand or a scolding from this man who could almost read her mind. “Thank you,” she said quietly, and went back to her desk.
Ray peeled paper from the lumps of sugar. “Sit down, Maynard. We’ve got some things to discuss.”<
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Maynard advanced the few steps necessary to reach the chair at Ray’s left, sat down warily, as if he expected Ray to spring at him any moment. “I want you to make up a list for me,” Ray told him. “Put down the names and addresses of all the men you do business with for Russcorp. Put a small x beside those you have personal arrangements with.”
“Personal arrangements?”
“Don’t play dumb. I mean the ones who kick back.”
“Oh.” Maynard squirmed uncomfortably. He was a self-deluded man, and salesmen always handled him delicately. The money in an envelope—the gifts and theater tickets and vacation tours paid in advance—a discreet reference to “your commission”—were his false fronts, carefully recognized by the men who bribed him. It helped him to rationalize matters which conflicted with the inflexible spot in his conscience. “I can’t make up a list like that from memory. You can find them in my address book at the office. And my secretary has a card file.”
Ray stared at him. “You damn fool! You mean you kept the stuff in writing!”
“Yes—but, er, not the ones who, ah—have an agreement.”
Ray sighed with relief. “Well—you can write down the ones with whom you make private deals. There aren’t so many of them that you need your book, are there?”
“No,” Maynard admitted. “I can list them.”
“O.K.” Ray handed him paper and a pencil. “Write ‘em down. Then make notes on projects that are outstanding, need immediate attention.”
Maynard fiddled with the pencil. “I was worried about those. There are a lot. Couldn’t we arrange it somehow so that I could get back into my office? So that I could keep an eye on important projects, at least until they are carried out?”
“No,” Ray answered firmly. “You aren’t worrying so much about business details as you are about getting yourself back into your slot, figuring a way to get back aboard the gravy train. Now let me tell you something . . .” He leaned forward, stared hard into Maynard’s sullen, worried face. “You don’t understand the men you are dealing with. You think they are just ignorant racketeers going straight. Sort of freewheeling businessmen. Get this through your head. After what’s happened they’ll hate you forever. They’ll never forget, because they fear you. You can’t harm them too much, but any is too much with them. If it wasn’t for me, I think you’d be on Whitehall’s slab in the morgue right now!”
The Heel Page 9