McLove had moved to the executive floor soon after the forty-year-old boy genius of Wall Street had seized control of Jupiter Steel in a proxy battle that had split stockholders into armed camps. On the day Billy Calm first walked through the marble lobby to take command of his newest acquisition, a disgruntled shareholder named Raimey had shot his hat off, and actually managed to get off a second shot before being overpowered. From that day on, Billy Calm used the private elevator at the rear of the building, and McLove supervised security from the twenty-first floor.
It was a thankless task that amounted to little more than being a sometime bodyguard for Calm. His duties, in the main, consisted of keeping Calm’s private elevator in working order, attending directors’ meetings with the air of a reluctant outsider, supervising the security forces at the far-flung Jupiter mills, and helping with arrangements for Calm’s numerous public appearances. For this he was paid fifteen thousand dollars a year, which was the principal reason he did it.
On the twenty-first floor, this morning, Margaret Mason was already at her desk outside the directors’ room. She looked up as McLove stepped into the office and flashed him their private smile. “How are you, McLove?”
“Morning, Margaret. Billy in yet?”
“Mr. Calm? Not yet. He’s flying in from Pittsburgh. Should be here any time now.”
McLove glanced at his watch. He knew the directors’ meeting was scheduled for ten, and that was only twenty minutes away. “Heard anything?” he asked, knowing that Margaret Mason was the best source of information on the entire floor. She knew everything and would tell you most of it, provided it didn’t concern herself.
Now she nodded and bent forward a bit across the desk. “Mr. Calm phoned from his plane and talked with Jason Greene. The merger is going through. He’ll announce it officially at the meeting this morning.”
“That’ll make some people around here mighty sad.” McLove was thinking of W. T. Knox and Sam Hamilton, two directors who had opposed the merger talk from the very beginning. Only twenty-four hours earlier, before Billy Calm’s rush flight to Pittsburgh in his private plane, it had appeared that their efforts would be successful.
“They should know better than to buck Mr. Calm,” Margaret said.
“I suppose so.” McLove glanced at his watch again. For some reason he was getting nervous. “Say, how about lunch, if we get out of the meeting in time?”
“Fine.” She gave him the small smile again. “You’re the only one I feel safe drinking with at noon.”
“Be back in a few minutes.”
“I’ll buzz you if Mr. Calm gets in.”
He glanced at the closed doors of the private elevator and nodded. Then he walked down the hall to his own office once more. He got a pack of cigarettes from his desk and went across the hall to W. T. Knox’s office.
“Morning, W. T. What’s new?”
The tall man looked up from a file folder he’d been studying. Thirty-seven, a man who had retained most of his youthful good looks and all of his charm, Knox was popular with the girls on twenty-one. He’d probably have been more popular if he hadn’t had a pregnant wife and five children of varying ages.
“McLove, look at this weather!” He gestured toward the window, where a curtain of fog still hung. “Every winter I say I’ll move to Florida, and every winter the wife talks me into staying.”
Jason Greene, balding and ultra-efficient, joined them with a sheaf of reports. “Billy should be in at any moment. He phoned me to say the merger had gone through.”
Knox dropped his eyes. “I heard.”
“When the word gets outs, Jupiter stock will jump another ten points.”
McLove could almost feel the tension between the two men; one gloating, and the other bitter. He walked to the window and stared out at the fog, trying to see the invisible building across the street. Below, he could not even make out the setback of their own building, though it was only two floors lower. Fog … well, at least it meant that spring was on the way.
Then there was a third voice behind him, and he knew without turning that it belonged to Shirley Taggert, the president’s personal secretary. “It’s almost time for the board meeting,” she said, with that hint of a southern drawl that either attracted or repelled but left no middle ground. “You people ready?”
Shirley was grim-faced but far from ugly. She was a bit younger than Margaret Mason’s mid-thirties, a bit sharper of dress and mind. But she paid the penalty for being Billy Calm’s secretary every time she walked down the halls. Conversations ceased, suspicious glances followed her, and there was always a half-hidden air of tension at her arrival. She ate lunch alone, and one or two fellows who had been brave enough to ask her for a date hadn’t bothered to ask a second time.
“We’re ready,” Jason Greene told her. “Is he here yet?”
She shook her head and glanced at the clock. “He should be in any minute.”
McLove left them grouped around Knox’s desk and walked back down the hall. Sam Hamilton, the joker, passed him on the way and stopped to tell him a quick gag. He, at least, didn’t seem awfully upset about the impending merger, even though he had opposed it. McLove liked Sam better than any of the other directors, probably because at the age of fifty he was still a big kid at heart. You could meet him on even ground and, at times, feel he was letting you outdo him.
“Anything yet?” McLove asked Margaret, returning to her desk outside the directors’ room.
“No sign of Mr. Calm, but he shouldn’t be long now. It’s just about ten.”
McLove glanced at the closed door of Billy Calm’s office, next to the directors’ room, and then entered the latter. The room was quite plain, with only the one door through which he had entered, and unbroken walls of dull oak paneling on either wall. The far end of the room, with two wide windows looking out at the fog, was only twenty feet away, and the conference table that was the room’s only piece of furniture had just the eight necessary chairs grouped around it. Some had been heard to complain that the room lacked the stature of Jupiter Steel, but Billy Calm contended he liked the forced intimacy of it.
Now, as McLove stood looking out the windows, the whole place seemed to reflect the cold mechanization of the modern office building. The windows could not be opened. Even their cleaning had to be done from the outside, on a gondola-like platform that climbed up and down the sheer glass walls. There were no windowsills, and McLove’s fingers ran unconsciously along the bottom of the window frame as he stood staring out. The fog might be lifting a little, but he couldn’t be certain.
McLove went out to Margaret Mason’s desk, saw that she was gathering together her copy books and pencils for the meeting, and decided to take a glance into Billy Calm’s office. It was the same size as the directors’ room and almost as plain in its furnishings. Only the desk, cluttered with the trivia of a businessman’s lifetime, gave proof of human occupancy. On the left wall still hung the faded portrait of the firm’s founder, and on the right, a more recent photograph of Israel Black, former president of Jupiter, and still a director though he never came to the meetings. This was Billy Calm’s domain. From here he ruled a vast empire of holdings, and a word from him could send men to their financial ruin.
McLove straightened suddenly on hearing a man’s muffled voice at Margaret’s desk outside. He heard her ask, “What’s the matter?” and then heard the door of the directors’ room open. Hurrying back to her desk, he was just in time to see the door closing again.
“Is he finally here?”
Margaret, unaccountably white-faced, opened her mouth to answer, just as there came the tinkling crash of a breaking window from the inner room. They both heard it clearly, and she dropped the cigarette she’d been in the act of lighting. “Billy!” she screamed out. “No, Billy!”
They were at the door together after only an instant’s hesitation, pushing it open before them, hurrying into the directors’ room. “No,” McLove said softly, staring straight ah
ead at the empty room and the long table and the shattered window in the opposite wall. “He jumped.” Already the fog seemed to be filling the room with its damp mists as they hurried to the window and peered out at nothing.
“Billy jumped,” Margaret said dully, as if unable to comprehend the fact. “He killed himself.”
McLove turned and saw Knox standing in the doorway. Behind him, Greene and Hamilton and Shirley Taggert were coming up fast. “Billy Calm just jumped out of the window,” McLove told them.
“No,” Margaret Mason said, turning from the window. “No, no, no, no …” Then, suddenly overcome with the shock of it, she tumbled to the floor in a dead faint.
“Take care of her,” McLove shouted to the others. “I’ve got to get downstairs.”
Knox bent to lift the girl in his arms, while Sam Hamilton hurried to the telephone. Shirley had settled into one of the padded directors’ chairs, her face devoid of all expression. And Jason Greene, loyal to the end, actually seemed to be crying.
In the hallway, McLove pushed the button of Billy Calm’s private elevator and waited for it to rise from the depths of the building. The little man would have no further use for it now. He rode it down alone, leaning against its padded walls, listening to, but hardly hearing, the dreary hum of its descent. In another two minutes he was on the street, looking for the crowd that would surely be gathered, listening for the sounds of rising sirens.
But there was nothing. Nothing but the usual mid-morning traffic. Nothing but hurrying pedestrians and a gang of workmen drilling at the concrete and a policeman dully directing traffic.
There was no body.
McLove hurried over to the police officer. “A man just jumped out of the Jupiter Steel building,” he said. “What happened to him?”
The policeman wrinkled his brow. “Jumped? From where?”
“Twenty-first floor. Right above us.”
They both gazed upward into the gradually lifting fog. The police officer shrugged his shoulders. “Mister, I been standing in this very spot for more than an hour. Nobody jumped from up there.”
“But …” McLove continued staring into the fog. “But he did jump. I practically saw him do it. And if he’s not down here, where is he?”
Back on twenty-one, McLove found the place in a state somewhere between sheer shock and calm confusion. People were hurrying without purpose in every direction, bent on their own little useless errands. Sam Hamilton was on the phone to his broker’s, trying to get the latest quotation on Jupiter stock. “The bottom’ll drop out of it when this news hits,” he confided to McLove. “With Billy gone, the merger won’t go through.”
McLove lit a cigarette. “Billy Calm is gone, all right, but he’s not down there. He vanished somewhere between the twenty-first floor and the street.”
“What?”
W. T. Knox joined them, helping a pale but steady Margaret Mason by the arm. “She’ll be all right,” he said. “It was the shock.”
McLove reached out his hand to her. “Tell us exactly what happened. Every word of it.”
“Well …” She hesitated and then sat down. Behind her, Hamilton and Shirley Taggert were deep in animated conversation, and Jason Greene had appeared from somewhere with a policeman in tow.
“You were at the desk,” McLove began, helping her. “And I came out of the directors’ room and went into Billy’s office. Then what?”
“Well, Mr. Calm came in, and as he passed my desk he mumbled something. I didn’t catch it, and I asked him what was the matter. He seemed awfully upset about something. Anyway, he passed my desk and went into the directors’ room. He was just closing the door when you came out, and you know the rest.”
McLove nodded. He knew the rest, which was nothing but the shattered window and the vanished man. “Well, the body’s not down there,” he told them again. “It’s not anywhere. Billy Calm dived through that window and flew away.”
Shirley passed Hamilton a telephone she had just answered. “Yes?” He listened a moment and then hung up. “The news about Billy went out over the stock ticker. Jupiter Steel is selling off fast. It’s already down three points.”
“Goodbye merger,” Knox said, and though his face was grim, his voice was not.
A detective arrived on the scene to join the police officer. Quickly summoned workmen were tacking cardboard over the smashed window, carefully removing some of the jagged splinters of glass from the bottom of the frame. Things were settling down a little, and the police were starting to ask questions.
“Mr. McLove, you’re in charge of security for the company?”
“That’s right.”
“Why was it necessary to have a security man sit in on directors’ meetings?”
“Some nut tried to kill Billy Calm awhile back. He was still nervous. Private elevator and all.”
“What was the nut’s name?”
“Raimey, I think. Something like that. Don’t know where he is now.”
“And who was usually present at these meetings? I see eight chairs in there.”
“Calm, and three vice presidents; Greene, Knox, and Hamilton. Also Calm’s secretary, Miss Taggert, and Miss Mason, who kept the minutes of the meeting. The seventh chair is mine, and the eighth one is kept for Mr. Black, who never comes down for the meetings anymore.”
“There was resentment between Calm and Black?”
“A bit. You trying to make a mystery out of this?”
The detective shrugged. “Looks like pretty much of a mystery already.”
And McLove had to admit that it did.
He spent an hour with the police, both upstairs and down in the street. When they finally left just before noon, he went looking for Margaret Mason. She was back at her desk, surprisingly, looking as if nothing in the world had happened.
“How about lunch?” he said. “Maybe a martini would calm your nerves.”
“I’m all right now, thanks. The offer sounds good, but you’ve got a date.” She passed him an interoffice memo. It was signed by William T. Knox, and it requested McLove’s presence in his office at noon.
“I suppose I have to tell them what I know.”
“Which is?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. All I know is a dozen different things that couldn’t have happened to Calm. I’ll try to get out of there is soon as I can. Will you wait for me? Till one, anyway?” he asked.
“Sure. Good luck.”
He returned her smile, then went down the long hallway to Knox’s office. It wasn’t surprising to find Hamilton and Greene already there, and he settled down in the remaining chair feeling himself the center of attraction.
“Well?” Knox asked. “Where is he?”
“Gentlemen, I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“He’s dead, of course,” Jason Greene spoke up.
“Probably,” McLove agreed. “But where’s the body?”
Hamilton rubbed his fingers together in a nervous gesture. “That’s what we have to find out. My phone has been ringing for an hour. The brokers are going wild, to say nothing of Pittsburgh!”
McLove nodded. “I gather the merger stands or falls on Billy Calm.”
“Right! If he’s dead, it’s dead.”
Jason Greene spoke again. “Billy Calm was a great man, and I’d be the last person in the world to try to sink the merger for which he worked so hard. But he’s dead, all right. And there’s just one place the body could have gone.”
“Where’s that?” Knox asked.
“It landed on a passing truck or something like that, of course.”
Hamilton’s eyes widened. “Sure!” he remarked sarcastically.
But McLove reluctantly shook his head. “That was the first thought the police had. We checked it out and it couldn’t have happened. This building is set back from the street; it has to be, on account of this sheer glass wall. I doubt if a falling body could hit the street, and even if it did, the traffic lane on this side is torn up for repairs. And ther
e’s been a policeman on duty there all morning. The body didn’t land on the sidewalk or the street, and no truck or car passed anywhere near enough.”
W. T. Knox blinked and ran a hand through his thinning, but still wavy, hair. “If he didn’t go down, where did he go? Up?”
“Maybe he never jumped,” Hamilton suggested. “Maybe Margaret made the whole thing up.”
McLove wondered at his words, wondered if Margaret had been objecting to some of his jokes again. “You forget that I was out there with her. I saw her face when that window smashed. The best actress in the world couldn’t have faked that expression. Besides, I saw him go in—or at least I saw the door closing after him. It couldn’t close by itself.”
“And the room was empty when you two entered it a moment later,” Knox said. “Therefore Billy must have gone through the window. We have to face the fact. He couldn’t have been hiding under the table.”
“If he didn’t go down,” Sam Hamilton said, “he went up! By a rope to the roof or another window.”
But once more McLove shook his head. “You’re forgetting that none of the windows can be opened. And it’s a long way up to the roof. The police checked it though. They found nothing but an unmarked sea of melting snow and slush. Not a footprint, just a few pigeon tracks.”
Jason Greene frowned across the desk. “But he didn’t go down, up, or sideways, and he didn’t stay in the room.”
McLove wondered if he should tell them his idea, or wait until later. He decided now was as good a time as any. “Suppose he did jump, and something caught him on the way down. Suppose he’s hanging there now, hidden by the fog.”
“A flagpole? Something like that?”
“But there aren’t any,” Knox protested. “There’s nothing but a smooth glass wall.”
“There’s one thing,” McLove reminded them, looking around desk at their expectant faces. “The thing they use to wash the windows.”
Jason Greene walked to the window. “We can find out easily enough. The sun has just about burned the fog away.”
Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense Page 11