by Lee Harris
“Come with me.”
She was fortyish, thick in the middle, had dark hair she had forgotten to brush for several days, and she was dressed in a black skirt and blouse of an unidentifiable fabric that did nothing to enhance her looks, but she didn’t seem to care. She never introduced herself, just started to walk briskly, and I followed because I had been promised fifteen minutes of someone’s time and I didn’t want to waste any of it walking.
Jewell had the other corner office and he was on the phone when we got there. The woman stood in the doorway till he hung up, then said, “This is Christine Bennett.”
“Thanks, Wormy,” Mr. Jewell said with a sincere smile. “Come on in.” As I entered, he turned back to her. “You take care of that Goodman thing, OK?”
There was no acknowledgment, but I assumed her silence meant she was about to do some taking care of.
“Please sit down, Miss Bennett. Can I take your coat?” He rushed to make me comfortable.
As surprised as I had been to see Arlene Hopkins in her pin-striped suit and hair, I was equally surprised to see Martin Jewell. He looked as informal as his partner was formal, wearing a tieless white shirt and no jacket, the sleeves rolled up a couple of turns. He had a round face that at rest looked cordial and relaxed, ready to spring a joke on a willing listener.
“I understand you’re looking into Natalie’s disappearance.”
“That’s right. I’m not a professional, but I’ve had some experience, and her husband asked me if I’d try to find out what happened to her.”
“It was shocking,” he said. “She was crazy about him. You couldn’t talk to her five minutes without hearing Sandy this and Sandy that. I don’t know how she could have done it.”
“Done what?”
He looked a little confused. “Walked away from him like that.”
“Why do you think she did?”
He shrugged. He was sitting behind his desk again, a desk as cluttered as his partner’s was empty. “What else could have happened? I heard they went to the Thanksgiving Day parade and she walked away.”
“You think she just kept walking?”
“It’s not very likely someone grabbed her, is it?”
“It’s too soon for me to say what is and isn’t likely. Do you have any idea where she would have gone if she ran away?”
“Not a clue.”
“Do you know where she was from?”
“She was living in New York when she worked here. I couldn’t tell you whether she was a native or came from somewhere else. She didn’t sound like a New Yorker, but maybe she was from upstate.”
“Was she friendly with anyone in the office?”
“Uh, yes, there was someone. Susan, I think. Susan left before Natalie got married. I don’t know where she is now.”
“Susan Diggins,” I said.
“That’s the one.”
“Anyone else?”
“We all knew her. I just wouldn’t call anyone else a friend of hers, but I could be wrong. I don’t always know what goes on after hours.”
“What concerns me is that information from Natalie’s file seems to be missing.”
“Have you seen the file?”
“No. Arlene Hopkins told me.”
“What did she say happened to it?”
When someone starts asking me the questions, I get the feeling they’re checking out my source, perhaps trying to shape their own answers and not put themselves or anyone else on the spot. “Can you tell me what happened to those papers?”
“Which papers exactly?”
“Her references, her record of previous employment, her education. I would imagine you wouldn’t hire someone off the street if you were a new business with limited funds to throw around.”
He gave me a smile. “You know, that’s exactly what we did. We put a very clever ad in the Times—we did the ad ourselves—and we did the interviewing and we made all the decisions. We were pretty much our own personnel department, and to tell you the truth, in the old office, we kind of policed the grounds, too, if you know what I mean. We couldn’t afford a cleaning service, so it was do it yourself or live knee-high in dust.”
I don’t know why I liked him, but I did. He had managed for several minutes now not to answer my question, but there was something very appealing about his manner, as there was something very forbidding about Arlene Hopkins’s. “But she wrote to you applying for the job and she supplied you with references,” I said, not asking.
“I guess she must have.”
“And those papers are missing from her file.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to them, Mr. Jewell?”
“They disappeared a long time ago,” he said.
Finally. “How long ago?”
“Years.”
“Can you tell me the circumstances?”
“Wormy was—that’s Mrs. Wormholtz, who brought you in here—she was looking for something in the personnel files and she found Natalie’s almost empty. All the things you mentioned were gone.”
“So there had been records in the file.”
“There had been records.”
“Was Natalie working here at that time or had she left?”
“She was working here.”
“Did you talk to her about it?”
“Wormy did.”
“And?”
“And Natalie was upset.”
“Did she have any idea why someone would want to raid her file?”
“No idea at all.”
“Was anyone else’s file raided?”
“I think Wormy made a spot check and found things pretty much in order. She’s a great office manager and she really took it personally that her files were incomplete.”
“Did you ask Natalie to replace any of the missing papers?”
“Wormy probably asked her. I think she said she’d try to get copies, but I don’t think she ever did.”
“Was there evidence of a break-in before this happened?”
“We’ve never had a break-in.”
“Who interviewed Natalie before she came to work here?”
“I did. I told you, we—”
“I understand,” I said, sparing myself a repetition. “Only you?”
“She was going to be my secretary. Arlene didn’t have to approve. I’m sure Wormy talked to her, too.”
I hadn’t realized that Natalie had been Martin Jewell’s secretary. “Then Natalie worked only for you?”
“Listen, we opened in disarray and we progressed to chaos. Nominally she was my secretary, but she did work for anyone who needed her. Like Wormy. Natalie could do anything.”
“Did Arlene Hopkins have someone like that working for her?”
“She found someone, yeah.”
I was getting strange feelings of incomplete answers and withheld information. “Was Natalie still your secretary when she left to get married?”
“You know, our whole present structure is different. It’s evolved a lot from those early days. Natalie hadn’t been my private secretary for a long time and I don’t really have one now. We don’t need one anymore, now that we’ve got a whole pool of people.”
“Mr. Jewell, who do you think took those documents out of the file?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who had access to the personnel files?”
“All four of us did, Arlene, Natalie, Wormy, of course, and me. We were like charter members of a club.”
“So any of the four of you could have stolen those documents?”
“I guess so. Or someone hired later who got into Wormy’s office while she was out of it.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“Maybe there was something there someone didn’t want us to know.”
“Like what?”
“Like who she worked for before she came here, but don’t ask me why because I don’t know.”
“Or what high school she went to or where she used to live.”
>
“You can make it anything you want. I don’t know what was in that file. I looked at it once, maybe five years ago when I interviewed Natalie, and I never looked again.” He glanced at his watch and I knew I had used up my promised fifteen minutes, and then some.
I wrote my name, address, and phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to him.
“I know the drill,” he said. “If I think of anything, you’ll hear from me.”
“Would you mind if I talked to Mrs. Wormholtz?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t mind at all. She probably remembers a lot more than I do. I think she sends birthday cards to everyone who works here. Shall I call her?”
“I’d appreciate it.” I got up and took my coat off the hook while he telephoned. At least he was letting me talk to Wormy. Arlene Hopkins had done her best to keep us apart. It had to be Hopkins who had prevented me from talking to Wormy last Friday.
“She’s on her way.” He was on his feet, extending his hand. “Look, anything I can do to help, let me know. Natalie was one of us, we all liked her, it took three people to replace her, and we’d all like to know what happened to her.”
“I’ll keep you posted.”
There was a knock on the door and Wormy came in. “Right this way,” she said, sparing no extra syllables.
I followed.
11
Her office was windowless, perhaps to give her more wall space. It was not a place for a claustrophobic. Old-fashioned metal file cabinets stood side by side, effectively covering the walls from the floor to about five feet above it. On top of some lay stacks of unfiled folders; on others there were photographs and objects that looked like the handiwork of children. I sat in the single extra chair and Wormy plopped into her desk chair with a sigh.
“What can I tell you?” she said.
“When did you come to work for Hopkins and Jewell?”
“Am I on trial here?”
“No one’s on trial, Mrs. Wormholtz. I’m just trying to organize my information into a rough chronology.”
“My mother is a cousin of Marty Jewell’s mother. We’ve known each other all our lives. I had a lot of experience running business offices, and Marty convinced me to leave a very good job and come to work for him. I was reluctant, but he was very persuasive. I’ve never regretted it. I came to work the day they opened their agency.”
“So you were there when Natalie Miller came for her interview.”
“I set the interviews up. They advertised before they moved into their office. The responses went to a box number. I read them, discussed them with Arlene and Marty, and called the candidates to set up appointments.”
“Do you remember where Natalie was working when she applied for the job?”
“Somewhere in midtown. Maybe a law office, maybe another ad agency. I have a good memory, but frankly, that’s not the kind of thing that sticks.”
“Mr. Jewell said you interviewed Natalie. Do you remember doing that?”
“Very well. She came across as very personable, she had terrific references, she was willing to come in almost immediately, and what I liked about her most was that she said she couldn’t start tomorrow because she had work to clean up at the old job and she couldn’t leave them in the lurch. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but honorable still means something to me.”
It was the kind of comment that touched a sympathetic chord. “Was there a period of time that just the four of you worked for the agency?”
“Now that you mention it, yes, I think there was.”
“When did Arlene Hopkins get her own private secretary?”
“I did her secretarial work at the beginning. I told Marty I couldn’t do it for him because we knew each other so well. So he got Natalie, and Arlene got me. But we all did everything at the beginning. Arlene and Marty knew each other, they’d gotten a hefty account which was enough to get them going, but barely. They scrounged some used furniture, a typewriter, a box of number two pencils, and they opened up.”
“It must have been fun,” I said, some latent entrepreneurial spirit awakening in me.
“It was,” she said with the first hint of a smile. “Those were great days. Every time a new account came to us, we’d holler and scream. We’d go out to dinner and celebrate. There was a lot of good feeling that went around, a sense that we were all in on the beginning of something wonderful.”
“Is it possible that Arlene Hopkins removed the missing documents from Natalie’s file?” I asked, hoping she would give a little now that she was feeling nostalgic.
She looked troubled. “It’s possible,” she said, “but I can’t think why she would. When I say it’s possible I mean that she had a key to the office, she could have come in early, gone through the files, taken what she wanted, and been at her desk by the time anyone else arrived. Or she could have stayed late.”
“I assume everything you’ve said would apply to Mr. Jewell, too.”
“Every word. Applies to me, too, but I didn’t take anything.”
“But those cabinets must have been locked.”
“Miss Bennett, we were using hand-me-down every-things. There were locks with no keys, there were locks that didn’t work. We felt that what was important was our clients’ materials. We didn’t want anyone breaking in and stealing our business and our ideas. Who would want a secretary’s resumé? We saved the locks and keys for the stuff that had commercial value.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t Mr. Gordon’s detective who took those papers last year.”
“They were missing when Natalie was still here. That’s a couple of years ago. More. Those papers were missing a year or so after we opened up. I went to put her first evaluation in the file and I saw it was practically empty.”
“Who else had the key to the office?”
“I did.”
“And—?”
“Arlene and Marty.”
“No one else?”
“No one else was entitled. You can’t go giving out keys and hope to keep your office secure.”
“Did you check any of the references in Natalie’s file?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. She asked that I not call her present employer—that’s not unusual; people don’t want their bosses to know they’re looking for another job—so I called the one before that. I don’t remember who they were, but their reference was glowing.”
“Could Hopkins or Jewell have known Natalie’s employer or former employer? Could there have been something between them that would provide a reason to remove their existence from Natalie’s file?”
“You’re asking me what’s possible. Sure it’s possible. Lots of things are possible.”
She was right, of course. And if there was one item in the file someone didn’t want on record, it would be smart to remove other things so no one would know which piece of paper was the object of the search. “So you think the documents were taken about a year after the agency opened and Natalie started working here.”
“I didn’t say that. I said I discovered they were missing a year later. They weren’t files I checked very often. That stuff could have been taken the day after we hired her.”
“I see.” I hesitated a moment. “Do you get along well with Arlene Hopkins?”
“I get along the same with everyone. I do a spectacular job here as I’ve done in all my jobs. If I rub people the wrong way, they learn how to avoid me.”
It sounded a little evasive, but she was talking about her employer, and I sensed this was a woman with a strong sense of loyalty. “What about Martin Jewell?”
“I’ve known Marty all my life and there isn’t a straighter, more honest human being on the face of this earth.”
There didn’t seem to be any point in continuing that line of questioning, not with a woman for whom honorable meant something. “Are Hopkins and Jewell married?” I asked.
“What makes you ask that?”
Interesting answer. “Curiosity.”
“They’ve never marr
ied,” she said, a trifle nervously, I thought “I mean they haven’t married each other. Marty’s married to someone else.”
“But there’s something between them,” I suggested.
“Look, I’m here to answer questions about a missing woman and some missing papers, not about in-house sexual relationships. Ask Arlene if you want an answer to that.”
“It’s not the kind of question I can ask her, and besides, we didn’t hit it off. Arlene tried to prevent me from speaking to you last Friday.”
“Then ask Marty.” She looked at her watch. “Is there anything else I can help you with? I have a full day’s work ahead of me and only half a day to do it in.”
“One last question. You said on the phone yesterday that you knew who took the papers. Who do you think that was?”
“I said I had an opinion. I don’t know anything for sure.” She got out of her chair and went to the most battered of the file cabinets, opened a drawer and pulled out a folder. “This is Natalie’s personnel file.”
I took it from her and looked inside. There was a sheet of paper dated about five years ago with notes written in ballpoint ink and signed MJ, phrases with opinions he must have jotted down during his initial interview with Natalie. Following that was a typed sheet with similar comments by EW. There was nothing from Hopkins, but there were three evaluation forms with comments by all three of the charter members of Hopkins and Jewell, good comments for the most part. The skimpiest were from Hopkins, the most detailed from Jewell. On the last one, done not long before Natalie left to be married, Hopkins noted that Natalie spent too much time on the phone. There was nothing else in the folder.
“Thank you very much for your candidness,” I said, handing the folder back to her.
Then I left.
12
I stopped in the downstairs lobby and opened my subway map. I had checked the address of my father’s office over the weekend and it hadn’t changed. It was still in downtown Manhattan and I could pick up a train a couple of blocks from where I was to get there. I buttoned up and went out into the cold.
If the photographs had stirred up my emotions, approaching the place where my father had worked most of his adult life nearly made them explode. Much of downtown Manhattan has changed little since the turn of the century. Some old factories and warehouses have been torn down or converted to fashionable living quarters or have become artists’ lofts, but this one was just as I remembered it, old, brick, solid, dirty, windows cracked or even boarded up. I had visited only a few times as a child, brought by my mother for occasions like a Christmas party or by my father once in a while, just to show me off. I had been treated like royalty, admired, complimented, hugged, and patted. Chocolates had materialized, cookies had been sent for. My father had glowed and my natural shyness had eventually given way to a feeling of comfort. I remember always going home with stories for my mother about this one and that one, sharing my cookies with her, telling her how everyone had liked my dress.