The Silent Salesman

by Michael Z. Lewin

  She left me and I thought about what I’d come to do.

  The secretary was smiling when she came back. “He’ll see you now,” she said.

  “I told you I was important.”

  “Yeah. I’m impressed.”

  I went to see Dundree.

  In his own office he abandoned the lab jacket in favor of a self- important three-piece item. He was standing when I came in, but not very cheerful. “I thought we’d settled this business yesterday,” he said.

  “I told you I’d report back to my client.”

  “Who is?”

  “Pighee’s sister.” He nodded slowly and sat down. I sat and faced him. “And she’s not very satisfied.”

  “But why not?”

  “We’ve consulted some medical people of our own. We can find no medical reason, based on what you tell us of Pighee’s condition, for the exclusion of visitors. Even if they would become bored sitting around watching him not wake up. In our opinion that means your clinic’s exclusion of visitors can mean one of two things.”

  “Which are?”

  “Either you are excluding visitors arbitrarily and for no compelling reasons . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Or there is some reason for excluding visitors which you haven’t told us. Either way, we’re not going to let it drop.”

  “What exactly do you intend to do?”

  “Go to the press and simultaneously file a writ of habeas corpus.”

  “What!” The idea astounded him.

  I didn’t repeat it. He’d heard well enough.

  “This seems,” he said, at length, “to be getting blown out of all proportion.”

  “Like John Pighee did,” I said.

  “Well, an unfortunate choice of words. But you—your client seems to be getting things out of balance. It can’t be an easy time or situation for her, and let me say that we at Loftus deeply regret any injury that occurs on our premises or to our personnel at any time. The more so an injury which seems to be so severe as this one.”

  “You’ll let her visit him?”

  He threw up his hands. “That,” he said, “is not up to me. That’s what we dealt with yesterday.”

  “You’re not going to try to tell me you have no influence over Dr. Merom’s decision whether to allow visitors at John Pighee’s bedside, are you? If you wanted to exert some influence, you perfectly well could.”

  “Well,” he said, “I suppose I could have a word with Dr. Merom.”

  “If you don’t want to see Loftus’s name in the papers, please do.”

  “But the decision, the final decision, must be hers.”

  “See you in court,” I said mildly.

  “It strikes me that suggestion is rather excessive.”

  “From your point of view, but not necessarily from Pighee’s sister’s.”

  “I’ll have a word with Dr. Merom today,” he said. “And if she should reconsider her position because of the strong feeling of Mr. Pighee’s sister, I’ll . . .” He hesitated. “Would you give me his sister’s name and address, so that on behalf of the company I could contact her direct? As a company, we like to think that we make the best decisions for our people, but when we do make a mistake, we like to admit it personally. If that’s the way it works out, we will of course fully acknowledge your part in bringing the situation to our notice.”

  I gave him Mrs. Thomas’s name and address. Since he could have got it with a phone call to Linn Pighee.

  After I left Dundree’s building, I hesitated before going to the lot to pick up my panel truck. Then had a look around for a building with P. Henry Rush’s name on it. I ended up asking and got directed to the secretary who controlled access to directional space. She eyed me coldly. “No appointment?”

  “No. But it’s about a man named Pighee, who had an accident on company premises.”

  She called Rush’s secretary for me. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Mr. Rush is out of the state at the moment and not available.”

  I left my card, John Pighee’s name written on the back. She swore she’d pass it on to Rush’s secretary at the earliest possible opportunity.

  Chapter Eleven

  “There weren’t any phone calls, Daddy, and nobody came to the office. Is Friday morning usually like that? Businesswise.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It usually is.”

  “I spent the morning getting settled in,” Sam said, “but I didn’t really expect it to be as . . . quiet.”

  “Bored, were you?”

  “Well, a little. But it may be bus lag.”

  “It’s a boring business,” I said.

  “At least you were out. I just hung around here and cleared things up. And I found this.” She pushed forward my tin money box. “Unlocked! And with nine hundred and thirty-eight dollars in it!”

  “Oh.” I pretended worry. “Has someone taken the picture?” I looked. My woman was still all there.

  She raised her eyebrows and put it back on the desk where I’d left it.

  “You don’t have to stay in all the time, you know.”

  “You mean now I’m an employee I can come along with you?”

  “Well, that’s not exactly what I meant. I have an answering service. You don’t have to stay in and worry about messages and that kind of thing. As long as the inner door is locked. You can go out, shopping, or whatever you want to do.”

  “But I can come with you?”

  “Sometimes. It depends.”

  “What did you do this morning?”

  “I gave a drug company executive a lesson in motivational technique.”

  “You what?”

  “I had a problem, on behalf of a client, which he could solve if he wanted to. So my job being to solve the problem, it became making him want to solve it.”

  “And did you?”

  “I think so. I tried to suggest it would be more trouble for him if he didn’t do what we wanted than if he made the effort and did.”

  “And he did?”

  “He will.”

  “And how would you have bothered him?”

  “I threatened him with a nuisance lawsuit and with going to the papers.”

  “That sounds great!”

  “So now he has a word with somebody, and everything is all right.”

  “Is that what I should learn first about being a private detective? Keep after people to bother them?”

  “Well,” I said. “Well, it comes up pretty often.”

  “What should I learn first, Daddy?”

  “If there was any one thing,” I said, “I think it would be that you should check your facts. If you have any way of confirming things people tell you, do it. Before you draw any kind of conclusion.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Well, now you tell me how you put it all into practice on the case you’re working on.”

  “Doesn’t your mother tell you to say ‘please’?”

  “Do all your employees have to say ‘please’?”

  “Yes.” Never having had one before.

  “Please.”

  As I looked for things to turn into lunch, I told her how I’d worked myself out of a job for Mrs. Thomas. Because there wasn’t much food in, we decided to go shopping. And I explained the technique required for getting supermarket check-out people to take cents-off coupons for things you haven’t bought. It’s worth a buck or two each time it works.

  “But I’ve got plenty of money. Daddy.”

  “Well, if you’re going to be like that,” I said.

  The phone rang. Sam went for it immediately. “Albert Samson Detective Agency,” she said. “May I help you?” Then, “It’s for you, Daddy.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Who is it, please?” Pause. “It’s a Mr. Rush?”

  “Rush?”

  “Was that Mr. Rush?” she asked. “Yes, Mr. Rush,” she said. I took it.

  “Mr. Samson?” A forceful voice with a slight drawl. He sounded tall and as if he wore a white ten-ga
llon hat. “I understand you wanted to see me this morning about our John Pighee.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Rush. How was your trip?”

  “Trip?”

  “Your secretary’s secretary said you were out of the state. How are things out of the state?”

  “Just fine, just fine. Got back earlier than expected. I found your message when I returned. I felt obligated to call to ask what your interest in poor John was, and what you wanted to see me about.”

  “I’ve been hired,” I said, “to find out what happened to him.”

  “Well, he had an accident. Most unfortunate accident.”

  “So it would appear,” I said, “but there are a number of outstanding questions.”

  “Are there,” he said, but not quite as a question.

  “I presume you are a busy man, Mr. Rush, but . . .”

  “I can see you now,” he said. “I can omit my lunch, if what you’re concerned about is important.”

  “It’s important to my client.”

  “When can you be here?”

  “A few minutes. I’m in town.”

  “I have your address,” he said coolly.

  “Would you like me to bring you a sandwich?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said.

  “Can I come?” Sam asked when I hung up.

  “Not in with me when I see the man,” I said. She took it as fact. Which was just as well, because it was. For some reason, John Pighee’s name on the back of my card—I couldn’t believe it was mine on the front—had made a Loftus company director call me, and without much delay.

  It was only polite that I should get over to him without delay, and I did. Sam stayed in the van.

  I got quick escort services from both secretaries and was in P. Henry Rush’s office before I caught my breath.

  “Mr. Samson,” he said, and came forward from his window with a hand extended. He was a well-kept sixty-year-old of medium height and build. He wore a dark blue suit, which went well with his pink complexion and white hair. He sat me down in one of a pair of chairs away from his desk. The chairs faced one another over a small table, which supported a potted philodendron. A half¬size standard American flag stood beside the table, but far enough to the side that it didn’t obscure our view of each other.

  “John Pighee,” he said. “What exactly has he got to do with you?”

  “I’ve been hired by a party who has a humanitarian and family interest.”

  “I see,” he said slowly.

  “Let me put my question this way,” I began. “Has there ever been an insurance investigation of the circumstances of John Pighee’s accident? I get the impression there hasn’t.”

  “How do you get that impression?”

  “I’ve been mistaken for an insurance investigator, and no one I’ve talked to has mentioned the existence of a real insurance report.”

  “There was a report, based on a thorough study of the circumstances by our Chief Research Administrator, Dr. Jay Dundree.”

  “I’ve talked to Dundree. He didn’t mention a report.”

  “Did you ask him about it?”

  “Not specifically. But he’s been very cagey about just what happened to John Pighee. He had an ‘accident’; he was ‘in an explosion.’ Those are not explanations. And now you say there was no independent investigation of what happened.”

  “Dr. Dundree’s report was complete, thorough, and professional, I can assure you. And the insurance company accepted it without question or further concern.”

  “They granted your claim on the basis of it?”

  “Well,” he said, “there isn’t exactly a question of a claim against the insurance company.”

  “Loftus didn’t make a claim?”

  “Well, it’s not that we didn’t make a claim, exactly.”

  I sat in silence for a moment.

  Rush continued. “We didn’t make the amount of claim we might have if circumstances had been different. If, for example, Pighee was listed on the scientific staff instead of the sales staff.”

  “If Pighee wasn’t listed . . .” I began.

  “The situation is somewhat complicated,” he said.

  “You’re saying that if Pighee dies, the insurance company won’t pay compensation?”

  “Well, I’m hoping there won’t be any need for compensation. We all hope that Mr. Pighee will make a full and complete recovery.” “But if he doesn’t, who pays compensation?”

  He took a breath. “Apart from a minimum figure due any company employee, I do,” he said.

  “Out of your personal fortune?”

  “Out of my personal resources. Insofar as is necessary.”

  I frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “No,” he said, with a wisp of a smile. “I’m not surprised. Have you, Mr. Samson, studied the legal documents covering the compensation question?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “You will see, when and if you do, that John Pighee signed a waiver of a compensation damages claim in favor of a direct agreement with me on a personal services basis.”

  “If you say so,” I said.

  “I can tell you are puzzled,” he said.

  “You’re very perceptive.”

  “My interest, in recent years,” he said, “has focused on development of the quality of the Loftus scientific research department.”

  “Has it?”

  “I suspect if I’d been born a decade or two later than I was, I would have gone into science myself. But as things were . . .” He spread his hands to express the uncertain nature of plans. In doing so, he touched the flag. His hand lingered on it, feeling the fabric. “The war redirected my life,” he said. “As it did with many others. My work there led to my work here in security. It’s only in the last several years that I’ve been able to concentrate again on the sort of thing that I was really interested in. Developing scientific personnel and facilities is not the same as doing it, but at least I help. And I have the satisfaction of knowing that Sir Jeff himself feels strongly that the capabilities of our employees should be encouraged, and until he gave up effective control of the company—”

  “I didn’t realize he had.”

  “Yes,” Rush said. “The new wave—the money men—is now in the ascendant.” As a fact to be faced.

  “What exactly was John Pighee’s status, then?”

  “He was a trained chemist, but hired as a salesman. He wanted to keep up his science on his own time and I arranged to let him.”

  “On his own time?”

  “That’s right. I’ve helped develop some fine talent in my years with this company. And I think this young man was very talented. Is very talented.”

  “People tend to talk about him as if he’s dead. I do it, too.”

  “I never for a minute thought that it would lead to his being in a terrible accident like this.”

  “What was he working on?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “That would have been Dr. Dundree’s decision. My part was to arrange things. Get the insurance problem overcome, that kind of thing. Let me tell you something, Samson. There are people in powerful positions in this company who would use the fact that I’ve found ways to get around rules to try to lever me out of my place here. But I believe in this company. And I believe in America, though there are people who don’t think that’s a good thing to believe in any more. But to me it means something, and opportunity means something. And if I can back my judgment with my own money, if I can guarantee a wife’s future against what seemed to be the highly remote chance of an accident—why, I’m proud to do it.”

  “But, basically, the rest of the company doesn’t realize the extent to which you were responsible for John Pighee being in the lab?”

  “If you care to put it that way.”

  “Does the rest of the board know about Pighee’s accident?”

  “I don’t think it was called explicitl
y to their attention. They will have access, if they want it, to the information that he’s off work.”

  “And with Pighee in a company research unit, rather than a hospital, who is paying for his medical treatment?”

  “Well, it’s a company clinic, as you say.”

  “But medical insurance is not involved.”

  “Not directly, no.”

  “Nor is there any direct expense to you?”

  “No, though I have personally staked a large compensation agreement against Pighee’s recovery.”

  “In what way is the amount of this compensation guaranteed?”

  “I am personally liable, if he dies as a result of any incident relating to the scientific work he was doing.”

  “But have securities or bonds been put forward? Has there been any confirmation on behalf of Mrs. Pighee that you have the sort of money you have agreed to provide?”

  “The compensation is not all in a cash lump form. The bulk is an income arrangement, against my income.”

  “What income? After you die or become unemployed when the board finds out that you’ve been juggling staff and circumventing insurance protection to fulfill your own desire to manipulate lives, and to make up for your not becoming a scientist when you were young enough to do it?”

  He didn’t like the tone of my question, but he answered its content. “Mrs. Pighee’s claims depend to a large extent on my retaining my position here, that’s perfectly true.”

  “Ahh. Mrs. Pighee doesn’t get compensation if somebody blows the gaff on you and you get kicked out.”

  “Some people might interpret the gist of the agreement John Pighee signed, concerning the eventuality of an accident, in that way.”

  “You’re saying cooperate or Mrs. Pighee loses compensation if her husband dies.”

  “Things could work out that way. And as a representative of your client’s interests, I can assure you that it is in Mrs. Pighee’s interests that I should retain my position here.”

  “That may well be,” I said. “But Mrs. Pighee isn’t my client.”

  “She isn’t?”

  “Nope.”

  “But you said family.”

  “His sister,” I said. “Mrs. Dorothea Thomas.”

  “Well, what the hell is her interest in the thing?”