by Stan Mason
Maurice lunged across the desk and grabbed the revolver which he pressed to his temple. There was a loud explosion and he slumped forward. It was all over!
After leaving Greville Manor, Rivers drove to the Police Station where Hutchins and Grimes stared up at the sky to watch the Chief Inspector. ‘When he comes down,’ laughed Rivers. ‘Tell him it was all a flight of fancy.’
The Recommendation
The start of Dekker’s career was simplicity itself. His uncle, Bill Reed, had recently been appointed Managing Director of Yosemite U.K., colloquially known by its employees as YUK, which urgently needed a messenger boy. He didn’t even have to apply for the job. It was a case of nepotism in its most brazen form. On the first morning, Reed picked up the young man from his home and drove him to the Head Office of the company at its prestigious building just off Bloomsbury Square in London.
‘Be aware of two things,’ he warned gently, as they cut through the mass of traffic on their way there. ‘YUK’s a subsidiary of a large United States company and it operates strictly by American management principles. Never mind what you think is right. That doesn’t count if the principles say otherwise. Secondly, every project is dealt with on a PLC... a Project Life Cycle. Each project ends up with a recommendation and some poor sucker... someone... has to sign the recommendation, at which point he or she takes on the full responsibility for it. If past history is anything to go by, the person who signed the recommendation is fired when the project goes wrong. It’s important that you don’t forget that!’
The advice passed way over Dekker’s head. As a young man whose main interest was ‘The Dudes’, a pop-singing group currently at the top of the charts, it mattered little to him whose principles were followed. Admittedly, he was a business illiterate but, at his age, he had years and years to pick up on all the boring stuff. Reed’s second revelation left him equally unimpressed. He reflected that as a new messenger boy at the lowest rung of the ladder, no one was likely to demand his signature on any document other than a contract of employment. Yet, as soon as he crossed the threshold of the great monolith, he experienced an uneasy feeling that something was amiss. It got worse as he confronted the seventy-six year old Chief Executive, Mr. Hardwick Mayer III, who controlled the British end of the enterprise. It soon became clear the old man relied whole-heartedly on Suzie, his young attractive honey-blonde secretary. She adorned the office wearing a very low-cut blouse, a ridiculously short skirt and extremely high-heeled shoes, and talked in a silly squeaky voice that caused a great deal of hilarity. But, without doubt, each man’s lustful eyes followed her movements in detail when they were called there for one reason or another.
Dekker was told to wait outside the Chief Executive’s office as his uncle entered the room. He could hear the piping voice of the old man as he dictated a letter. Eventually, he was invited inside but the old man ignored him completely while he dictated another letter to his beautiful secretary.
‘Better take a note to T.J., Suzie,’ he began, in a long American drawl. ‘Reference your communication of the sixteenth for the order for four thousand corduroy jeans with pockets covered by the Union Jack. Are you serious, feller, or is this some kind of joke! You say they should be with squared bottoms. Do you mean the Union Jacks, the ankles, or some other part of the anatomy? Are you sure you know what the fashion market is all about, T.J., because if you’re goofing it up in Marketing you’d better start looking for another job... .preferably with one of our competitors!’ He paused to laugh at his own joke. ‘Better end with “Sincerely” in case he finds a way to get it right.’ He turned to Reed tiredly and waved a scrawny hand as a token of a greeting. ‘Hi, Bill! Glad to see you this morning. What do you want?’
‘This is my nephew, HM,’ introduced Reed. ‘We spoke about him last week. The new messenger boy. I think he’ll do.’
The old man’s weather-beaten face moved in Dekker’s direction but his eyes merely flickered and turned away. The lids closed slowly and he leaned back in his chair with a great sigh. There was a long pause and the new messenger boy concluded that he had probably passed from this world to the next through natural causes. Then, without warning, HM III thrust his body upwards and opened his eyes, giving everyone a severe shock. ‘That reminds me, Bill,’ he said in the same drawl. ‘You sent me a report suggesting we build a new factory in the north to cater for European markets. It was marked SECRET. Now where is that damned thing? I know I had it here somewhere yesterday!’
Suzie smiled sweetly. ‘The office cleaner used it to keep the door open when she cleaned the carpet last evening. It’s laying on the carpet behind the door.’ Her tone became smooth, low and throaty. ‘That’s the report about building a factory for sixty million pounds sterling in the north-east of England. It needs a recommendation on a PLC and someone to sign it off. Am I right... or am I right?’ She smiled again, flashing her blue eyes, highlighting the broad band of mascara on her eyelids.
‘Good girl, Suzie!’ commended the old man. ‘You got it in one, sweety-pie! I don’t know what I’d do without you. Look at that face! Have you ever seen such a beautiful profile? I tell you, it raises the morale of an old man in the mornings.’ He cast a doleful eye at his executive. ‘O,K,, Bill. Pick up the report on the way out and give it your best shot. But don’t get it wrong, boy! You know how upset I get when things go wrong. Failure is a disease in corporate management which has to be cured by surgery. And I’m not scared to wield the knife. Get the drift?’
In the light of what Reed had told Dekker before they entered the building, even the messenger boy understood the threat. Solemnly, they left the office together, with the report tucked under Reed’s arm, neither of them saying a word to each other. In the hallway they came face to face with Brian Cole, Reed’s deputy. The man was in a terrible state, dabbing his nose with a handkerchief, exploding repeatedly into coughing, spluttering and sneezing.
‘Good morning, Brian,’ greeted the managing director insincerely. ‘That’s a real stinker you have there!’
He pushed open a door which carried his name-plate and Brian Cole followed them inside. Cole poured himself a stiff drink from the cocktail cabinet and stood quite still looking like death warmed up. Reed sat in the executive chair behind his desk and held the report towards him. ‘This relates to the new north-east factory costing sixty million pounds.’
‘Oh, yes. I had sight of it but never saw anything about the cost,’ commented Cole before he sneezed again.
‘Ah, that was “need to know” information, and there wasn’t any need for you to know at the time. As you didn’t know, it didn’t matter... but now you know, you know.’
The junior executive became angry. ‘What you’re saying is that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me about it!’
Reed stared at him coldly. ‘Brian!’ he snapped. ‘I didn’t tell you about the project because I had no idea whether HM would consent to it. If he rejected it out of hand, discussion would have been pointless. The facts are clear. Our business is growing fast and we need to expand. This factory will help us penetrate new markets in Europe with improved distribution.’
‘I suppose he wants a PLC to be signed off right away.’ He sneezed again with such force that Reed and his nephew moved backwards to avoid the germs.
‘Exactly! And on this occasion I’ve decided to delegate. You’re going to carry the ball on this one.’
‘But you always delegate!’ riposted Cole. ‘It’s a pretty mean trick, if you ask me. I’m ill! I should be in bed! I’ve got a wife and kids! I can’t afford to be out of a job!’
Reed glanced at his watch and his body went tense. ‘Hang it!’ he muttered. ‘I’ve got an appointment in the Management Room and I’m late! Take care of my nephew, will you? He’s the new messenger boy.’
Without another word, he stalked out leaving Dekker sitting gingerly on the edge of a chair like a long-distant relative attending
the wake at a funeral. Cole produced a small tape-recorder from his pocket which he moved closely to his mouth. ‘Day one thousand eight hundred and twelve, and I still haven’t found out why HM is still running the British end of the business at the age of seventy something or other.. No one else seems to know either. On domestic matters, Bill Reed wants me to put my name to a sixty million pound project. Sixty million pounds! Oh, boy, if that project goes down the tubes what’s going to happen to my wife and kids? Delegation!’ He almost spat the word into the machine and then his eyes lit up with an idea. ‘Of course. Delegation!’ He moved to the senior executive’s chair and sat down before pressing a button on the intercom. ‘Ms. Williams? Will you come to Mr. Reed’s office right away. And I mean right away!’ He turned to Dekker with an evil grin on his face. ‘Just watch this, my son, and learn about business politics from a master. You’ll meet our waspish female manager... the token female manager... my junior. A miserable wretch of a woman who reported me for trying to molest her at the Christmas party. She should be so lucky! Just because I spilled a glass of wine over her dress and tried to dry it off! But then I don’t have to explain myself to you!’ He paused to sneeze violently. ‘You’ll face the ogress who shamed me at a management meeting by stating I was an “ignorant oversized twit”. Well, Ms. Williams, the wheel has turned full circle!’ He pulled a small packet from his pocket, removed two tablets, and placed them in his mouth. As he did so, there was a brief knock at the door and Ms. Williams entered. She was indeed an ogress. Horrid thoughts filled the mind at the sight of her face. She was extremely thin, with dark hair pulled tightly to the back of her head, and was austerely dressed in a black suit.
‘What are you doing in Mr. Reed’s office?’ she demanded coldly. Cole sneezed twice and she moved back sharply. ‘You’re a menace, spreading your germs around like that!’
He broke into a fit of coughing as he choked on the tablets but he soon recovered to glare at his adversary. ‘Miss Williams!’ he spluttered. ‘You seem to forget I’m your superior officer.’
Her back arched sharply. ‘Superior officer! That’s a joke! And it’s not Miss. It’s Ms... .Ms... .Ms... .!’
‘You clownish woman!’ he countered discourteously. ‘You sound like a constipated bee! Look, all I ask is for some consideration, sincerity, and co-operation.’
‘Well I’m sorry to disappoint you,’ she responded frigidly, ‘but I’m not Mary Poppins! Now can we get on with company business... if you really have something to discuss!’
He coughed violently again before continuing. ‘Over the past few months I’ve been involved personally in secret discussions with HM to find a means of further expansion. Through my individual and personal efforts, a project has been devised concerning the building of a factory in the north-east for sixty million pounds. I’ve completed my work on the report and I’m delegating the project to you for recommendation. Analyse it and then let me have it back with the PLC duly signed. Let me say this... your experience and motivation will improve if you handle the work of senior officers.’
‘Horsefeathers!’ she snapped rudely. ‘You’re a creep! You didn’t discuss this with HM at all, and you didn’t devise the project. Individual and personal efforts. Huh! My guess is that Bill Sampson passed this to you less than five minutes ago. Everyone here knows what happens to personnel who sign projects which fail. If you think I’m putting my career on the line for you or anyone else, you’d better think again!’
‘But you have to, Ms. Williams,’ he informed her, with a note of warning in his voice. ‘If you refuse to obey an official order from a senior executive you’ll be fired anyway.’ He sneezed sharply before melting under her Medusa-like gaze.
‘You were never any good at bluffing, Cole. But putting that aside for the moment, I suggest that we get together on this one. If all the executives in the company sign the recommendation together, no one can be fired if it goes sour. If it did, HM would be faced with the following: one, he can’t fire any single individual because we all signed it. Two, he could fire everyone but that would be impractical. There wouldn’t be anyone left to run the company.’
‘Don’t be naive! He’d pick a few names from the staff list and fire them at random. We’d all be held hostage. It’s out of the question!’
‘If he wanted to do that he could do it at any time.’
‘Yes, but it’s unlikely, isn’t it?’ He sneezed again with considerable force.
‘For heaven’s sake!’ complained Ms. Williams, tiredly. ‘Give me the report before we all catch cold and go sick!’
‘By the way,’ added Cole, finally. ‘This is Bill Reed’s nephew. The new messenger boy. Will you take charge of him ... please?’
It was clear that Ms. Williams was not enchanted with either assignment but she remained silent as Dekker followed her back to her office. Once inside, she pressed the intercom. ‘Wayne? I want to see you!’ she ordered in a dominating voice. ‘Now!’
Within a few seconds, there was a knock at the door and a very young man entered. ‘I’ve got the responses to the prize competition,’ he advanced boldly. ‘Six trips to Miami, twenty television sets, a hundred portable radios, and fifty keep-fit cycles.’
She stared at him icily. ‘Who said you should do that?’
‘Mr. Cole,’ he returned innocently, suddenly realising he was piggy-in-the-middle in an executive war. ‘Eight questions to be answered on people and places, followed by a sentence beginning with “I like wearing YUKs because... ..” in twelve words. Listen to this! I like wearing YUKs because “they teach you what jeans means.”... ..because “they make you look kind from behind.”... because “they’re very economic; no waist.” Do you get that one? Economic...no w-a-i-s-t... because “they give your curves swerves!”... and how about this one? My favourite... because “they’re so beautiful they make your breath come in long pants.” And that’s only eleven words.’
She regarded him with a fixed gaze, like a sergeant-major staring at a clumsy private on parade. ‘When you’ve stopped prattling like an idiot perhaps you’ll be good enough to give me your attention! An important missive has been passed to me relating to the future progress of this company.’
‘Missive?’ he cut in rudely. ‘What’s a missive?’
‘Shut up and listen, you office twerp!’ she growled irritably. ‘You’ve been employed by this company for less than two months and you’re already asking tom-fool questions. Just stand there and listen, dammit!’ She paused to regain her composure. ‘Responsibility has fallen from a high level for us to analyse this report so that a decision can be made for implementation.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked the young man plainly.
‘It means, you cretin, that you have to read this report, make some useful comments and then sign the recommendation!’
‘But I’m only a junior clerk!’ he responded innocently. ‘My signature counts for nothing here.’
‘You can say that again!’ muttered Ms. Williams.
‘And anyway,’ bleated Wayne, using the knowledge he had gained within his brief employment in the company, ‘I heard that they fire you from this joint if you sign something and it goes wrong.’
‘Joint!’ The echo reverberated round the room. ‘Joint! You’re employed by a major subsidiary of a large international conglomerate. This is not a joint! Now, you do what I tell you or your future, in the words of our esteemed Chief Executive, “won’t be worth a plug nickel!” She glanced at Dekker momentarily, causing him to wince under her austere gaze. ‘And take this... this... irk with you. He’s the new messenger boy.’
Wayne beckoned him to a small bay in the hallway where he took a photocopy of the report. ‘Always copy everything,’ he advised. ‘Don’t ask the reason why. Never ask anyone the reason for anything here. You’ll find out why eventually.’
He took the new messenger boy to a gru
bby little office where he introduced him to the temporary typist, Rosalie Thompson. The young woman had just left school and she was typing at a modest speed with the index finger of each hand. Wayne reversed a chair and sat on it to face her, resting his arms on the frame. ‘I’m in deep trouble, Rosalie,’ he confided. ‘Deep trouble!’
‘I’m busy!’ she returned testily, struggling to separate the metal letters of the old typewriter which had become entwined in front of the roller. She removed her hand to gaze at her painted nails. ‘Do you think this colour matches my complexion?’ she asked in a bored tone. ‘It takes me years to find the right one in the shops, and then they discontinue it. It’s not fair!’
‘Well, nothing’s fair in love and war... especially here,’ replied Wayne. ‘Look, Rosalie, they want me to put my neck on the line with this project and then hang me out to dry. I’m going to be the scapegoat.’
She shrugged her shoulders carelessly. ‘I said I’m busy!’
‘You’re the only person who can help me. You see, the company needs another factory because of the demand for jeans by the general public. We could build it in the north-east close to an airport and the motorways, and sell to Europe. But how do I know if we should spend sixty million pounds on it? I mean to say, I’ve only been here two months! And did I tell you before that you’re beautiful. One of the loveliest women I have ever known.’
She gave him an old-fashioned look and then shrugged her shoulders again. ‘It’s simple,’ she told him quietly. ‘If the company builds a new factory, people get their jeans quicker. But why ask me? All the big shots in this place know that... and they’re all qualified. And I’m glad you think I’m beautiful.’
‘But it’s sixty million pounds!’ repeated Wayne agitatedly. ‘God! You look lovelier every minute.’
‘So what if it is sixty million? Big companies invest more than that. If you don’t speculate you don’t accumulate. That’s what my mother always used to tell me. Don’t worry about it! They all borrow millions of pounds every day. Do you mean it... about me being beautiful?’