by Ellery Queen
Three snickering girls pushed past me into the elevator. One held a glass of eggnog that threatened to overflow on my fine leather briefcase. Drinking at that hour. Probably file clerks. They prattled all the way to the seventh floor, every word pulling at my neck muscles. As I left the elevator, the three clerks tittered. I swung around quickly to see if they were laughing at me. But the elevator doors had closed.
Down the hall. Two massive doors on which the words:
Suite 700
WARD & ARMSTRONG
Mortgage Brokers
were written in raised steel letters. I opened the door and entered, my excuses rehearsed.
Silence. No one there to hear my excuses. To the left of the waiting area were five secretarial desks, including one for the Receptionist; opposite was a row of offices, each with its door open; to my right, another row of offices, disappearing down a hallway.
No sign of life.
Three of the desks looked very orderly, as if their occupants had left for the Holiday, but the other two had papers on them. On and around them. A folder had fallen from the Receptionist’s desk, strewing papers over the chair and the floor. The telephone receiver was off the hook, its dial tone changed to an angry, high-pitched alarm. A most unpleasant noise. I replaced the receiver and sat down in one of the waiting-room chairs.
Someone would surely come soon.
Silence. Only the gentle rush of the air conditioning and a tiny rattle from one of the entry doors. I could have walked off with the entire office, had I been a thief, which I am not. Highly inefficient. I was obviously needed to correct a few things at Ward & Armstrong.
I looked around at the offices: wood paneling, deep carpets, rich fixtures. Even the ashtray on the table next to me was impressive: heavy crystal. And walls covered with oil paintings. Of course, they could have been prints; these days it’s so hard to tell the real from the fake.
Still no one came.
I noticed a scratch on my fine leather briefcase. Probably from the file clerks. I licked my finger and rubbed the scratch, making it less noticeable. Then I opened the briefcase and withdrew a résumé for Mr. Phelps. The résumé had been prepared by an executive-placement agency I had been foolish enough to retain. I was nearly an executive in several of my jobs. For an exorbitant fee the agency supplied me with 50 copies of the resume—professionally prepared—and sent me on a dozen interviews, none of which resulted in a thing. I had wasted money and time. Six months of my time. Of my life! For nothing!
A deep breath. Crumple the shreds of a torn résumé into a ball and shove it between the seat cushion and the back of the chair. Another deep breath as the pounding slowed. I started to close my fine leather briefcase, then reached inside and let my fingers caress the raised letters of my specially designed bronze nameplate. Edward T. Creary. In bronze. How well it had looked on my desks, how well worth the expense. Even if the others had laughed behind my back.
With Mr. Phelps it would be different. . .I watched him read my resume. His eyes met mine with respect.
“Mr. Creary, you are a master of many skills.”
“I have had a certain success.”
He calculated rapidly on a yellow legal pad, writing with a gold pen. I vowed to have such a pen. A pink tinge blushed his cheeks when he turned again to me.
“I can’t offer to pay you what you’re really worth, because that would unbalance our budget, but—” He had to swallow before continuing. Embarrassed. “But would thirty thousand a year seem insulting?”. . .
Still no one. From far below on the street came the faint scream of a siren. Strange to be so peaceful, there in the waiting room. Seven stories below, awaiting my return, was a jungle of traps and sirens.
But no one came. Only air rushing, a ticking, pecking rattle. Empty desks with papers strewn. It was beginning to get on my nerves. I remembered a movie I saw years ago about an atomic attack. New York looked the same as before, except all the people were gone. Newspapers blowing through the streets. It was a silly movie; there would have been bodies.
My fine gold watch said 35 minutes past eleven. Eleven thirty-five. Time to show some initiative. I stood up and walked to the hallway. No sign of life.
“Hello?” No answer. “Hello! Is anyone there?”
“I am here. Is someone there?” The half-heard voice seemed to come from a corner office.
“Yes! I have an appointment with Mr. Phelps! About a job!” I felt absurd, shouting out my business to someone I couldn’t see. Very undignified.
He emerged from the corner office and strutted toward me, a little smile on his face. On his little face.
He was 50, nearly bald, stubby.
“Mr. Phelps, you say. He is in the Board Room at the moment. Everyone is there; except me, of course.” Seedy black suit, plain white shirt, narrow black tie. An outfit I might have owned 20 years ago. Not a good impression for an employee of Ward & Armstrong to make on their newest executive.
“I had an appointment for eleven. The traffic was impossible. I’ve been waiting here since ten after. No one came.”
He peered up at me through thick wire-rimmed glasses. “Most of the staff are off today. It is the day before Christmas, you know. Everyone else is in the Board Room, except me. I’m the President, you know.”
What luck, the President! “I’m honored to meet you, sir.”
He shook my hand with his fingertips. “Why don’t the two of us talk a little before you see Mr. Phelps.”
I took my fine leather briefcase and started to follow him. “Someone left that phone lying off the hook, so I replaced it.” Showing initiative.
“Ah, yes, thank you for putting it back. At times Miss Collins can be quite careless.”
His office was grand. He sat in a high-backed leather chair, behind an antique desk. On its green leather surface stood an elegant bronze stallion, galloping. Next to it an ashtray, two telephones, and a triple pen set. I’d never seen a triple pen set. At the other end of the room, four chairs and a couch, grouped around a glass-topped coffee table.
I sat down. In front of me was a plastic nameplate: Malcolm A. Dodge. My bronze nameplate was far more impressive. I glanced at the leather-framed photograph of Mrs. Dodge. A lovely woman.
He coupled his fingers and slowly cracked the knuckles on both hands. Always the smile.
“You must have a resume.”
I took another copy from my fine leather briefcase and handed it across the desk. He read from the first page.
“Creary. Edward Terence Creary. Forty-two years old. With Consolidated Mortgage until, let’s see, about six months ago.” He pulled the triple pen set a few inches closer and looked critically at it. Then at me. “How did you happen to leave Consolidated?”
“A personality conflict.” And it had been, with old Stafford, the Vice-President. He disagreed with my handling of Miss Branch, who wouldn’t stop calling me Eddie. Perhaps it was a bit severe, striking her. But she’d been given plenty of warning. Discipline.
“Yes, yes, personality conflicts can occur. I understand that very well.” Mr. Dodge had the distracting habit of clearing his throat as he talked. He reached over to shift the angle of the bronze stallion before turning back to the resume. “You had been with Consolidated Mortgage, let’s see, almost two years.”
Two long years, and then to be discharged without a word of thanks. Thinking of it made my fists knot. Of all the injustices done me in my previous jobs that was the worst. Not a word of gratitude.
“You seem to have a broad background in the mortgage business, Mr. Creary. Would you describe yourself as being—what shall I say?—loyal; yes, loyal to your employers?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I consider loyalty to be most important.”
“Loyalty is most important to me, Mr. Creary, especially just now.” He’d gone suddenly pale. Tiny beads of perspiration popped out on his bald head. “You see, I have only become President of Ward and Armstrong today, just today. I must build a staff that is
loyal to me.
I was quick to reassure him. “You can certainly count on me, Mr. Dodge. And may I offer my congratulations on your promotion.”
He relaxed a bit. “Thank you, thank you. It was not easy, you know. There was considerable opposition to my advancement, despite my thirty-five years with the firm, but I convinced them in the end. In the final analysis, hard work. . .”
He rambled on. A queer man. On the telephone Mr. Phelps had said they needed an assistant loan officer. Fifteen thousand a year. An almost private office and secretary. Thinking of it made me miss some of what he had been saying.
“. . .and so, I would want you to remember these things, should you decide to work for me.”
My mind snapped back. “Oh, yes, sir. I will.”
“Good, good. I think you will be a welcome addition to my staff.” He clapped his hands and grinned with pleasure, exposing an uneven row of gray and yellow teeth. “You shall be my Vice-President, at an annual salary of, shall we agree, fifty thousand dollars?”
I was afraid he’d see my hands tremble. Vice-President! I’d never occupied so dignified a position. And $50,000 a year! My response was a weak stammer. “That’s very generous. I promise you won’t be sorry.”
“I’m sure of it, I’m sure of it. Your office will be right next to mine. Now I must take you to meet the staff—those few who are here today, of course.”
My feet floated above the thick carpet as he led me down the corridor.
At last the position that so long eluded me! We passed several private offices, the mail room, a small library, and a file room with banks of loan folders. Vice-President! At the end of the hall was a door with a sign on it: Board Room. Mr. Dodge opened the door for me to enter.
In the center of the Board Room was a long, gleaming conference table. Five leather chairs on each side of it, an eleventh at the head. On the table were two telephones and several of the heavy ashtrays. A notepad and pencil were carefully positioned at each chair.
Four of the staff were there. Three sat at the table. The fourth—a young woman—lay face down on the carpet, her arms stretched out toward the door. She must have been reaching for it when he shot her.
They were all dead.
My life is truly cursed.
I staggered back, colliding with Dodge, which made me recoil again. Lurching forward, I nearly tripped over the outstretched woman. A nightmarish stillness saturated the room, broken only by a strange, choked, whimpering noise. I looked wildly around to see if one of them could somehow be alive.
Then I realized the whimper was coming from me.
“Unswerving loyalty, Mr. Creary, unswerving loyalty.” He held the pistol casually, not pointing it at anything in particular. Not yet.
Dodge cleared his throat with a harsh bark. “Staff, I want you to meet my new Vice-President, Mr. Edward Terence Creary.” Then to me: “This is Miss Collins, nearest you, and that is Mrs. Melnick. Mr. Phelps, the gentleman you came to see, is over there. Mr. Ward is at the head of the table. Everyone else is off today. It is the day before Christmas, you know.”
I nodded at each corpse as he pointed at it, trying to speak, my throat packed with chalk. Mrs. Melnick and Mr. Phelps were slumped over the table. The girl on the floor was Miss Collins. Mr. Ward had his head thrown back and his arms spread wide apart. A bullet had pierced his forehead. He looked grotesque. The air stank of blood.
My knees were jelly.
“Some of the staff were adamant in their opposition to my promotion, but I convinced them.” Dodge snarled toward the body at the head of the table. Mr. Ward had died with terror on his face. Dodge spoke to him—to it—sharply. “Ward, I want that proposed budget on my desk by three this afternoon. By three at the latest.”
He twinkled at me in satisfaction as he gestured toward the door.
Somehow I obeyed.
I stumbled down the hall, away from the Board Room and its corpses, my brain beginning to clear. My only chance was to stay calm. At least the gun was gone from his hand. We stopped at his office while I got my briefcase, then he took me next door.
“This will be yours, Mr. Creary. I hope that it suits you?”
Under any other circumstances it would have suited me beyond my wildest dreams. Ultramodern aluminum desk, the kind with no drawers. Handsome. On the desk, one of these sculptures composed of plastic balls hanging from wires. Out the window, a fine view of Beverly Hills. Not as impressive as the President’s office. But distinguished in every aspect.
The rise in my fortunes was monumental, even if it might only last a day.
“It’s very handsome, Mr. Dodge. I hope the previous occupant won’t object to my taking it.”
“Object? Oh, no. This used to be the office of Mr. Phelps, and I’ve explained the situation fully to him.”
I searched his face, but he seemed quite serious. Out of touch with reality. He pointed at the desk, to a small box.
“That is the intercom. If I buzz twice, that will mean for you to come to my office.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
He went on cheerfully. “The rest of the staff will remain in the Board Room, should you need to consult them. I’m afraid you will have to work through lunch today. There is so much to do. Yes, there will be no lunch today for either of us. And no sneaking out—I can see the hall clearly from my desk.”
His eyes instantly menaced. I had to pacify him. “Oh, no, Mr. Dodge. I’d never do that!”
“Fine, fine. Now I will leave you to get used to your new office.”
As soon as he went out of the room I sat down in my new chair. Of course, it was actually Mr. Phelps’s chair. Or Mr. Phelps’s former chair. Anyway, it was covered in velvet. Deep blue. Beautiful. Under the desk was an electric buffer. I pressed the switch with my toe, setting the polisher in motion. In truth, my shoes needed a shine. I took a cigar from the lacquered box on the desk, clipped the end with the gold tool lying next to the box, and lit it with the matching gold lighter. A smooth flow of smoke began to sooth my nerves.
If only Edna could see me in this office. Edna, who never understood my destiny, who left when Fortune turned against me.
I took out my bronze nameplate and positioned it carefully on the desk. Then I noticed a dial on the side of the desk. I turned it on. Stereophonic music soared from hidden speakers. Wagner.
If only Edna could see me in this impressive office, a Vice-President at $50,000 a year. Getting a shoeshine and smoking an expensive cigar. Stereophonic Wagner. And only yesterday I’d considered selling my fine gold watch to buy groceries.
But, of course, this could never last.
Two short buzzes. I went next door to see Dodge.
He was standing behind the desk, rearranging a book shelf. “Oh, yes, Creary. We must discuss our plans for the new year. Sit down, sit down.”
I sat down.
“Now, then. We have problems—small problems—with a few of our loans. They are decent people, but things have just not worked out well, for them or for us.” He picked up a thick loan folder from the desk. “Look this over right away and let me know what you think. You may go now.”
Not a very polite dismissal.
I took the folder back to my office and closed the door. My chair certainly was comfortable. Another siren passed on the street below. I turned up the music to block out such intrusions. In one of the desk drawers were some cards and a marking pen. I carefully wrote my new title on one of the cards. Vice-President. I leaned the card exactly against the center of my bronze nameplate. Until I could order a new one. Then I opened the folder and began to read.
Twenty minutes later I sat back in disgust. Dodge wasn’t fit to be President. Of anything. He had approved a quarter-million-dollar loan on property that couldn’t have been worth half that much. Sheer incompetence. Malcolm A. Dodge, Assistant Vice-President. Mr. Ward was probably going to fire him, so Dodge murdered everyone and made himself President. Assistant Vice-President to President in one day. Q
uite a promotion. For an incompetent.
I went to his office.
“Well? Well? What do you think, Creary?”
I tried to appear respectful. “It looks bad, to be frank. We’ll simply have to foreclose, then sell the property for whatever we can get.”
“Not very inspired advice, Creary! Perhaps I made a mistake with you!”
“I’m no good to the firm if I’m not honest.”
His eyebrows were two black sponges, soaking up the perspiration that flowed into them. “Not very inspired at all for a fifty-thousand-a-year man!”
He was like all the rest—made a mistake and blamed me. Unreasonable. “I wasn’t the one who approved this loan.”
Dodge leaped out of the chair. His hand darted toward a coat pocket.
“Maybe things aren’t as bad as they look! Must further consider the matter. Approach it a different way!” Words came from me in a gush, as if the force of their flow could stop his hand. “We can meet with the borrowers. Talk over the situation. It’s not anyone’s fault when conditions change.” Dodge was obviously a lunatic; only a lunatic would make a loan like that. Obviously a dangerous, incompetent man. “Something can be worked out!”
Slowly he relaxed back into his chair. He withdrew the hand from his coat pocket. “Yes, that’s it; yes, nobody’s fault.” He smiled, but weakly this time. More form than substance. “You are going to be all right, Eddie.”
Why do people have to call me Eddie! Forty-two years old and still Eddie! I fought to retain my composure. “Thank you, Mr. Dodge. I hope I live up to your expectations.”
“And you do, Eddie, you do. Go on back to your office now. We will talk about this later.”
Eddie. When I got back to my desk I saw that the cigar had come apart in my hand. I lit another and turned up the music. So pleasant there, alone, without that lunatic. So safe. I had to think. Surely I could find a solution to my problem. Executive planning. A Vice-President could do that.
