“It must be perfectly obvious to you that…” Tyler began.
Sloan interrupted. “The very early minutes, inception through, say, 1901.”
“I’ll be sure those are easily accessible.”
“Sounds fine, Mr. McQuade,” Sloan said.
As McQuade was escorting them to the door, he had an idea. “Tell you what. Since you’re going to have to go to New York to see the documents, why don’t you let me underline our apology by sending you on one of our airplanes? No cost to the tax-payers and a lot nicer ride than a commercial jet.”
“Done,” said Sloan.
“I’ll call you to make arrangements as soon as I hear from the people at Eastern.”
“Why’d you interrupt me?” Tyler said when they were alone in the elevator cab. “Who’s he kidding? He’s got to know what we want to see.”
“I thought we should play along.”
“But the security lady told you all documents are kept in the basement here.”
Sloan shrugged. “Maybe the earlier documents are a special case. Let’s see what they have.”
The Mangrum line light flashed on McQuade’s phone. “Yes, sir.”
“OK, where are we regarding the release ploy?”
“The release is being drawn. I’m meeting Webb tomorrow. He’ll be on the job
tomorrow afternoon.
“Good. Don’t screw this one up.”
McQuade considered presenting his new idea, but decided it was not a good time. “Yes, sir.”
June 5, Atlanta. At 1:00 the next afternoon, Webb knocked on the door to McQuade’s inner office. He was of medium height, with sandy hair cut short, firm jaw, blue eyes, and Eastern dress—an establishment patrician who had gone wrong.
“Come in, Stanley,” McQuade said.
“Always a pleasure, gentlemen. I understand that you have something pressing here.” Webb dropped into a chair in McQuade’s conversation grouping and waved his hand.
“All right, McQuade, what’s up?”
“What we have, Stanley, is a little signature-gathering errand for you. Why Mr.
Mangrum thought we had to use such highpriced talent, I don’t know, but...” “To make certain it gets done properly, McQuade,” Webb interrupted. McQuade explained Webb’s task.
Chapter 11
June 7, Atlanta.
Two days later, McQuade said Howard for Webb’s progress.
“He says he has all but two.”
“Quick work.”
“He said that they’re unsophisticated people. A three thousand dollar windfall looked
good to them. ”
“Good. And the other two?”
“William Hawkins Morgan, Senior—the lady’s son—is in a nursing home in
Miami —and a great granddaughter, Celia Jane Morgan, is out of the country on a business trip.”
“And his plan for them, John?”
“Mr. Webb doesn’t seem to be open to discussing what he does.”
“That’s normal for him. Find him again and tell him I am about to talk with Mr. Mangrum. We’d like to know what he’s doing about the other two releases.”
“Yes, sir.”
McQuade called Mangrum’s secretary. “Evonne, this is Dan. Will you get a message to him for me?”
“I talked to him about two hours ago, but he’ll call again in the next hour or so.”
“Fine. Where is he, anyway?”
“Tokyo.”
“I see. Well, tell him Webb is on the case, seven in, two to go.”
“He’ll understand?”
“I’m sure he will.”
“Fine.”
“Ask him to call me when he has time for a new idea.”
Half an hour later, McQuade saw the light flash on his Mangrum line. “McQuade.” “Well done on the seven you have in. What about the other two?”
McQuade explained his lack of knowledge.
“OK, I understand. Now, a change in organization. Even with this initial success, it
strikes me there is a possibility that completing this release program may become —hmm, serious. Given that...”
“Serious?”
“Decisions to be made you won’t like making.” McQuade didn’t respond.
“Also, Stan prefers reporting to me.” Mangrum hesitated. “I don’t have time for this, but I’ll manage this release program. You’re relieved.”
“Yes, sir.” McQuade hesitated. He was not happy to be removed from the chain of command, but he was pleased not to be dealing with Webb.
“Sir, I have a new idea to present,” he began, but the Chairman had gone.
He called Evonne. “Next time Walter calls in, please ask him to talk with me. I have a new idea to present.”
McQuade saw the intercom light flash.
“Professor Sloan on line one, sir.”
“Good morning, Professor.”
“Good morning, Mr. McQuade. A pleasant weekend?”
“Fine. What can I do for you?”
“I want to know where we are regarding our visit to see the documents in the vault in New York.”
McQuade shook his head. What seemed to be the imminent success of the release program had overshadowed his thoughts about the ploy at Eastern International. “Yes, well, Professor, as I explained, that’s something we’re going to do. Maybe this week. Soon, in any case.”
“Soon?” It was my understanding from our meeting on Friday we might be going as early as today. I’ve left my schedule open. Soon is not what I had understood. I’m not...”
“Surely all of your study’s wheels have not ground to a halt over this one small item, Professor,” McQuade snarled. “I understand in your world looking at a few pieces of paper has somehow become of great importance and I also understand you have developed a sort of paranoia over our delay in getting those pieces of paper to you, but let me explain our position: the materials are in New York, they are available, and we’ll get you to them in the very near future. But I am not, repeat not, going to stop the ICP machine to accommodate you.”
“Mr. McQuade, I don’t think...”
“Professor Sloan, listen.”
“All right.”
“When I simultaneously have the time and the motivation to arrange for you to see those records, I’ll make such arrangements. I don’t know, and won’t guess, when that time may come. Busy yourself with some other important facet of your study and wait to hear from me. Is that clear?”
“It is!”
Early that afternoon, McQuade touched the flashing button for Mangrum’s line. “Five minutes, Secretary.”
“Sir?”
“Evonne said you have a new idea. Given the quality of your recent ideas, five
minutes is all I can invest in you.”
“Uh, very well. This is a backup to the release program.”
“We need another backup?”
“I think we should.”
“Go ahead.”
“Here’s my idea: first, I admit to the Professor the first documents given to his man
were fakes. I tell...”
“Tell them? They already know they’re fakes. I can’t see how...?”
“May I continue?”
“All right.”
“So, I tell them we now know the materials were fakes, but the fakery had been done
a long time ago . And...”
“What does that accomplish?”
“Time. It buys us time, but if I can go ahead, sir?”
“Go.”
“We didn’t know about the fakes either.”
“Hmm.”
“We tell them the real early minutes are kept in a vault at the bank in New York.” “We don’t keep a damn thing in that bank!”
“They don’t know that.”
“Hmm.”
“So I get some of Seamus’s people and send them to work with Raleigh to produce
some acceptable fakes.”
“How much time do we hav
e?”
“We have whatever we need. We don’t let them go until we’re ready. With FAD’s
best people and Raleigh’s support, we should be able to prepare a display of old materials that would convince anyone.” “ Hmm. Special storage cases. Yes. Hermetically sealed. Old paper. Correct typing this time. Hmm. Yes. Maybe. Nothing to lose at this juncture.” Mangrum paused. “OK, Dan, sounds like a possible. Let’s go all out on this. OK. Full attention. Keep me posted.”
Just before 11:00 Tyler was engrossed in a detective story when his telephone rang. The voice was old and sexless.
“Dr. Woodruff?”
“This is Woodruff Tyler.”
“Woodruff Tyler?”
“Yes.”
“You’re part of what I’m told is the Sloan study—currently working at ICP?”
“Yes.”
There was no response.
“Yes,” Tyler repeated, now annoyed. “I’m Woody Tyler. What can I do for you?”
“Please meet me at Gate 8 of Bobby Dodd Stadium at 2:00.”
“Why are you calling me?”
“You’re interested in the minutes of early ICP board of director’s meeting minutes?”
“Yes, very much.”
“2:00 at Gate 8.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
Tyler called Sloan and described the call he had just received. “But at this time of night? I...”
“I’ll meet you at our parking lot at quarter to two.”
June 8, Atlanta.
They arrived early, but saw no one. At two min utes before 2:00, Tyler left Sloan’s Porsche and walked to Gate 8. The security light was dim, but there was enough to show a small man standing on the far side of the gate.
“Dr. Tyler?”
“Doctor—no, not doctor. But I am Woodruff Tyler.”
“Forgive me. You are a part of what is called the Sloan team, are you not?” “I am.”
“Fine.” The man sounded relieved. “I thought for a moment I had made yet another
error. It’s been my week for errors.”
“You have some information for me?”
“I do. I suspect you’ve had some apparent success in getting some documents you
require.”
“Apparent success?”
“You received copies of the original documents, but, I suspect, after some alterations
had been made. Yes?”
“Yes—alterations were made many years ago.”
“No, I believe the documents you received were very recently altered.” Tyler frowned. “Tell me who you are and how you know about this?” There was no reply.
“Can you provide us with the materials we need?”
“No, of course not. I wouldn’t be allowed to take any copies from those files. Those
files are sacred, Mr. Tyler.”
“Then I don’t… We’re waiting now to visit the Company’s vaults at a New York
bank to see the documents.”
“New York? Documents in a bank?”
“We are going to visit the ICP vault at Eastern International Bank, in New York. We
understand that’s where important early documents are stored.”
The man shook his head. “All files, historical and current, regarding every aspect of
the Company’s business, worldwide, from its first days until now, are kept in fireproof,
bombproof vaults in the basement and two sub-basements of the Tower. In ICP’s
Archives Division. Here in Atlanta.”
“But you won’t give us the documents we need?”
After waiting a few moments for the man to continue, Tyler shrugged his shoulders,
then said, “Well, then, Mr....”
The little man stared into the distance, then nodded. “Ah, I see what you mean, Mr.
Tyler. We’ve completed our business?”
“Whatever business we had.” Tyler turned toward Sloan’s Porsche, then back to his
informant. The man had disappeared into the shadows on the far side of Gate 8.
“Nothin g. Nice little guy, but all he wanted to do was to let me know he thought the copies of the minutes we received had been altered. He could have done that over the phone.”
“Who was he?”
“Didn’t get that far. Someone inside ICP. Ever hear of the ‘Archives Division’ at ICP?”
“No. Document storage, given the name.”
“Very big deal inside the Company, it seems.”
“I’d have thought the lovely Miss Kwan would have used the term when she told me
about the files.”
“Perhaps her duties as security chief don’t require her to actually visit file storage,”
Tyler said, chuckling.
There was early morning light as Tyler groped for the telephone three hours later. “Tyler,” he mumbled.
“Mr. Tyler, this is Elmer Pierce. I met with you at the stadium a few hours ago.”
“Umm.”
“I lied to you then and I want to be truthful now.”
“Pierce, you say?”
“Pierce. I apologize for the hour. But, please listen. Until the twenty-fifth day of last month, I was Deputy Archivist at ICP.”
“OK.”
“A week ago this past Wednesday, I was said to meet what was called a ‘special demand’. It was the first time I’d ever heard the term.”
“Special demand. Special materials?”
“Secret materials, so secret the existence of the system used to store and retrieve the subject materials had been kept secret, even from me.” The caller hesitated.
“Please continue.”
“Ah, yes, excuse me. These have been troubling days. Yes, well, I didn’t behave well when the man who made the demand showed his displeasure at my ignorance. I later behaved childishly towards him, for which I was fired. After fortysix years.” The caller paused again.
“The man was...?”
“Daniel McQuade. Secretary of the Company.”
“I know the gentleman. I sympathize with you.”
“When it became evident to me my employment was to be terminated, I returned to the vault and made a second set of copies of the documents in question. I didn’t know what I was going to do with them, but I knew they might be a weapon of sorts for me. My employment was terminated later same day. Most distressing.” The old man paused again. “As I was about to leave the building, I said to go the lavatory. I put the copies under the back of my shirt. I was then escorted to the entrance to the vaults, where all of my effects were searched. I was then led to the street entrance.” The man stopped speaking. When Tyler heard Pierce’s voice again, he was controlling it with obvious effort. “I received my final paycheck in the mail yesterday.” He began to cry.
A few moments later Pierce was able to continue. “Thank you for your indulgence, Mr. Tyler. I’m sorry for the tears.”
“Not at all, Mr. Pierce. You were saying?”
“I learned later from my former associates you were conducting a study of the early days of the Company. I knew then to whom I should tell my story.” He hesitated. “So, now you know who I am and what I am—what I was.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But, as I’ve said, I lied to you earlier. I do have copies of the originals. I want to give them to you.”
“Mr. Pierce!”
“I’d like for you to come to get them.”
“ What’s your address, Mr. Pierce?”
“4440 Wyndham Drive. Sandy Springs.” Pierce gave Tyler directions. “I’ll be there in, say, thirty minutes.”
“The porch light will be on.”
Tyler was still sitting on his bed when he called Sloan.
“I was sure it was you,” Sloan answered. “Where are we to chase the geese now?” “Sandy Springs. Let’s meet in the parking lot of Dirty Al’s on Roswell Road in, say,
thirty minutes.”
“Wait, wait! What is
going...?”
Tyler explained.
“Thirty minutes,” Sloan said.
Thirty-five m inutes after Pierce’s call, they were driving in the neighborhood northwest of the intersection of Abernathy Road and Roswell Road.
“That’s all he told me!” Tyler exclaimed. “Yelling at me isn’t going to extract information I don’t have!”
“I apologize. I just...” Sloan interrupted himself. “What’s that?”
“I’d day two ambulances and one police car.”
“Where?” Sloan began.
Tyler made a sharp right turn onto Wyndham Drive, heading north.
“Look at the mailbox numbers. The problem could be at our man’s house.”
“Right.”
Tyler parked the SUV in the driveway of a neighboring house and walked toward a small house with two ambulances and two police cars at the curb.
Late that afternoon, Sloan and Tyler had just taken seats in the precinct station when a uniformed sergeant carrying a brown envelope approached.
“Mr. Tyler?” the policeman inquired.
“Here,” Tyler answered.
The sergeant handed the envelope to Tyler. “There’s a copy of a letter addressed to you inside the envelope. The original will be available later.” He handed Tyler a card.
“Thanks for your help, Sergeant,” Tyler said, “ but is there anything you can tell us now?”
“Nothing much. Looks like murder and suicide. The letter seems to confirm that idea. The neighbors told the detectives she was terminal with cancer. Early hours of the morning. Spirits low. He apparently fed her the contents of a bottle of sleeping pills, waited until he was sure she was gone, then put his little revolver to his temple and fired.”
“Let’s look at the note.”
Mr. Tyler: When I called you a few moments ago I believed I had my thoughts regarding ICP, you, and me in complete order. I hated the Company. My termination meant my wife, suffering of cancer, and I would be without income.
It was more than I could bear. I was ready to turn over to you my copies of the meeting minutes McQuade had copied.
But I couldn’t bring myself to violate my trust as an archivist.
I tried to call you a few moments ago to tell you not to come, but there was no answer. I feared you would find a way to reason with me regarding disposition of the materials, and I couldn’t allow that. I was left with a single path. I have burned the documents and stirred the ashes.
The Dryden Note Page 7
