After that instant of recognition her eyes lost their focus; her mouth trembled into slackness and her lips, wet-shining, seemed to swell as they parted. Her head lolled, heavy, sleepy, on the strong and slender neck, and her knees bent slightly in her weakness. Her body seemed to become flaccid, heavier, sweeter, softer with the inadvertent arching of her back, and there were tiny, almost imperceptible, movements of which I knew she was, as she had told me long ago, completely unaware, small, rolling pulsations of belly, hip and thigh.
With us it had been a strong and a compulsive attraction, a grinding feverish spell that always began in this humid hypnotic way, building to an urgency that made frantic use of the nearest couch or bed or rug or grassy place. It was always beyond thought and plan, and in a shamefully few moments she had taken me back into our rituals as though nothing had ever come between us. I found I was grasping her by the upper arms, in an ancient sequence, closing my hands with a force that twisted and broke her mouth and propelled the heat of her breath against my throat in a long hawing sound of pain and wanting. Under the strength of my hands I felt the warm sheathings of firm muscles as she strained to break free. It was one of our contrived delays. She rolled her head from side to side with an almost inaudible moan. I knew how violently she would come into my arms the instant I released her, how harsh and glad would be her cry, how astonishingly strong her arms would be, how hotly sweet the heavy mouth would taste, how all of her tallness would be in urgent, rhythmic, helpless movement.
Tires made a droning sigh on asphalt and stopped outside. A car door slammed. I held her until I felt the straining go out of her arms, and then I released her. I watched her come back to the objective world. Her mouth healed itself and her eyes became quick and her body straightened and tightened into formality. After a purely animal sensation of fury at my loss, I felt all the gladness come. I knew I would not have stopped. Nor could she. By accident I had been delivered from a sweaty interlude that would have shamed me beyond my ability to forgive or excuse myself.
She touched her hair and looked at her watch. “It’s Stanley Mottling,” she said. “I forgot I’d asked him to stop by.” She tilted her head and looked at me in a challenging way, arched and roguish. “It isn’t really too late, darling.”
“For a moment I almost forgot it was. Go greet the nice man. What does he drink? I’ll start fixing it.”
I was puddling the sugar in a teaspoon of water when Stanley Mottling came in. No one had described him to me. I had expected one of those hard-jawed, little terrier types, with nerves drawn tight and sharp and quick. Mottling ambled in and was introduced. He was vast and rangy, tweedy and shaggy. He looked sleepy … a young forty with mild, watchful eyes, and, in tweeds that looked slept in, there was an upper drawer flavor to the way he looked and handled himself. He was at least six-four, and his handshake was firm.
“Nice to know you, Mr. Dean. Damn shame it had to take a mess like this to bring you back here. Hope we can get along as well as Ken and I did.”
I said trite things while I tried to figure him out. The guy was likable. He had charm and ease of manner without seeming to be conscious of either. He also seemed very much at home. Though he had been in the room only a few moments, he had the air of host rather than guest.
I took the drinks over and he sat facing Niki and me on the other couch. The two couches were at right angles to the fireplace with a squat cocktail table between them.
We said pleasant nothings while I decided on one fast and definite gambit which might teach me something about the man.
“I was disturbed, Mr. Mottling, to learn Tom Garroway left us.”
He nodded. “It was a hell of a shame. A good man. The kind we ought to make a special effort to keep. If there’d been less pressure, I would have tried to re-educate him. He was spoiled.”
“Spoiled! For what?”
He smiled. “Mr. Dean, you’ve just let yourself in for a short lecture on one of my pet management theories. I feel that industrial techniques have advanced beyond the point where any one man can be given a production problem to work out in his own way. I believe in operation on a team basis. Suppose, for example, I have a tool-design problem, a tricky cutting edge for high-speed operation. I want to form a team consisting of a mechanical engineer, a metallurgist, and a practical shop man to lick it. It saves time because what they come up with will have a minimum of bugs. If it is a quantity situation, I want somebody from purchasing on the team too, so that they’ll specify something we can get without too much delay. Tom Garroway wouldn’t work that way. And I didn’t have time to re-educate him.”
It was one of those things that sounds perfectly plausible if you say it fast enough. A fine theory—and I didn’t like it. “Same problem with Fitz and Poulson?” I asked casually.
His eyes narrowed just a bit, and for a moment the real Mottling spoke. “I keep men around me who work with me, Dean, not against me.” The real Mottling was a most impressive organism. Cold, direct, tough, and ruthless. A deity who would countenance no atheism. Then the mask was back, and he was again, a big, shambling, tweedy guy, mild and amiable, pipe smoker, bird dog fancier.
“I understand you’ve made yourself quite a record, Mr. Mottling.”
He shrugged. “A lot of luck. I’ve managed to go into companies where they’ve been too close to some very obvious problems. Too close to them to be objective about them. And pointing out the obvious is no indication of genius.”
“Then we had an obvious problem too?”
“Very. Your grandfather set up certain organizational matters in accordance with his own theories of management. Your father left those unchanged and added more superstructure of his own. Then you and your brother glued on some more. As a result there were no clear-cut lines of responsibility and authority. The place was running by ear, or by tradition, I suppose you could say.”
It was a callous dismissal of everything my father had done, of the way he had held the firm together during the dark days when competitors were going into receivership with monotonous regularity. I felt annoyance and Niki made a half-gesture that caught my eye. I glanced at her and saw on her face a reflection of my own distaste for that approach. I felt close to her in that moment, then wondered if her annoyance was based on her desire to have Mottling make the very best of impressions on me. That made me feel cool toward her again, cool and wondering what her stake was—in Mottling.
“It may have been running by ear, as you say, but running as a successful and profitable enterprise,” I said. “You are aware of that.”
He smiled, patronizing me. “Of course. We can’t afford to continue on that basis. I’ve been clearing out the dead wood, redefining lines of responsibility and authority, setting up standard production controls and ratios of accomplishment. All under your brother, of course. Now, whether I follow through with the program is up to you. From what I’ve seen, you did an adequate job when you were here. Within, of course, the handicaps under which you had to work. I believe you should let me show you what I’ve done so far. Then you will have the facts. Facts which will be important to you in any decision you may make.”
It was very direct, a broadside with heavy weapons, yet it had gotten him neatly over the hurdle. Niki leaned back, her expression bland and interested. I sensed relief in her. A proprietary relief. It was possible she had succumbed to a virus which is rare among beautiful women—the power drive in an industrial sense. Obviously she could not go down there and head up the company. But if she had a capable alter ego, under full control—a man like Mottling—that would mean that her protestations of lack of knowledge about the firm and the work and the legal angles were a smoke screen to keep me from guessing her true purpose. If Mottling could be controlled, by the use of her obvious feminine weapons—and Ken had become relatively immune to them.…
“Why did Ken bring you in here in the first place?” I demanded, trying to match his directness.
“He saw the expansion coming, saw ho
w space age contracts would grow. And he sensed the job would outgrow him. He had given up trying to get you back here. He had to find someone. I was recommended to him. I happened to be relatively free. He gave me almost complete authority. It was a sound management decision on his part.”
“And I should do the same, I suppose?”
He grinned, spread his big hands in a quick gesture. “I didn’t say that. I said you should check the facts.”
The man was likable. “That seems fair enough. One thing bothers me, though. If you’re doing so well, why should you have so much opposition from one group of shareholders?”
Mottling frowned and loaded a pipe, slowly and carefully. “It’s a bit difficult to explain, Mr. Dean. In spite of the size of Dean Products, it has always had the flavor of a local concern. Local ownership. Local talent. And, forgive me, the usual low-pressure operation that invariably accrues from such background. I’ve been ruthless. I am an outsider. I keep the pressure on. Their response is emotional. To them I am a foreigner coming in here, pushing nice people around. Mr. Karch, who has been instrumental in organizing the minority stockholders, and getting the backing of your uncle with his block of stock, is annoyed because I fired his son, who was incompetent. Granby, I am afraid, is a symbol of the comfortable past. I’m a symbol of the uncomfortable future. The human animal resents change.”
He was so sweetly reasonable. He made it all fall into place. Then he proved his timing was excellent. He glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid I’ve got to go back to the office.”
“Oh, Stanley!” Niki said.
“Can’t be helped, Niki. Very nice to have seen you, Mr. Dean. And thanks for the chance of telling you, a little bluntly I’m afraid, exactly how I feel about the job. Can I expect to see you in the morning?”
“I’ll probably be over. I don’t want to get in your way. I’ll just poke around, if that’s all right with you.”
“I think that would be the best way. I don’t want you to get the impression that I want to edit the trip in any sense. I don’t believe you’d let me do that anyway.”
We shook hands and Niki walked him to the door. I heard the low murmur of their voices in the hallway. They were both delightfully plausible. I wondered if they were congratulating each other on how well Gevan Dean had been handled. I wondered if they were setting a time and place for their next assignation. There was an undercurrent of closeness between them, of uniformity of viewpoint, as though, somehow, they were members of the same club, knew the grip and the password and the club songs. Maybe between them it was very simple. A big profitable company is a nice thing to pick up and walk off with.
I resented feeling as if I had been an audience of one at a special play put on by competent actors. I resented being steered. I resented liking the guy. I resented being able to look at Niki and still want her. I resented knowing I should leave here, too.
She came back and I heard his car going down the drive. “Do you like him, Gevan?”
“Very impressive.”
“And terribly nice. He’s let down his hair with me. He told me that he hates to hurt people, but he had learned that it has to be done to get a job done.”
“Protesting too much, wasn’t he?”
“Please don’t be nasty, Gevan. And when you go to the plant, please try to understand his position. You’ll need a special pass to get into C Building. From Colonel Dolson. And I’m positive that if you give the Colonel a chance he will speak very highly of Stanley.”
“What goes on in C Building?”
“Oh, it’s some kind of a secret contract. I don’t know what they’re making. I remember Ken saying they had to buy an awful lot of special equipment for that contract, and Colonel Dolson came the day the contract was signed, and a security officer, a Captain Corning, arrived the same week. I guess there’s a big military staff there now.”
“Niki, who recommended Mottling to Ken?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea, Gevan.”
I frowned down at my drink. “I’d like to know.”
Her voice changed. “Let’s not talk about the plant and Mottling and all that.”
“Put some violins on the sound track, and we can talk about us.”
She sat beside me. She leaned far forward, the black hair spilling to one side. I saw the tiny dark V of soft hair at the nape of her neck, the shift of muscle under the creamy skin of her shoulder as she crooked her arm, resting her forehead on her forearm. She was close to me. I wanted to lay my hand against her smooth back, run my finger tips up to the nape of her neck, feel the warmth of her and the breathing. She was near me, warm, very alive—somehow more immediate than life, and more dramatic. The stillness had changed again. We were back in a soundless world. I saw her faint shudder.
“Tears?” I asked.
She gave an abrupt nod and did not speak. She did not seem real to me. She seemed more like something I used to dream. I put my hand on her shoulder. I felt the starting tremor of her, and that stillness in her as though she had stopped breathing. I remembered all those beach house nights, when I would be alone and think of Ken and her together, and torture myself by envisioning them in all the gaudy forms of love, all her animal torments.
I knew once again that all this breathing aliveness was mine to take. She had married Ken. This was their house. He lay in earth between bronze handles on padded satin. I took my hand away. She stood up in one unbroken movement, in one sleek flex of thighs, turning away from me to go to the mantel, her back to me. I put my empty glass on the coffee table. It made a decisive click in the silence of the room.
I stood up and she turned. Her mouth looked soft, but there was an expression on her face that seemed to hint of conspiracy—as though we had again come closer during this time of silence. I resented it.
“I’ll be running along.”
“But you’ll come back, Gevan.” It was half question and half statement of fact.
“If there’s anything to discuss, Niki.”
She smiled then. A woman-smile, full of conquest. It made me feel young, crass and inexperienced. The advantage had passed to her, and that was something I had not intended should happen.
I walked down the hallway. The maid brought me my hat. I drove down the curving driveway. I slowed and glanced back. She stood in the big window, watching me leave. There was an immobility about her, as though she planned to stand there for a very long time, as though the next time I came up the drive she would be standing in exactly that same place, waiting for me. I wondered if I would have the strength not to come back. Ken married her and was killed, and though it made no sense, I knew I had to hold her emotionally responsible for it, had to keep my awareness of that blame, or there was no power that would keep me from returning. She would wait there for me, and she had made it very clear.
I drove too fast. This was happening the wrong way. It should have happened the way she had told me it might, for them to drift apart and for her to come to me. That would have been simple. Make her pay for the lost years. Make her humiliation complete, and then build from there. But Ken had died and everything was confused. It could never be clear cut now. In death, he sat silently between us, as though I had reached around him to place my hand upon her.
Chapter 6
At nine o’clock I double-parked in front of the leather store. Joan Perrit was looking into the display window. I touched the horn ring and she turned and came quickly across the sidewalk, between two parked cars. I reached over and opened the door for her. She slid in quickly, smiling, pulled the door shut, and then held her hand out without hesitation. The street lights touched her face. She had grown into a woman. There was no formlessness in her face. It was cleanly structured, the bones delicate and good.
“It’s nice to see you, Joan.”
“I’m glad you came back, Mr. Dean.” Her voice was softer, pitched lower than I remembered. “I’m sorry about your brother. It was a terrible thing.” She had new poise and assurance.
&nb
sp; I turned the corner slowly. “Is there some place we can go and talk, Joan?”
“Go out South Cleveland, Mr. Dean. There’s a little bar just over the city line that’s nice.”
It seemed odd to have her beside me. It was a relationship not possible when she had worked for me. I had planned a sort of jovial avuncular approach to ease the nervous intentness I expected. But she was relaxed, smartly dressed, decisive. I stopped for a red light, and she leaned forward and pushed in the dash lighter, opened her purse to find cigarettes. I looked at her and liked the sheen of the dark red hair.
“You better call me Gevan, Joan.” That sounded banal, and made me realize I was less at ease than she was.
“I guess I already do, subconsciously. Anyway, it doesn’t seem strange, Gevan. I’m Perry, mostly, to my friends. Joan or Joanie at home. I’m more used to Perry.”
“Perry, then. You understand, of course, that I wouldn’t have done this if you were Mottling’s secretary. But the switchboard gave me Granby’s office when I asked for you.”
“Isn’t that six of one and half a dozen of the other?”
“I guess so. I didn’t think of it that way. But you did agree to meet me.”
“I would have done that no matter who I was working for, Gevan.”
“How do you mean?”
“I’m still your secretary at heart, I guess. The girl’s first big job, or something. After you left, I was sent back to the stenographic pool. Then when Mr. Granby’s girl left, he requested me. But—I think of you as part of the company, and I think of personal loyalty as being first to you, Gevan.” She laughed and it was a good sound. One of those warm laughs that fill the throat. “When I think of what you put up with before I learned the score!”
Area of Suspicion Page 7
