A vein started to throb in Lake’s neck.
“All right, so much for your interrogations,” I said. “What about preventive measures? Or ‘internal security measures,’ to use Mr. Wolfe’s terminology.”
Now they all looked uncomfortable. Both Sara and Boyd turned toward Mills.
“To be honest, we haven’t really done anything there,” he said slowly. “Mr. Goodwin, as we’ve told you, our agency is young and small, but with a wonderful … ”
“Spirit!” Sara proclaimed.
“Yes, spirit. And that’s been one of our greatest strengths up to now. God, we’ve got this great camaraderie, you know?” Mills said, his voice rising. “Lord, half our employees are under, what—twenty-seven?—and they like the idea that we’re a small band taking on the big guys. Not just with Cherr-o-key, although that’s our plum, but with some other accounts, too. The point I’m trying to make is that we’re worried—terrified—of doing anything to upset the chemistry we’ve got going. So we’ve been very delicate about all this.”
“Besides the three of you, who in the agency is most intimately involved in the Cherr-o-key campaign?” I asked.
“First off, I’m really not that involved myself, except in an overseeing sort of way,” Mills said. “Boyd, as the chief creative, and Sara, who’s in charge of art, are our key people, along with Annie Burkett, an art director on the account.”
“Not an art director, the art director,” Sara said. “And despite her young age, one of the best in the business, if I do say so myself.”
“Mr. Goodwin,” Lake said with an exaggerated sigh, “let the record show that Annie Burkett, indeed a talent of the first order, was hired by Sara, who immediately saw her potential and acted accordingly.”
“Duly noted. And you feel that Ms. Burkett is above reproach?”
“I think so,” Lake said.
“I don’t think so, I know so,” Sara said, tossing a condescending look toward her bearded partner. Then she shifted to me. “What I mean is that I know her so well I can vouch for her without hesitation.”
“And you’re suggesting I can’t?” Lake snarled, standing up, hands on hips.
“Children, children,” Mills said with a weak smile. “Boyd, sit down; you’ve known Sara long enough to recognize when you’re being needled.”
“Huh!” the creative director gruffed, easing back into his chair and pouting. “Given the situation we’re in, it seems to me we need to concentrate on the problem, not on needling each other.”
“You’re right, Boyd,” Sara said quietly. Her face took on a softness I hadn’t seen before. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just tense from all this. I apologize.”
“We’re all tense,” Mills conceded. “Mr. Goodwin, we sit before you, three frazzled partners with our nerve endings pathetically exposed. What else can we tell you?”
“You mentioned outside suppliers. I’d like to hear more about them.”
“Of course. With rare exceptions, advertising agencies don’t actually make TV commercials themselves. They develop the overall campaign for the product or service, and they may also conceive the specific commercial, but as I told you and Mr. Wolfe earlier, they use the services of a director and a production house—these are people outside the agency. Same with the talent—the on-camera people. These are of course not employees of the agency. You know, like those skydivers and singers in the Super Bowl spot.”
“But most of these people obviously know enough about your commercial that they could tip somebody else off about it, right?”
They all nodded, looking like three mourners at an Irish wake. “But,” Lake said, breaking the silence and waggling a finger in my direction, “anybody doing something like that takes a terrible risk. Ours is a small community, and if it ever got out that someone was so treacherous, he—or she—would be finished. People jump around so much that today’s ally is tomorrow’s competitor. And people talk a lot in our business, too. They’re all gossips.”
“Boyd is right,” Mills said. “Not too many years ago, there was a situation where a copywriter leaked information about a campaign in hopes it would get him a job with the agency that handled a competing brand. But Agency B wasn’t about to take him on; after all, if he ratted on one, he’d likely rat on another, especially for the right price. Anyway, the mole eventually got found out. He was fired by Agency A and the word spread.”
“He never worked in advertising again,” Lake added.
“What all of this seems to say is that nobody spilled the beans to Colmar and Conn,” I said. We were getting nowhere fast. “Don’t any of you suspect anybody?”
“Mr. Goodwin, in spite of all my comments, even I truly can’t suggest anyone specific,” Sara Ryman said. She seemed to be getting more human by the minute. “I feel like I know everybody in the agency well enough that I can’t believe any one of them did it—or at least I don’t want to believe one of them did it. We’ve got such a high degree of loyalty.”
“Aha, now who’s the Pollyanna?” Lake purred. Sara flushed.
“Look, I’m glad all three of you are so pleased with the crackerjack staff you’ve put together, but the inescapable truth is, someone, either in the agency or associated with it, is a spy.”
“What do you suggest, maybe lie detector tests?” Lake sounded skeptical.
“No, that’s absolutely unrealistic,” I said. “One, at best they’re of questionable value; two, mass testing of your staff would really send morale into the basement; and three, you run the risk of some terrible publicity. After all, you know damn well that if you tried testing, it would get out, and then so would the fact that your ideas are being pilfered. To say nothing of the legal aspects of this kind of testing. Would any one of you like to be the one who tries to compel all your people to sit still for the tests?”
“All right, how can you and Wolfe help us?” Mills demanded, leaning back and setting his jaw.
“First, we’re all going to be optimists and assume Mr. Wolfe will agree to take you on. I’ve already given you the odds on that. At some point, I’ll want to visit your offices and talk to a number of people. For starters, each of you individually, then—”
“Why us again?” Sara snapped, brushing a stray strand of hair back from her forehead. “You’re talking to us now.”
“True, but I like one-on-one chats, too. Sometimes people remember things better in those situations.”
“Meaning we’d say things privately that we wouldn’t say in front of our partners?”
“Not necessarily. I just like individual consultations,” I said with a smile. “Also, I’ll want to talk to the woman you mentioned, Annie Burkett. And maybe some others involved in the Cherr-o-key stuff, too.”
Mills nodded grimly. “That’ll stir things up some, of course, but I suppose there’s no avoiding that.”
“Not if you have any hope of finding out what’s going on. Also, what about your client himself? How many people at Cherr-o-key know in advance what’s going to be in their commercials?”
“Oh God, d’you have to go to them, too?” Lake actually wailed.
“Of course he does, Boyd,” Sara said. “Mr. Goodwin, right off the top, I can think of three people at Cherr-o-key who know about the spots almost from their inception—Acker Foreman and those two idiot sons. But they’d have absolutely no reason to spill it to their competitors.”
“You’re probably right,” I conceded. “But I’ll still want to talk to them at some point. Mr. Mills, you told me when we were at Lily’s party that you hadn’t asked anybody at Colmar and Conn about the leak, right?”
“Of course I haven’t!” He jerked upright in the chair, looking irked. “I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.”
“Somebody will have to, if we expect to find out who the mole is,” I said evenly. “In fact, that may be the place to start, but I’ll get to that. Who’s their honcho?”
“Harlowe Conn.” Lake pronounced the name as if it were contagious.
“The expression on Boyd’s face pretty well captures the way all of us feel about the Gray Eagle,” Sara volunteered. Her voice took on an edge again. “He’s really a … oh, never mind—he’s not worth wasting perfectly good profanity on.”
“The Gray Eagle? He sounds like a national institution.”
“That’s what he thinks he is, too,” Mills huffed. His hands formed fists so tightly that his knuckles went white. I made a mental note to poke into whatever history existed between Harlowe Conn and Rod Mills. “Unfortunately, he’s got some justification. He’s an authentic, gold-plated war hero—Korea. A Marine pilot. Shot down some incredible number of MIGs, got shot down himself, won the Medal of Honor or some such.”
“You don’t sound impressed,” I said.
“Maybe that’s because the man’s such a pompous jackass, and a phony to boot. To say nothing of his management techniques and his business morality.”
“I guess you two don’t get together for drinks and cribbage very often, eh?”
Sara laughed softly. Mills shook his head vigorously. “He’s a viper, and I’d tell you that even if he and his cash-rich agency hadn’t tried to buy us out once.”
“This gets more intriguing by the minute,” I said. “That last nugget of information suggests all sorts of interesting possibilities.”
“Meaning? Oh—I get it,” Mills said, slapping his forehead lightly. “Pardon my denseness. You think that because we wouldn’t sell out to him, Conn has decided to get even with us by ripping off our ideas?”
“Sounds like one possibility.”
“Well, that might be the case—the guy’s sleazy enough, despite his hero’s persona and that phony statesmanlike bearing,” Mills said grimly, “but he couldn’t do it without some help.”
“Okay,” I said, straightening up and stretching my arms, “here’s how it looks to me: Someone who doesn’t like your agency, or maybe one of you personally, or someone looking to make some quick and dirty money, decides to let your competitors know in advance the content of some of your advertising. That could—”
Sara sniffed. “Now tell us something we don’t know.”
“Just hold on for a minute—I’m not done. Class hasn’t been dismissed,” I said. Sara glared at me. Her eyes were really an extraordinary color. I made another mental note to decide later whether they were blue or green. “What I started to say was, that person—whether greedy or holding a grudge—could be with your agency, he could be with Cherr-o-key, he could be with one of your suppliers, or he could even be somebody who recently left your agency. Now that’s one hell of a lot of people we’re talking about. But to be successful in his perfidy, he—or maybe it’s she—also would need to have an eager recipient of the information at Colmar and Conn, and probably a recipient who’s willing to pay for it.”
“Perfidy—now there’s a word I haven’t heard since university,” Lake said approvingly.
“That’s what comes of my being around Mr. Wolfe for so long. Anyway, I’d attack this whole business by going to your competitors first, because you’re likely to get to the truth sooner that way. It’s simply mathematics; you’re dealing with a single institution at that end of the chain. At least one person there—probably high up—has to know where the leak is coming from.”
Mills massaged the back of his neck with his hand. The man looked like he hadn’t slept in a month. “Even if we were to go to them, which I’m not sure I’m prepared to do, you’re assuming a lot by expecting that they will tell us a damn thing. More likely, they’ll laugh in our—or your—face.”
“I don’t agree,” I told him. “If this were to get out into the media, they’d look bad—probably worse than you would.”
“You’re suggesting threatening them with exposure?” Sara looked doubtful.
I raised one eyebrow. “Why not? How do you think they’d react to that?”
“They would probably call your bluff; then where would we be?”
“It’s not entirely a bluff. For instance, the Gazette would be tickled pink to know about all this. But even without bringing them in, I think going to C and C is a chance worth taking. And face it, you’re going to have to take some chances to get to the heart of the puzzle.”
“This is all interesting, but right now, it’s academic,” Mills said. “I mean, your Mr. Wolfe hasn’t even agreed to take us on yet. And if he does, we don’t have the vaguest what his fee will be.”
“The good news is that he will accept the challenge, or I wasn’t born on a farm near Chillicothe in the great and sovereign state of Ohio. The bad news is that he doesn’t come cheap. The other good news is that once on a case, he gets results.”
The partners exchanged what I would describe as hopeful glances. “So what next?” Lake asked, turning to me and spreading his hands, palms up.
“I talk to Mr. Wolfe when he descends from the plant rooms at six. Once I get an answer, you’ll hear from me within minutes.”
Mills breathed deeply and loudly. “What choice do we have at this point?” He looked at his partners. Lake shrugged; Sara nodded. Mills turned back to me. “All right, we’ll wait for your call. You guarantee we’ll get an answer today?”
“I’ll do everything in my power. That’s not a guarantee, but it’s the next best thing.”
They rose together and filed out of the office, still looking as if they’d been at a wake. I followed them down the hall and helped Sara Ryman on with her fur coat while the men wrestled theirs on. She turned to me with something approaching a smile and started to say thank you, but checked herself. Still, that was progress.
FIVE
WHEN I GOT SETTLED BACK in the office, I looked over my shorthand and mentally played back Wolfe’s conversation with the partners. Based on what I had observed, it appeared that one of Mills’s roles in the threesome was as peacemaker and smoother of ruffled feathers. Boyd Lake and Sara Ryman obviously had flinty sides, and they seemed to relish baiting each other. Was this merely the good-natured banter of creative types, or—just maybe—symptomatic of a deep-seated mutual dislike?
My money was on the latter, but that was for Wolfe to dope out. After all, he’s the resident genius, and as such the one who plumbs the darkest recesses of psyches. I’m only the errand boy, office boy, court jester, and resident scold. For the next hour, I put on my office-boy hat, balancing the checkbook and entering an article into the PC that Wolfe had worked up in longhand for an orchid growers’ journal. And yes, I made damn sure I spelled Paphiopedilum correctly this time. When he came down from the plant rooms at six, the orchid essay—six typo-free double-spaced pages—had been printed out by yours truly and was neatly stacked on his blotter.
After getting his bulk settled behind the desk and ringing for beer, Wolfe leafed through the piece, grunting occasionally.
“Everything in order?” I asked. Another grunt, while he reread it.
I tried again. “Would you like a report on what transpired after your four o’clock ascension?” Fritz entered bearing a tray with the standard order: two chilled bottles of Remmers and a pilsener glass. Wolfe nodded his thanks, opened one of the bottles, dropped the cap into his center drawer, poured, and watched the foam settle.
“Confound it, go ahead, or you’ll badger me right up until dinnertime,” he grumbled, taking his first gulp of beer in more than two hours.
“Yes, sir.” I fed him a verbatim account without glancing at my notes, which is a snap. After all, this had been a mere sixty-seven-minute session, and I’ve been known to spew back hours’ worth of gabbing, word for word. I don’t mean to boast—it’s just a faculty I have—an “anomaly,” Wolfe calls it.
Anyway, he leaned back with his fingers interlaced over his center mound while I performed my anomaly, including the parts where I did everything but guarantee the partners that Wolfe would ultimately accept the case. After I finished, he sat with his eyes closed for all of two minutes; when he resurfaced, he refilled his glass.
“Well, what now?” I asked.
Wolfe shifted his bulk. “Get Mr. Mills on the telephone,” he decreed.
I had the agency’s number on my pad, along with a notation that Mills would be in the office until at least seven. After I dialed, Wolfe picked up his instrument. On the third ring, the boss himself answered, and I stayed on the line.
“Mr. Mills, this is Nero Wolfe. I am calling to inform you that I agree to undertake your problem. My fee, which is not negotiable, is fifty thousand dollars, plus expenses. One-half payable immediately in the form of a cashier’s check.”
I could hear Mills wheeze. “That’s … pretty steep,” he said, clearing his throat.
“So it is, sir,” Wolfe replied evenly. “Once again, refresh me as to how much the soft drink’s business is worth to your agency.”
Mills let several seconds pass before answering. “Point taken. I will of course have to discuss this with my partners before giving you an answer.”
“Of course. Assuming you accept the terms, Mr. Goodwin will require access to all of your employees and suppliers, although it may not be imperative for him to speak to each one of them. It would be preferable if he operated incognito, but regrettably, he has at least in a limited way become a public figure and would soon be identified. Therefore, we have no option but to conduct the inquiry in the open.”
“I understand,” Mills said stiffly. “Is there anything else before I talk to Sara and Boyd?”
“Yes. Mr. Goodwin will almost surely find it necessary to pay a visit to Colmar and Conn as well.”
“As you know, my partners will love hearing that.”
“Just so,” Wolfe said, ignoring the sarcasm. “After you consult them, you may inform Mr. Goodwin as to your decision.” Mills grumpily said that he would and we all hung up.
“Well, you sure used ‘Mr. Goodwin’ often enough in that little chat,” I said. “Which is okay, I suppose, but what about this ‘in a limited way’ stuff? Here I thought I was a full-fledged public figure in this vibrant and throbbing metropolis, a pop-culture icon not unlike yourself.”
Fade to Black (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 5) Page 4
