We sipped our coffee and Arch said, “If we do decide to hire anyone to check up on Hennig’s handling of the estate, Henderson would be the boy. But I think it would be unnecessary expense. Uh—thanks for coming along, Rod, and for signing the stipulation.”
“Don’t mention it. You signed, too. And, listen, Arch, I’m not going to draw against the estate beyond that money I got for Mrs. Trent. You don’t need to worry about it.”
“Why would I worry?”
“Because if it turned out I killed Grandma Tuttle, you’d be out whatever sums I’d drawn. The whole estate would be yours, less those sums. I could read your face, Arch, just before you made up your mind to sign that paper.”
“Don’t be a damned fool,” he said. “Despite what the police tell you, you still think you might be the murderer. Damn it, you need to go to a psychiatrist. Why won’t you?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I’m afraid to find out that the police are wrong. Listen, Arch, you don’t have to worry about it. I’m not going to draw against the estate any farther. So if it turns out I am barred from being a legatee, you won’t be out more than that thousand.”
He looked disgusted and said, “Don’t be a damn fool, Rod.” But there was relief behind his disgust; I could see that.
“Got to run along,” he said. “Thanks for the coffee. Be seeing you.” Then he turned back. “Rod why won’t you simply accept the simple truth, that a burglar killed her?”
I said, “I guess I don’t believe in burglars.”
I watched him as he headed for the door.
I ordered another cup of coffee and then realized that I didn’t want it. But I managed to drink part of it and then went outside. It was getting cloudy and cooling off a bit.
I walked to where I’d parked the Linc, got its twelve cylinders going and then wondered where the hell I was going to go and what I was going to do when I got there.
What I wanted to do was call Robin and ask if I could take her anywhere, but it wouldn’t be a good idea, this soon. She’d not only say no, but she’d be so annoyed about it I’d have to wait a long time before trying again. Besides, she’d be out today, starting to look for a job.
Maybe that was what I should do. Not look for a job, that is, but go back to my old one. It would fill in my days and it would start a pay check coming in again. I’d told Arch I wouldn’t draw against the estate, and what money I had wouldn’t last forever.
I shut off the engine and got out of the car; I went into a drugstore and looked up the Carver Advertising Agency in the phone book. It was a few blocks away so I decided to go there instead of phoning.
It was in one of the best, if not biggest, office buildings in town. Marble halls and glass-brick partitions and an atmosphere of opulence in general that you could hang your hat on, if it was an expensive hat. My alma mater was on the sixth floor and, judging by the reception room, was at least as swanky as anything else in the building.
I went up to the receptionist’s desk. “Mr. Carver in?”
“Yes, he’s in, Rod. Just a second, I’ll see if he’s free.” She clicked a switch and said into the intercom, “Rod Britten’s here, Mr. Carver.” And then, to me, “Sure, go right in, Rod.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Which way?”
She looked startled for a second and then said, “Oh. I’m sorry, Rod. I’d—forgotten that you wouldn’t know. Through that archway, first door to your right.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m May. May Corbett. I’d forgotten you wouldn’t remember me, either.”
I grinned at her. “I’ll never forget again, May. I hope. Thanks again.”
I went through the archway she’d pointed to. The first door to my right was lettered Gary Cabot Carver. I opened it and went in.
It was a big office, with a big desk at the far end. The furnishings in it must have cost thousands of dollars. Carver was coming around the end of his desk and I waded through the carpet to meet him. We shook hands and he clapped me on the shoulder with his free hand.
“You’re looking fine, boy,” he boomed. His voice was deep and resonant, and the rest of him matched. He was big, hearty looking, with a thick shock of iron-gray hair. Mustache to match. Keen eyes and keen clothes. With a highball in his hand he could have posed for a whisky ad. I wondered if I ever wrote copy for whisky ads, and maybe there’s something in telepathy for he said, “Sit down, boy. Care for a drink?”
“No thanks, Mr. Carver.” Or maybe I’d called him Gary before—but then I decided not because he didn’t tell me to.
He was back in his chair now, opening a bottom drawer. “Sure you’ll have one, Rod. I was just wanting a drink myself, and I don’t drink alone.”
He was taking things out of the bottom drawer without waiting for me to nod, so I didn’t bother nodding. It must have been quite a bottom drawer; out came not only a bottle of Scotch and a siphon bottle but tall glasses and ice cubes. He didn’t use a jigger to measure out the Scotch.
He handed me one of the drinks he made. “To your health, Rod.” And, after we’d each drunk to it, “Ah—how is your health, Rod? Better, I hope?”
“I’m feeling fine, Mr. Carver. The amnesia is still present, but—for all I know, it’s permanent. And I’m fine otherwise, and getting bored doing nothing. If you want to try me out to see if I can still handle my job, I’m ready any time.”
“Good boy.” For a moment, as he stared at me, his eyes were a little glassy, as though he had a touch of temporary amnesia himself and was wondering who the devil he was talking to. If he really didn’t drink alone, I decided, he must have had quite a bit of company already that morning. Then he remembered me. “But don’t you think it’s a bit soon, Rod? Why not—let’s see, this is Monday—why not start next Monday, a week from today?”
“Because another week of doing absolutely nothing would give me the willies, Mr. Carver. I’m not in the mood for a vacation and I think the best thing for me is to get back into the groove as soon as I can.”
“You mean, you want to start right away? Tomorrow?”
I said, “What do you think of this idea, Mr. Carver? Suppose I borrow, right now, the files on ads I’ve worked on recently—the copy I’ve written, layouts that went with it, tear-sheets in print if they’re part of the files, so I can study what I’ve been doing and familiarize—refamiliarize—myself with it. Suppose I study it for a day or two, let’s say two days, and start in Thursday morning. I won’t feel so strange then, and I’ll be able to pitch right in—I hope.”
“Excellent idea, my boy. I’ll have Jonsey pick out some file folders for you to take with you.” He pushed a button and told the intercom to have Jonsey sent in.
“Who is Jonsey, Mr. Carver?”
“Our chief clerk. That’s right, Rod, you’re going to have to be introduced to everybody all over again, aren’t you? I hadn’t thought of that. How did you know me?”
I grinned. “Your name was on the door, and you were the only one in this office. It wasn’t too hard a guess. By the way, how many employees are there here?”
“Twenty—um, let’s see—twenty-three, counting you, Rod.” He took another swig of his drink. “That’s not counting myself. Nor several artists who work for us on, let’s say, piece work, but not on a full-time basis.”
“And I knew all of them?”
“Of course.”
I said, “It’s going to be quite a job, getting everybody straight, meeting that many people at once. Did I have any special friend here, Mr. Carver—I mean, someone I was especially friendly with?”
“Why—I don’t know, Rod. You were friendly with everyone here. Everyone liked you—I mean, likes you.” He smiled. “You’ve got me using the past tense, too. But as to whether you were particularly close to any one person, more than the other, I don’t—”
The door opened and a thin man in thick glasses came in. He said, “Yes, Mr. Carver?” And then saw me and his face lighted up. “Hi there, Rod. How’r
e you doing?”
Carver said, “Rod, this is George Jonsey, our chief clerk.”
I got up and shook hands with him. I said, “It’s silly to say I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Jonsey.”
“George, Rod. Going to be back with us?”
Carver answered for me. “As of Thursday morning, Jonsey. Meanwhile—” He explained what I wanted. “Be sure you include the Lee Hosiery file, Jonsey,” he added. “About time we started on that new campaign for them, and I’ll put Rod on it. So if he knows what we’ve done for them before, it’ll help him.”
“Sure, Mr. Carver. Glad to know you’re going to be back with us, Rod.”
When Jonsey had left I said, “What I had in mind, Mr. Carver, in asking you if I had any special friend here is this. It’s going to be confusing to remeet twenty-some people all at once. They’ll all know me and I won’t be able to sort them out—unless someone briefs me before-hand. Now if I spent a little time this evening, or tomorrow evening, with one of them, got to know him and had him tell me about the others and what their jobs are, and made a list of names, then they’d click as I met them and it wouldn’t be confusing.”
“I see what you mean, Rod. Will you have another drink?”
I saw that Carver’s glass was empty. Mine was still half full and in my hand. I said, “No thanks, Mr. Carver. I’m still working on this one.” And I very carefully didn’t put it down on the desk lest he refill it anyway while he made another for himself.
He made one and sat back with it in his hand. A perfect Calvert ad, if the photograph was taken from an angle that wouldn’t show that the bottle on his desk was White Horse Scotch. He frowned judiciously. “I don’t know who to suggest, Rod. Almost any one of them—” Suddenly his frown changed into a smile. Too suddenly; he’d planned changing it and had known that the change was coming. “Unless you want to combine business with pleasure?”
I said, “An excellent idea.” And then hated myself for saying it because I’d fallen under the Man-of-Distinction influence and had answered him in Carverese. Instead of English.
He said, “I mean, you might invite Vangy Wayne for—ah—dinner,”
Vangy Wayne. Robin had mentioned her. The little blonde whom I’d been dating before my first date with Robin, a little over two years ago. Full name Evangeline, Robin had said.
And why shouldn’t I date her again, now? I’d had Robin, but I’d lost her. And I’d been celibate a long time, a week that I knew of. Carver’s “for—ah dinner” wasn’t Esperanto.
He said, “Miss Wayne is in the layout department.”
I wondered if he was punning. But he said it deadpan. I couldn’t tell. And come to think of it, I didn’t care. Vangy Wayne would have worked here long enough to give me the low-down on my fellow-employees—and employer—no matter what department she worked in. I said, “I don’t remember Miss Wayne, Mr. Carver, but I’m perfectly willing to take your advice.”
He pushed a button again and said, “Send Miss Wayne in, please.”
He drank his drink and I sipped at mine—and held it—and after a minute or so the door opened and a cute little blonde came in. I mean cute in the best sense of the term. Cuddly, kissable, sleepable-with, maybe even lovable. She wore clothes but you didn’t notice what kind or whether they came from Colby’s or from a bargain basement, you were aware of them only because they were something annoyingly between you and Vangy Wayne. And I suppose that meant they were well designed clothes because that’s the effect women’s clothes are supposed to have on men.
If she noticed me, she didn’t show it. She came halfway across the office and stopped there, looking at Carver. She said, “Yes, Mr. Carver?”
“Rod,” Carver said, “this is Vangy Wayne. You know Rod, of course, Vangy.”
Vangy looked at me and the temperature of the room went down considerably. She said, “Yes, Mr. Carver. I remember Mr. Britten.”
She looked cute, cuddly, kissable, sleepable-with. But not by me. I had halitosis, body odor, athlete’s foot and syphilis and I was a member of the Communist Party, the Ku Klux Klan and the N. A. M., and besides she didn’t like me. That was what the way she looked at me said.
I heard Carver clear his throat. He said, “Ah—I was going to suggest—” And then stopped. Obviously, it wasn’t worth while suggesting, even though Vangy had quit looking at me and was looking back at him.
I had a sudden hunch.
I said, “Mr. Carver, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Something personal. May I speak to Miss Wayne alone for a minute? Outside in the hallway, in another office, anywhere?”
He cleared his throat. He said, “You may use this office. I—ah—must leave for a moment anyhow.”
He went to the door and through it with a dignity belying his errand. Even Men of Distinction must visit the bathroom. The more distinguished they are, the oftener.
Vangy stood looking at me. I stood looking at her. And if my hunch was wrong, I was going to look and feel awfully damned silly.
CHAPTER 6
VANGY,” I said, “was it you who phoned me and left a number for me to call back? And I didn’t call it—that’s what you’re angry about?”
“That’s part of it. That was the finishing touch—the way you walked out on me, and then finally I call you and you don’t even—”
“Vangy,” I said, “please be reasonable. I don’t know what you’re talking about, except about the phone call. I didn’t know you when you walked in this office—or wouldn’t have if Mr. Carver hadn’t said he was sending for you. My amnesia is no gag. Did you think it was?”
“Well—not that, but—”
“It isn’t. I don’t remember a thing that happened to me prior to a week ago midnight tonight. As of that time I didn’t remember my own name. Since then I know about my past only what people have told me. About the phone call—does your number sound like Spring four eight three seven?”
“It’s four eight seven three.” She was looking puzzled now instead of angry.
Rosabelle’s slip for the telephone call was still in my pocket; I handed it to Vangy Wayne. “See? The switchboard operator at my end got two of the numbers transposed. I called this number, but naturally I didn’t get you.”
“I—I see, Rod.” Rod. It was all right; I was Rod now instead of Mr. Britten. “I’m sorry I got mad, but—well, I didn’t understand.”
I explained to her the reason Carver had called her in.
“Are you free this evening, Vangy? Can you have dinner with me and brief me on the setup here?”
“I’m sorry, Rod, I do have plans for tonight. Would tomorrow evening do?”
“It’ll do fine,” I said. “I’m not starting back to work till Thursday, so it’s plenty of time.”
She gave me her address and apartment number and we decided that I’d pick her up at seven.
The door opened and Carver stuck his head in. “All right to come in?”
“Sure, Mr. Carver.”
He came in smiling. “It’s sure warmer in here than it was when I left a few minutes ago. Have you two settled your problems?”
Vangy said, “Yes, Mr. Carver. Rod’s taking me to dinner tomorrow night. May I go now?”
He nodded. George Jonsey came in as Vangy was leaving. He was carrying a brief case. “Guess this is about what you want, Rod. And that brief case is yours, if you don’t remember. It was by your desk.”
I thanked him.
Carver said, “It’ll be good to have you back with us, Rod. If you don’t feel ready by Thursday, though, don’t push yourself.”
I told him I thought I’d be ready.
I went back down to my car, and that was settled. And studying whatever Jonsey had put in my brief case would give me something to do until I could get back to work.
It was too near lunch time, I decided, to go home and then have to go out again almost right away to eat, so I killed time around town until I was able to have lunch and get it over with. It occurred to me while I
was eating that I might have asked Vangy Wayne to have lunch with me, but it was too late by then. I was getting more and more curious about the answers to some questions I wanted to ask Vangy. Apparently I’d been seeing her. Had it been only since the separation between Robin and me or had I seen Vangy outside of office hours before that time? Robin had said I hadn’t been straying off the reservation—but would Robin have known—or would she have told me the truth if she had known? Robin had been pretty vague and pretty cagey about the real reasons for our divorce.
And when and why would I have “walked out” on Vangy? Monday evening, maybe, to head for Grandma’s? I still didn’t know who I’d been with Monday evening; it could have been Vangy as well as anyone, if I’d been seeing Vangy.
There was no hurry about getting briefed concerning my other fellow employees at the agency, but what had been my personal relations with Vangy—and how personal had they been? I wished there was some way I could find that out before tomorrow evening, but I didn’t see how.
And there was no one except Vangy who could tell me.
Someone said, “Hello, Rod. May I sit here?” I said, “Sure,” and he sat down across from me at the table. He was about my own age but better dressed and better looking. He said, “I’m Andy Henderson. We used to play together as kids, lived next door to one another. Dad said you talked to him last week.”
That placed him for me. Andrew J. Henderson, son of Vincent R. Henderson, who’d been Grandma Tuttle’s closest friend and neighbor and whose story of the night of Grandma’s death, had, with Lieutenant Smith’s story, kept the police from suspecting me—if they would have, otherwise.
We All Killed Grandma Page 7
