“I don’t understand how anybody can be so stupid,” Katharine answered.
The woman blinked. “Madam?”
“This message.” Katharine handed it over, and while the woman looked at it Katharine said, “The first stupidity is that the girl here insisted the message didn’t exist. It was only when I asked to speak to you that she went looking for it.”
“Yes, I see,” the woman said. “Well, it was found, wasn’t it? And you wanted to reserve an office?”
“I want to talk about the second stupidity,” Katharine told her. “You’ll see it’s addressed to me.”
“Is your name spelled wrong? Sometimes over the phone—”
“And you’ll see it’s from a messenger from Willson, Garfield and Company.”
“Madam, I’m sorry, I don’t understand the complaint. True, there was a breakdown, it took a few extra moments to deliver the message—”
“I sent it,” Katharine said.
The woman looked blank. “I’m sorry,” she said. “What was that?”
“I sent the message. I sent the message to the messenger from Willson, Garfield and Company, who got off the plane from New York—” she consulted her watch “—twenty-five minutes ago and is by now God knows where.”
The woman was thunderstruck. “This message isn’t for you?”
“This message is from me. You have not only lost my message, you have lost my messenger.” She looked at her watch again — for effect, no doubt. “And how much longer do you intend to keep me standing here before you find my messenger?”
The woman opened her mouth, closed it, looked at the message still in her hand, looked at Katharine, and stepped briskly to the Information counter, shunting aside the Nashville-bound person with a no-nonsense hip. “Did anyone from Flight six-two-three leave a message here, or ask for a message?”
The girl’s reaction time was too slow for longterm survival. This was the moment to stop being sullen and start expressing all kinds of helpfulness, but she missed it. Face still closed, she told her own immediate superior, “I’m sure I don’t know.”
“We’ll see about that, Miss. Give me the phone.”
Too late, the girl noticed that the signals had changed. Quickly producing the phone, she said, “I don’t remember anybody. Should I go through all the messages?”
“Continue with this other gentleman,” the woman said, gesturing at our friend from Nashville. Then, with briskly efficient fingers, she dialed a three-digit number, spoke briefly, read off the message, listened to a response, spoke again, and broke the connection. Another three-digit number was dialed, and an even briefer conversation took place, during which the public address system suddenly announced: “Will the messenger from Willson, Garfield and Company go to the main Information Desk? Will the messenger from Willson, Garfield and Company go to the main Information Desk, please?”
Her phoning done, the woman turned to Katharine and said, “I’m terribly sorry about this, Madam. If you’ll come with me, I have the office reserved.” Then, turning back to the girl, she said, “When the messenger arrives, have him escorted at once to conference room six.”
“Yes, certainly,” the girl said. “I’ll do it myself.”
“Yes, do that. And then come see me.”
Leaving the girl with her eyes and mouth blinking like a fish in an aquarium, the woman led us away, across the polished composition floor and up a flight of stairs and through an unmarked white door, all the while apologizing for the mix-up. Beyond the white door was a white corridor, flanked by doorways, each revealing a conference room containing a long oval table surrounded by leatherette chairs.
Ours — a black metal 6 was screwed to the white door — was midway down the right side. Showing us in, the woman said, “I’m sure the messenger will be along very shortly.”
Katharine looked around. “Is there a phone?”
“Certainly, Madam, right here.” And she picked it up from a stand to one side and moved it with its long cord over to the conference table. “You dial nine for an outside line, then give the number to the operator.”
Katharine had opened her attaché case on the table and brought out pen and legal pad. “May I have your name and extension?”
The woman hesitated, but had no choice: “I’m Mrs. Fairborne. One twenty-seven.” Watching Katharine write it down, she said, “I intend to speak severely to that young lady.”
“She isn’t the one who took the message.”
“Oh, I’ll certainly look into that as well. It’s so hard to find reasonably competent people these days.”
“That’s why competent supervision is so important,” Katharine said.
Mrs. Fairborne didn’t like that. “Yes, of course,” she said. “Well, I have no doubt everything will be all right now. If there’s any problem, just get right in touch with me.”
“Thank you, I will.”
Mrs. Fairborne bowed herself out, closing the door very gently, and I grinned at Katharine, saying, “You’re tough.”
“You have to be,” she said, still grim-faced. Then she shook her head, as though forcing herself into a different gear. “As a matter of fact, you do have to be,” she said. “A woman does. A woman has to be much tougher than a man if she’s going to be taken seriously.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
Seating herself at the end of the oval table, she pulled her open attaché case closer, then glanced into it and seemed very troubled by something she saw there. “Barry,” she said, and gave me a helpless look.
“No decision, huh?”
“Well, how can I?” She was being very irritable now. “The whole idea of this trip was to get away from scenes like this, have some leisurely time to myself, to think things out without interruption.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, how can I think in this atmosphere? Doing that woman’s job for her. If she’s the supervisor, let her supervise.”
“There’s still the original plan,” I said. “Another three, four days to Los Angeles.”
“I’d so wanted to get everything resolved now. I hate being indecisive. You probably find that hard to believe, but you’re seeing me in a very unusual light.”
“I’d already figured that out,” I assured her.
“Normally I’m very decisive, very sure of myself.” She took a deep breath, gripping the edge of the table, and let it forcefully out. “Think,” she told herself. “It’s time to get your head together.”
I sat midway along the table and watched her frown at the walnut-grain formica top. With her jaw clenched, her facial bone structure was rather more pronounced; she had beautiful cheekbones. I had a sudden urge to kiss her. I did not make that mistake.
There was a knock at the door. “Puff,” Katharine said, letting air out again, sagging in a defeated way, and I got up to open the door.
The messenger was a surprise. I’d expected some skinny kid, but he was probably in his late forties, hair very gray and rather long and unkempt, face jowly and thick-featured, body out of shape and tending to fat. He wore a thin darkish tie, a medium-gray and rather shabby suit, a wrinkled white shirt, ordinary black shoes, and hornrim glasses. He was carrying an attaché case like Katharine’s, only thicker. He looked like a not very successful druggist. What was he doing being a messenger?
He looked at me. “Katharine Scott?”
“No,” I said, and pointed. “That’s her there.”