“What’s this about my losing something? Who are…”
“I’ll be in the lobby of the Walden at exactly one o’clock, this afternoon,” Gerald said, ignoring the other man’s question. “The Walden at one. Be there. Have Mr. Courtland paged-William Courtland. Come alone. Do it just as I say if you are interested in that little bundle that got away from your friends.”
“Say, what the hell…”
Gerald hung up as the other man stuttered into the telephone.
The trick was going to be in getting out of the building. Gerald didn’t know a great deal about police work or procedure, but he knew enough to realize that they would be watching him. They would be watching every move, never letting him out of their sight. As long as he was in the office he was safe. They wouldn’t bother him here, not unless they picked him up, and so far they hadn’t done that. But what he had to do. he couldn’t do from his desk. He had to get out and had to insure that he’d have freedom of movement. He couldn’t have a detective on his tail.
There would be the detective who had followed him that morning. The man would either be in the lobby of the building, waiting for him to leave, or he would be out by the bank of elevators on this particular floor. But there was one thing the man wouldn’t know about. He wouldn’t know about the private staircase between the two floors occupied by the insurance firm.
The upper floor was used entirely by clerical workers and when he reached it, Gerald walked out into the general room, filled by dozens of girls working at filing systems and IBM business machines. He advanced at once to an unoccupied desk. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mrs. Wilberton, the office supervisor, approaching. He turned to her.
“Mr. Engleman,” he said, “down in the executive offices. His secretary’s typewriter went on the bum. Wants to borrow a machine for an hour or so.”
Mrs. Wilberton nodded, smiling.
“Why certainly,” she said. “I dare say that one will fill the bill.” She indicated the typewriter at the unoccupied desk. “Helen, she’s one of our girls, is off today. If you will just wait a moment I’ll have one of our boys take it down for you.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Gerald said. “I guess I can handle it all right.”
“It’s mighty heavy,” Mrs. Wilberton said. “I think Johnny…”
“I can handle it fine,” Gerald said, leaning down and picking up the machine. “I’ll just use the freight elevator. If you would be good enough to come over with me and push the button…”
He waited until the operator had closed the door and then spoke.
“All the way to the basement,” he said. “This damned thing weighs a ton.”
The operator nodded sympathetically. “What are you goin’ do, junk it?”
Gerald shook his head.
“Broken,” he said. “Taking it over to get it fixed up. I left my car in the alley in back of the building. They told me there’s a door from the basement leading into the alley.”
“That’s right,” the elevator man said. “You know,” he added, “my kid is learning to use one of them things. I’m sending her to business school. She wanted to go to art school but her mother and me, we think it’s a lot smarter she should learn something where she can make a living.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Gerald said.
“Yep, she didn’t want to, but she’s learning business. I get a little ahead of the game, or if one of my numbers comes in, I’m going to get her one of them machines to practice on at home.”
They reached the basement and he brought the elevator to a stop.
“I’ll show you the door,” he said.
Gerald, carrying the typewriter, followed him to the rear of the building. The man opened the door and Gerald stepped out, noticing at once that there was no one in sight. He sighed and laid the typewriter down at his feet.
“Thanks,” he said, starting to walk away.
“Hey. Hey, what about the typewriter? You left the typewriter…” The man was staring at his retiring back in bewilderment.
“Give it to your daughter,” Gerald said over his shoulder. “Consider it a gift from the Seaboard Insurance Company for your loyal and devoted work over the years. She deserves it.”
The man stared at him open-mouthed as he turned the corner of the building.
He was in luck. There was a cab at the curb.
They sat side by side on a deep couch at the back end of the lobby, speaking in low whispers. They didn’t look at each other as they talked.
He’d been very careful in his selection of the spot, seeking out a secluded area, but one from which he could see most of the open space in the large public room. He wanted to be out of the main current of traffic, a place where no one would be able to overhear what they had to say. At the same time, he was careful to select a location that would keep the two of them within sight of other persons. He had no idea of what sort of man this Slaughter would turn out to be and he was taking no chances.
Now, sitting here talking with him, he wondered why he had worried. With the exception of that odd, gravelly voice, Fred Slaughter was merely another run of the mill, middle-aged, businessman. He could have been a salesman or an executive, a contractor or a dress manufacturer. There was nothing either sinister or dangerous in his manner or in his attitude.
They’d been talking now for a good half hour.
“Yes,” Slaughter said, “you could be telling me the truth. And then again, maybe not. Maybe, instead of being just an innocent passer-by-an insurance man you said your racket was, didn’t you-well maybe instead of that you are a cop. How do I know? You don’t look like a cop, but today, nobody does. What with these college graduates and all.”
“I have identification…” Gerald began, reaching into his pocket for his wallet.
Slaughter put out a hand.
“Don’t bother,” he said. “Don’t bother about showing me anything. Identification would be the very first thing a cop would have.” He stopped speaking for a moment and then looked up.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Lemme make a phone call. I want you to talk to somebody. Let’s just get it straightened out for sure whether you are on the up and up. Not, you understand, that I care if you are a cop. You’re the one who has been doing the talking. I’ve just been listening. I haven’t said a damned thing. But just so we keep the books right, let’s find out.”
He stood up and Gerald also stood.
“There’s a booth over at the side there. I’ll get a number then open the door and you just talk to the party that answers. O.K.?”
“Anything you say,” Gerald said. He followed Slaughter over to the booth and Slaughter told him to stand several feet away while he got his party. He concealed the phone with his body as he dialed behind the tightly closed door.
It took him several minutes to get Steinberg and then another minute or two to explain what he wanted. Finally he put a coin in the slot for the third time and then opened the door a crack and signaled Gerald.
“Talk to him,” he said when Gerald approached. The two traded places.
The voice at the other end of the wire was very smooth.
“Mr. Hanna?”
“That’s right.”
“Who is the chairman of the board of Seaboard Insurance, Mr. Hanna?”
“Philip Gottlieb,” Gerald answered at once.
“And what is the name of the receptionist who would be on duty now?”
“Miss Kitty Donnelly.”
The man told Gerald to hold on a second and he could hear him speaking rapidly to someone in the room near him. Gerald knew that he would be checking the names on another telephone.
“All right, Mr. Hanna,” he said, “tell me this. If I were to leave seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars to my wife and three kids, and I wanted to set it up so I wouldn’t be paying a full inheritance tax, just how would I go about it?”