"May I ask what your business is about," said the secretary.
"Yes," said Dr. Smith. "A special account."
"You wish to open one?" asked the secretary, trying to hide the suspicion in her voice.
"I have one. Under Densen. William Cudahy Densen. A special account. A savings account."
"If you want to make a deposit or a withdrawal, the tellers will be glad to help you."
"I want to talk to one of the vice presidents."
"Certainly, sir," said the secretary, in the tone of voice one used to humor infants. She excused herself and went into the most junior vice president's office. She told him about the derelict outside.
"What name did you say?"
"William something Densen."
The secretary watched in amazement as the vice president buzzed the president on an intercom.
"Do you remember that funny account you were telling me about, well, someone is here to claim it."
"I'm busy right now," the president said. "Hold him up for a few minutes. I'd like to see him." The vice president nodded and hung up.
"If I may ask, sir, is Mr. Densen someone important?" the secretary asked.
"Oh, no," said the vice president. 'It's just that we've had this peculiar account here for the last, oh, eight to ten years. I heard about it when I first came to work here. Somebody deposited some money. I think it was no more than $5,000. He sent it in by mail on American Express travelers' checks. Now you know the law says a person has to show up to open an account. But Densen sent the money with instructions that we should pay anyone with the correct signature. He said it would be all right with the authorities, and no passbook was needed. Well, we naturally reported it to the banking commission, and the commission did say it would be all right."
"And then what?"
"Then nothing. The account just stayed here."
"Drawing interest?"
"No. That's another peculiarity. No interest was asked for. No passbook. No interest. No one showed up. The money just sat."
"Densen certainly does look strange," said the secretary. "Like a bum."
Strange, too, was Densen's request when he received the money. He wanted two hundred dollars in quarters, one hundred dollars in dimes, twenty dollars in nickels and the rest in twenties and fifties. He carried his money out in a little box. The bank officers watched as he crossed the street to an Army and Navy store. Out of curiosity, the youngest V.P. went to the store to browse. He saw the strange Mr. William Cudahy Densen whose signature had proven valid, buy a bus driver change dispenser, and put it in the box. He saw the strange Mr. Densen go across the street to a clothing store and reemerge in a dull gray suit more than conservative enough for a banker.
Densen's next stop was a stationery store, where he purchased pads, pencils, a slide rule, a billfold and a cheap attache case.
At the bus station, the young bank officer lost Mr. Densen. He could have sworn he saw him waiting in line. And then there was no one.
Dr. Harold Smith walked out of the Minneapolis bus terminal, mildly amused by the young man's attempt to follow him.
CHAPTER TEN
Of course he would wear a suit, but should it be black? Black might look like instant mourning, and perhaps that was just a shade too obsequious a posture to be adopted by the man who would be the next president of IDC. On the other hand, a light-colored suit might be considered frivolous by Holly Broon in her state of grief over her father's death.
After weighing his options, considering the variables, the upside potential and the downside risks, Blake Corbish decided to wear a black suit with a blue pinstripe. The black covered the mourning, the stripe showed that Corbish was not a man to stand on inane ceremonies, not when the world's greatest corporation was in need of effective leadership. He hoped the point would not be lost on Holly Broon.
He dressed quickly, his mind on T.L.'s daughter and what he knew of her. Indeterminately thirtyish. Pictures in the beautiful people magazines. Inside talk was that she was at least as much the brains of IDC as her father.
Corbish had never met her, but one of the lower-ranking vice presidents had.
He had come into Corbish's office after that meeting six months before. He had wiped sweat from his brow, sighed, lit a cigarette, exhaled the smoke and said, "What a bitch."
Corbish knew whom he meant, but one could never tell what was real or what was a setup, so he asked simply, "Who?"
"That Holly Broon," the other young V.P. had said. "She just cut off my balls and barbecued them."
The vice president had been in charge of a narrow-goaled program to buy up European germanium for use in transistors. It was supposed to be done quietly, but the previous day a line had been dropped into the Wall Street Journal mentioning IDC's interest in European suppliers. This of course had the immediate effect of jamming up the price so that IDC would realize no savings by going overseas.
The idea for the program apparently had been Holly Broon's. The young vice president had met with her that day in T.L.'s Mamaroneck office, in the presence of old T.L. himself.
Corbish remembered thinking that it was odd the young vice president hadn't mentioned T.L. at all. Just Holly Broon. She had impressed him and frightened him. Corbish had listened to the story but he'd said nothing, not wishing to commit himself. Later, he gave his immediate superior hints of the comments made by the young vice president. As he knew it would, the story was passed on to T.L. Soon after, the young vice president was gone.
That was all Corbish knew about her, except of course the pictures he had seen of her. They made her look beautiful. Well, he would wait to see about that. He had seen too many stunning pictures of corporate women who turned out to have all the beauty of footprints, to be impressed by what the camera said.
He glanced at his watch, sneaked a look into his bedroom where Teri had collapsed back onto the bed, her martini spilled on the carpet, its contents darkening the light blue wool. He shook his head and left. There would be time to deal with Teri after he was president of IDC.
When Corbish drove his own Cadillac through the gates, he warned the head guard, "A Miss Broon is coming to see me. Let her right in, then call me."
"Yes sir, Mr. Corbish."
Corbish had his secretary prepare two pots, one of coffee and one of tea, and gave her orders to keep both hot, and to bring them in on a silver service when he buzzed on the intercom.
He buzzed as soon as the guard called him, and by the time Holly Broon swirled into his office, the silver service was sitting on one corner of the conference table. A class touch, Corbish thought, looking at it. A presidential-class touch.
He rose.
"Good morning, Miss Broon, I can't tell you how…"
"Then don't try, Corbish," she said. "We've got work to do." She looked at the silver service. "Coffee and tea?"
"Yes. Which would you…?"
"Have any vodka?"
There was, he knew, liquor in one of the cabinets, but now he wondered with some anguish what to do. He had not expected a morning drinker. He did not want to look like a boozer himself by going right to the liquor cabinet. On the other hand, if he delayed getting the drink, it might looked as if he lacked social grace.
He picked up the phone and called his secretary.
"I ordered some liquor the other day for guests. Where is it? Thank you."
He hung up. "It's over here," he said to Holly Broon. "I didn't know where they had put it." There. Social grace and teetotalling in the office.