“What’s left of them after the four kids get through.”
Charley grinned. “My oh my oh my. Wait till the old lady comes back and finds something missing like she did last time. That woman has a tongue that would cut concrete, yes sir, concrete.”
The fog horn blew again, its enraged bellow shook the air and frightened the ships at sea.
Following the bellow came the quick slam of a door. A tall, young man in a dark business suit walked briskly down the steps toward the gate where Charley was sitting. The man had curly straw-colored hair carefully parted to disguise the thinning circle on top. He walked as though he took pride in his body and kept it in the best of physical condition, as Mrs. Goodfield kept her valuables and antiques.
Charley bent over and pretended to be engrossed in tying the lace of one of his workboots.
“Charley.”
The old man straightened up, making a funny little sound that was barely audible.
“I presume you still work here, Charley?”
“Yes, Mr. Jack.”
“I’ve had to warn you before about standing around talking like this.”
“A little talk never hurt—”
“I’m sure your friend here will excuse you while you go on your rounds.”
Jack Goodfield gave Frank one sweeping and contemptuous glance and then marched back into the building like a general who hadn’t yet discovered that his army had been cut down behind him.
Charley took out a black and white bandana and blew his nose into it and cursed. Frank, who had heard, and been the object of, considerable cursing, was impressed by Charley’s vocabulary.
“Sorry if I caused you any trouble,” Frank said. “I came here to see Goodfield, as a matter of fact.”
But Charley had apparently lost interest in the whole affair. Getting up, he adjusted his shoulder holster and began to shuffle toward the side of the building. The general still had one man left.
The air inside the building was very warm and dry after the cold dampness of the fog. At the desk where the workers punched the time clock, a young girl was writing a letter on deep mauve stationery. Through the glass partition behind her Frank could see two rows of women at work over a long table. They looked as identical as the dolls’ heads they were painting.
Seeing Frank, the girl put down her pen but made no attempt to hide the letter. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I’d like to talk to Mr. Jack Goodfield.”
“If it’s a matter of employment, we’re full up.”
“It’s not.”
“All right. That’s Mr. Goodfield’s office right across the hall. Just walk in. His secretary, Mrs. Hiller, is right there — I think.” She added the last two words with a curiously deliberate air, and then she picked up her pen and resumed writing on the mauve notepaper. Before he turned away Frank noticed that she wrote uphill, in a disturbed fashion.
He crossed the hall, unconsciously straightening his shoulders as if to shake off the office he was still carrying four hundred miles from home.
Mrs. Hiller was not at her desk but her name card was: Evangeline Hiller. It was a new and very elaborate name card in a blue plastic container. The rest of the office seemed shabby by comparison.
Frank sat down to wait opposite a blown-up photograph of an office picnic dated in ink at the bottom, July 4, 1932, Muir Park.
The door marked John J. Goodfield opened suddenly and Mrs. Hiller plunged into the room with the reluctant thrust of a diver plunging into cold water. Her body, wrapped in a tight silk jersey dress, was mature and fullblown. Above the shoulders she looked very young and surprised as if she couldn’t understand what in the world had happened below. She was flushed, her long, brown hair was mussed and she was breathing fast and hard. It seemed to Frank that she had been running, a lap or two, perhaps, around the building to set a good example for Charley.
To cover her confusion she addressed Frank in a voice that sounded much too genteel. “If you wish to speak to Mr. Goodfield, sir, I’m afraid he just stepped out a moment ago.”
“When will he be back?”
“Oh, he won’t be back. That is, he won’t be back today, I mean. He had an urgent call.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Very urgent.” Mrs. Hiller swallowed hard, her whole throat convulsing. “Sickness.”
“Whose?”
“Somebody got sick, is all. A friend of Jack’s — Mr. Goodfield’s.”
“And Mr. Goodfield went to soothe the fevered brow?”
“Sure he did. I guess.” Mrs. Hiller’s gentility had vanished, like a popsicle on the sidewalk leaving a small irregular sticky puddle. “He’ll be back maybe tomorrow.”
From inside the office came a soft sound like the drawer of a desk or a filing cabinet sliding into place. The girl heard it, too. She clutched at her throat as if she was choking, and said loudly, “Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day. This friend of his is, real sick.”
Frank wondered if the friend was as sick as Mrs. Hiller looked. “I’m afraid I can’t wait that long.”
She attempted to disguise her obvious relief by saying, “Oh dear, that’s too bad, isn’t it? I mean, Jack — Mr. Goodfield will be terribly sorry to’ve missed you.”
“He doesn’t know me.”
“Well, he... he... just hates to miss people. Anyone.”
“A friendly type, eh?”
“Oh yes, very. Now if you’ll just leave your name, I’ll make sure that he finds out you were here.”
“My name’s Frank Clyde.”
“And your business?”
“I’m a social worker.”
“A... social worker?” Mrs. Hiller’s mouth gaped like a hungry carp’s. “Oh? I don’t believe it.”
“Why shouldn’t you believe it?”
“Well, because. What would a social worker have to do with Jack? Jack’s a millionaire.”
There was a brief silence before Frank spoke again in a friendly, reasonable way as if he was addressing a strange child. “Does this look like a millionaire’s office to you?”
The girl glanced around the tiny room, biting the edge of her lower lip. “Well, gee, I don’t know, I never saw a millionaire’s office before.”
“Have you seen any office before?”
“Just what do you mean by that? I’m a secretary. A private secretary. I took a course. I graduated.”
“Did—”
“With honors. So don’t go making any more crumby remarks about me being a birdbrain. I’m sick of being called a birdbrain by a lot of other birdbrains.”
“I didn’t call you anything. I just wondered if this was your first job.”
Mrs. Hiller stuck her head in the air and held the pose. “Don’t you go social-workering me, Mr. Social Worker. I don’t need any.”
“Your conception of a social worker is—”
“And don’t go saying any dirty words either.”
“I’m afraid you misunderstood.”
“Oh, did I? Don’t tell me I don’t know a dirty word if I hear one.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Well, that’s better.” Mrs. Hiller seemed slightly mollified. “And don’t tell me I don’t know about social workers either. Back when I was a kid we were on relief and those creeps were always coming around to see that we spent enough money on milk. Milk, yet. Nobody ever got filled up on milk. Just try it sometime.”
“I don’t check up on any family finances.” Except my own, he added silently.
“My finances happen to be swell. This dress I got on cost forty dollars plus tax.”
“It’s very pretty.”
“You think so?” The girl smiled, without meaning to. She was as sensitive to a compliment as she was to a criticism. “I think so, too. It’s from Magnin’s. I only got it on Saturday at a sale. It was regular $59.95 and the pleats will stay in forever.”