“But,” Paul said, “nobody will believe what you say. Do you have any witnesses, and photostats of checks, anything at all to prove anything? That’s what they’ll ask.
They’ll ask something else, too: ‘Harry,’ they’ll say, ‘aren’t you making all this up just to try to save your own miserable neck?’ And what answer will you give them to that, Harry?” Paul hung up and walked back to his booth, squeezed in, and sat down heavily.
Nat Wilson, he thought, Giddings, Zib, Pat Harris, and now Harry Whitaker; yes, and Patty herself, hadn’t she gone over to the other side? So where did that leave him? Just how vulnerable was he? Think, goddammit. THINK!
He had told Bert McGraw that he had followed the change orders without question because they bore Nat Wilson’s signature, which meant that Ben Caldwell’s authority was behind them. So?
It was a good story, one to cling to. Let Harris and Whitaker say what they chose, nobody could prove anything. Or could they?
There were his files upstairs in his office, and if there was a real stink raised, as there probably would be, a special inquiry into what happened at the World Tower, there was little doubt that the files of Paul Simmons & Company would be subpoenaed. So?
Face it, Paul told himself, the files were entirely too revealing. Any competent cost accountant could with little trouble turn up the fact that up to a certain point in the progress of the World Tower job, Paul Simmons & Company had been floundering in financial quicksand; but that in a remarkably short time there had been a sudden turnaround and the ratio of costs to payments received had taken a sharp reversal. Simmons & Company had not only climbed out of the quicksand, they had marched to high comfortable ground where the living was easy.
And it would be no trick at all for Nat Wilson to tie the sudden change in fortunes to the issuance of the first of the change orders. Simple as that. Nat Wilson again.
Paul sat quite still, looking idly now at the color television picture. The camera was focused on the north face of the Tower Room, a closeup with a long-range lens. They were breaking the windows out. Glass shards fell like shining hail. Inside the room shadowy figures moved about without apparent purpose.
It was, Paul thought, like watching one of those crowd scenes from Bangladesh or Biafra or, for that matter, some unpronounceable village in South Vietnam distant, vaguely interesting, but basically meaningless. Those weren’t real people, they were merely pictures on i screen. There was no reality outside of one’s own self hadn’t some philosopher postulated that? Well, that was the way it was. Paul returned to a study of his drink.
The files were bad, but still they proved nothing. He had followed the change orders, and because of the changes his fortunes had improved. People night suspect that there was a causal relationship indicating hanky-panky, but they couldn’t prove it. What about that ITT flap in Washington when they had hastily run their files through a shredding machine in anticipation of a subpoena? There was a lot of suspicion, but no proof of anything, and who even remembered it now? Still it would be well to check. And one question remained: Where had the copies of the change orders come from?
He slid out of the booth and went again to the telephone, this time to call his office on his private line. It was late, but his secretary answered. Her voice was breathless.
“Ruth, honey,” Paul said, “you sound uptight.” A warning bell rang faintly in his mind. “What’s up?” At least she would tell him the truth, stick with him. After all they had had together. Not so much since Zib, but what difference? A good-looking chick, Ruth, really stacked, very good in bed, and bright. “Anything wrong?” Paul said.
The breathless voice calmed a little. “It’s just that—you have seen what’s happening down at the World Tower, haven’t you?”
“I’ve seen.”
“And,” Ruth said, “you know about Mr. McGraw’s heart attack?”
“That too.”
“He’s dead.”
“Is he now?” Paul began to smile. He bore the old man no particular malice, he told himself, but it was better, far better this way. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Where are you, Paul? Are you coming to the office?” That warning bell again. “Why do you ask?” He paused. “Have there been calls? Anybody asking for me?” Out of the comer of his eye he caught the change of television camera angle and he turned his head to look. The camera was focused now on one edge of the north Trade Center tower roof. Men were clustered there, some of them in uniform, and instantly he understood what they were about. Crazy, he thought, out of sight. Breeches buoy attempt? Nat’s idea? “Well?” he said into the phone.
“No calls,” Ruth said. “Nobody asking for you.” She paused. “It’s just that—I want to see you.” She paused again. “That’s all it is.”
Still the warning bell tolled. “Is there anybody there in the office?”
“Who?” Ruth’s voice sounded puzzled.
“I don’t know. I’m asking.”
“Nobody but me.
Paul let his breath out slowly. Just uptight, he told himself, jumpy. “Okay,” he said. “I’m coming up. Get out the World Tower files for me. I want to look through them.” He paused. “Okay?”
“Of course.” Good-looking, stacked, and bright. “I’ll have them waiting.”
“That’s my good girl,” Paul said, and started for the door.
“You don’t want another drink?” the bartender said. “Hell.” He gestured at the television set. “You’re the first customer I’ve had since that began.” He paused. “Look at it. A fire. How can that be? Like, they got all kind of safety things, don’t they?”
The wedding guest confronted by the ancient mariner, Paul thought,’ and found the concept vaguely amusing. “I wouldn’t know,” he said.
“Lots of nuts around these days, real screwballs.”
The bartender paused. “You’re sure you won’t have another drink?”
“Another time,” Paul said. “But thanks anyway.” He walked out to the street. It was almost empty. Strange.
He did not remember it, but he had heard of another time when the total attention of the city was focused on a single event, and the streets, as now, were almost deserted. It was the play off game between the Dodgers and the Giants in a year he could no longer identify; and when, in the last of the ninth inning, Bobby Thompson had hit his winning home run, every building had emptied and people had capered in the streets, a city gone mad.
Now the city’s focus was on not a baseball game, but a burning building.
The receptionist was long gone from her desk in his outer office. Paul walked past, into his own office. Ruth was waiting there, good-looking, stacked, and bright. And on his desk were the World Tower files, as he had asked.
“Hi, honey,” Paul said, and closed the door. Then he stopped and stood staring, frowning, at the two men who had been standing behind it.
“This,” Ruth’s voice said quite calmly, “is Mr. Simmons. These gentlemen have been waiting for you, Paul.”
The room was still. “John Wright, district attorney’s office,” one of the men said. “We’ve impounded your World Tower files. And we’d like you to come downtown with us to answer a few questions.” Wright’s voice altered a trifle, hardened. “Maybe more than a few.”
“And if I refuse?” Paul said.
Nothing in Wright’s face changed. “You won’t.”
Paul looked at Ruth. Her face was expressionless. He looked again at the two men. “By what authority—”