“We aren’t sensation mongers, Mr. Harrison,” Prior said. “We aren’t interested in anything but cold facts.”
“That makes me feel better,” Jake said, and did his best to appear ingenuously relieved. “And, off the record, I think you’ll find that Riordan did just about what any other business man would have done, and what hundreds of them did, as a matter of fact. After all, we were at war and the pressure was on everyone to get stuff out of the factories and overseas. Cutting corners was a national pastime.”
“Perhaps,” Prior said, noncommittally; and seemed to withdraw into his shell, so Jake stopped pressing. He shook hands with both men and left.
He got to the office twenty minutes later, at about eight forty-five, and went in to see Noble. He related briefly what had happened; and added that he’d told Martin that Riordan was probably featured in May’s diary.
Noble ran a hand through his disarranged hair and peered reproachfully at Jake. “Why the devil did you do that?”
“He’d have found it out anyway.”
“I suppose.” Noble went to the bar for a drink.
Jake lit a cigarette. “Big night?” he asked.
Noble nodded. He came back to his desk and Jake noted that he hadn’t shaved, and his collar was wrinkled and soiled.
Jake said, “How do you know that Riordan had nothing to do with May’s death?”
“I’m just hoping he didn’t. The account wouldn’t be worth a dime if Riordan went to the chair.”
“That’s a very objective way to look at it,” Jake said. “You haven’t heard from him by any chance?”
“Not a word. I talked to his wife, and she didn’t know where he was.”
Jake shrugged and walked to the door with Noble at his heels. “One thing, Jake,” Noble said. “I–I’m going to need your help. I didn’t go home last night. I–I’d appreciate it a lot if you’d back me up on a story that I spent the night with you.”
“That’s a great idea,” Jake said. He saw that Noble was actually shaky, that his normally bronzed complexion had an undercast of green. “Where were you last night?”
“I told my wife I was tied up in a business meeting,” Noble said, lowering his voice. “Actually I dropped in to see a friend of mine at the Regis Hotel. She’s a grand girl, Jake, a grand girl, and if you knew her you’d know what I mean.”
“Thank God I don’t. What’s her name?”
“Bebe Passione. That’s a stage name, of course.”
“Really? Gary, you’re beyond me, at times. There’s a murder investigation under way and you, along with quite a few other people, may have to explain where you were at four o’clock this morning. Do you understand that?”
“I know, I know,” Noble said hastily. “That’s just it. If I tell the police I was with Bebe, then my wife will go melodramatically berserk. Don’t you get it?”
“Sure, but I’m afraid I’ll get it right in the neck.” Jake patted Gary on the shoulder. “The answer, in a word, is ‘No.’ I’d like to help, but this isn’t some collegiate prank, this is murder.”
“Well, all right,” Noble sighed. “Maybe the police won’t be interested in where I was this morning. Maybe it will all blow over.”
“Very likely,” Jake said.
Jake walked down to his office and sat down at his desk; but after fiddling idly with a letter opener, he propped his feet on the desk and tried to think.
From his position he could look through the open door into the adjoining office, which was occupied by a girl named Toni Ryerson who had come to Noble’s fresh from a night school course in public relations. Now he could see that she had her feet on her desk, too, giving him a nice view of her silken ankles. He got up and went into her office. Toni was reading a page of copy and holding a carton of coffee in her free hand. She was a thin, intense girl, with straight black hair, and an expression of brooding concentration.
“Hello, Jake,” she said. “Did you hear the news?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it the damnedest thing you ever heard of? I’ve worked ten weeks on the Grant account, and this morning Noble sends me a memo that I’m being taken off it and put in the fashion department.”
“Oh, that news,” Jake said. “No, I hadn’t heard about it. A memo, eh? That’s pretty rough. You’d think he’d have called you in and given you a last cigarette and a blindfold before the coup de grâce. Did he say why?”
“I guess he just had a brainstorm.”
“Well, you’ve got to expect things like that. This is the fabulous business world, you know. There’s no point in calling Gary a fathead. That’s obvious, because if he had any brains he’d get out and start an agency of his own instead of working for us.”
Toni smiled. “I guess everything does happen for the best.”
Jake wondered without any real curiosity what Toni would do without her stock of protective aphorisms. She was one of that happy breed who pad their egos with a thick coating of clichés, apothegms, quotations and saws to serve as a buffer between themselves and reality. There was no failure, no humiliation, no circumstance, that Toni could not hopefully reassess in the light of what someone had said, more or less truthfully, in the distant past.
Dean Niccolo came in through the other door wearing tweeds and a pipe, and Jake noticed that Toni brightened up immediately.
Niccolo said to Jake, “Too bad about May. I just saw the news.”
“What’s all this?” Toni said.
“May Laval, a friend of ours, was killed this morning,” Jake said.
“Good gosh,” Toni said. “You know, when I saw the kind of weather we had this morning, I said, ‘What a day for a murder.’ Isn’t that odd?”
“Not really,” Jake said, and Toni looked at him blankly.
Niccolo sat down in the chair beside Toni’s desk and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. His features were moody as he stared at the tips of his heavy brogues. “I didn’t know her very well, just bumped into her a few times around town. But she was a good egg. The police have any ideas yet?”
Jake said no, and then excused himself and returned to his own office. He guessed from the happy glow on Toni’s face that she’d appreciate an interlude alone with Niccolo, so he closed the connecting door between their offices.
Jake’s phone buzzed. Picking it up he learned that Mr. Avery Meed, from Mr. Riordan’s office, was waiting to see him. Jake told the receptionist to send him right in. When he put the phone down he saw that Sheila was standing in the doorway. She smiled and came to his side and put the back of her hand against his cheek.
“I heard about May,” she said. “I’m sorry, Jake.”
He squeezed her hand. “Thanks. I feel pretty low about it.”
She picked up his desk lighter and held a flame to the cigarette he put in his mouth. “Would you like to go out and get drunk?”
“No, I’ve got work to do. But it’s the best offer I’ve had all morning.”
“Jake, I’m sorry for the things I said about her the other night.”
“I know. You were mad at me, not her.”
There was a dry cough from the doorway. Jake glanced up and saw a neatly dressed man standing there, a brief case under his arm, and a politely expressionless look on his face.
“I am Avery Meed,” he said.
“Oh, come in,” Jake said. He introduced Avery Meed to Sheila, who excused herself and left.
Meed sat down in the leather arm chair beside Jake’s desk, his feet planted squarely together on the floor, the brief case resting on his lap. He was past fifty, Jake judged, but his small body was firm and his eyes were alert. He wore a suit of banker’s gray that bore the expensively dowdy stamp of Brooks Brothers, and a high starched collar with a black knit tie. There was an air of attentiveness about him, as if he were waiting for a command.