into the outer office. He strolled into the outer office, and after a lengthy search, found the wires again, neatly hidden between the floorboards, and traced them across the room to the door leading into the passage. He returned to his office and washed the soot and grime off his hands while he whistled happily under his breath.
He decided he had made a fair beginning. Someone was interested in listening to any conversation that might take place in this office. From the look of the microphone it had been installed for some time. Someone therefore had wanted to know what Roy English had been doing, what he had said, and what had been said to him.
Leon wondered if the microphone was still alive, and if this someone would be interested to listen in to his conversations. At a more convenient time – when the building was closed for the night - he decided he would make an attempt to trace the wires further. But not during office hours.
English had told him the janitor, Tom Calhoun, seemed cooperative, and Leon thought it might be an idea to go down and talk to him before settling down to a day’s work in the office.
He left the office, locking the door behind him, and took the elevator to the basement.
He found Tom Calhoun in the boiler room industriously carving a model boat from a chunk of soft wood, and with the aid of a murderous looking pocketknife.
Calhoun was big and fat with a heavy moustache that reminded Leon of a bunch of dry seaweed. He wore a dusty Derby set square on his bullet head, and he had some interesting looking food stains on his vest which he wore open and held together by a heavy gold watch chain. He eyed Leon with mild interest and gave him a brief nod.
‘Morning,’ he said. ‘Anything I can do for you?’
Leon hooked a chair toward him and folded his long length into it. ‘I got an ulcer,’ he said. ‘At noon every day I give it a feed of whisky. The trouble is I don’t approve of drinking alone. Once a guy gets into the habit of secret drinking he might just as well step into his box and let them screw him down. I thought maybe you might care to join me, but if you’re a non-drinking man, just say the word and I’ll go elsewhere.’
Calhoun laid down the boat and sat forward.
‘You’ve come to the right man, mister, but I wouldn’t have thought whisky would have done an ulcer much good.’
Leon produced a half-pint flask of Johnny Walker and waved it in the air. ‘A guy has got to show his independence,’ he said. ‘If I gave my ulcer what was good for it, it’d stay with me for the rest of my days. The whisky’s good for me so I drink it. Got a glass? Two might be an idea.’
Calhoun produced two paper cups from a shelf.
‘Best I can do,’ he said apologetically, after blowing the dust from them. He watched Leon pour two liberal shots, and eagerly took one of the cups and sniffed it. ‘Good whisky, mister. Your very best health,’ and he took a long pull, sighed, smacked his lips, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set the cup down.
Leon scarcely tasted his, but leaned forward to refill Calhoun’s cup.
‘I’m your new tenant,’ he said. ‘The name’s Ed Leon. I’ve taken over the Alert Agency.’
Calhoun looked surprised.
‘Glad to know you. I’m Tom Calhoun. Alert Agency, huh? That’s fast work.’
‘My mother was a fast woman,’ Leon said lightly. ‘It runs in the family.’ He frowned, shook his head, went on, ‘Business seems a little flat this morning. No one’s been near me.’
‘It’ll pick up,’ Calhoun said encouragingly, and took another drink. ‘I reckon that guy English knew what he was doing. He kept mighty busy. Why he shot himself beats me. Of course that shooting might damp things down for you, but not for long.’
Leon took out two cigarettes, rolled one across the table and lit the other.
‘I was beginning to wonder if I had been sold a pup. With a face like mine, people treat me like I was a dog catcher.’ He
He decided he had made a fair beginning. Someone was interested in listening to any conversation that might take place in this office. From the look of the microphone it had been installed for some time. Someone therefore had wanted to know what Roy English had been doing, what he had said, and what had been said to him.
Leon wondered if the microphone was still alive, and if this someone would be interested to listen in to his conversations. At a more convenient time – when the building was closed for the night - he decided he would make an attempt to trace the wires further. But not during office hours.
English had told him the janitor, Tom Calhoun, seemed cooperative, and Leon thought it might be an idea to go down and talk to him before settling down to a day’s work in the office.
He left the office, locking the door behind him, and took the elevator to the basement.
He found Tom Calhoun in the boiler room industriously carving a model boat from a chunk of soft wood, and with the aid of a murderous looking pocketknife.
Calhoun was big and fat with a heavy moustache that reminded Leon of a bunch of dry seaweed. He wore a dusty Derby set square on his bullet head, and he had some interesting looking food stains on his vest which he wore open and held together by a heavy gold watch chain. He eyed Leon with mild interest and gave him a brief nod.
‘Morning,’ he said. ‘Anything I can do for you?’
Leon hooked a chair toward him and folded his long length into it. ‘I got an ulcer,’ he said. ‘At noon every day I give it a feed of whisky. The trouble is I don’t approve of drinking alone. Once a guy gets into the habit of secret drinking he might just as well step into his box and let them screw him down. I thought maybe you might care to join me, but if you’re a non-drinking man, just say the word and I’ll go elsewhere.’
Calhoun laid down the boat and sat forward.
‘You’ve come to the right man, mister, but I wouldn’t have thought whisky would have done an ulcer much good.’
Leon produced a half-pint flask of Johnny Walker and waved it in the air. ‘A guy has got to show his independence,’ he said. ‘If I gave my ulcer what was good for it, it’d stay with me for the rest of my days. The whisky’s good for me so I drink it. Got a glass? Two might be an idea.’
Calhoun produced two paper cups from a shelf.
‘Best I can do,’ he said apologetically, after blowing the dust from them. He watched Leon pour two liberal shots, and eagerly took one of the cups and sniffed it. ‘Good whisky, mister. Your very best health,’ and he took a long pull, sighed, smacked his lips, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set the cup down.
Leon scarcely tasted his, but leaned forward to refill Calhoun’s cup.
‘I’m your new tenant,’ he said. ‘The name’s Ed Leon. I’ve taken over the Alert Agency.’
Calhoun looked surprised.
‘Glad to know you. I’m Tom Calhoun. Alert Agency, huh? That’s fast work.’
‘My mother was a fast woman,’ Leon said lightly. ‘It runs in the family.’ He frowned, shook his head, went on, ‘Business seems a little flat this morning. No one’s been near me.’
‘It’ll pick up,’ Calhoun said encouragingly, and took another drink. ‘I reckon that guy English knew what he was doing. He kept mighty busy. Why he shot himself beats me. Of course that shooting might damp things down for you, but not for long.’
Leon took out two cigarettes, rolled one across the table and lit the other.
‘I was beginning to wonder if I had been sold a pup. With a face like mine, people treat me like I was a dog catcher.’ He
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