relax until he did. He said, “Mr. Grasse won’t be in today.” And Mr. Schmidt was with them. He hadn’t expected Steve.
Steve said, “You’re ahead of me.” The clerks were surprised that he knew Mr. Schmidt.
“I wished to check personally,” Schmidt said.
“Mind if I have a look?”
“Not at all.” The reply was too prompt; there’d be nothing left for Steve in the cubbyhole. Schmidt pointed his hand at the young man. “Llewellyn, this is Mr. Wintress from New York. A friend of Frederick’s.”
“Yes, sir.” The young man was alert.
“Llewellyn Meadows,” Mr. Schmidt identified him. “Assistant manager to Grasse.” To the young fellow he said, “You will give Mr. Wintress your co-operation.”
“Yes, sir.” A well-trained assistant. If Schmidt had said, “You will bump off Frederick Grasse on Wednesday night,” would Llewellyn have had no response but, “Yes, sir”? In his nice, polite voice?
Schmidt turned to the girls, making a frosty attempt at a smile. For some reason they brightened under it. “Miss Batts and Miss Zahner.” Steve never did find out which was which. “Mr. Wintress.” All of them went through how-de-dos as if this were a silver tea.
Steve said, “See you later,” to dismiss Schmidt. But he had to idle over a book while either Miss Batts or Miss Zahner fluttered at the important man—“Your review of that new picture was simply devastating”—while the other one smirked assent.
Mr. Schmidt deprecated, “Thank you.” But his shoulders were almost jaunty as he walked out of the store.
The blond shared her admiration. “There isn’t anyone with Jo’s touch, is there?”
“What kind of touch?”
She withdrew her comradeship. She was hurt if not suspicious. “He reviews motion pictures. He is the only honest reviewer in the city.”
Steve didn’t care where Schmidt peddled his propaganda or how. “Where’s Grasse’s office?”
Llewellyn said, “This way, Mr. Wintress.”
Steve let him lead into the gloom. He kept his distance until Llewellyn had reached into the cubbyhole and pulled an overhead light. It sprayed on a work-laden desk, old wooden filing cabinets, stacks of books and magazines and a morass of loose papers. Llewellyn flattened himself against the files to admit Steve. He wasn’t needed but he lingered. He had something on his mind. “It was you he was meeting at the airport.”
“Yes.”
“He had the heart attack before you arrived?”
“Yes.”
Llewellyn knew better than to ask why Steve had come inquiring for a dead man. You don’t ask foolish questions if you are ambitious.
Steve asked, “Had he been sick?”
The youth was startled to a quick answer, “Oh, no!” and then he wasn’t sure. “I mean, I don’t know—”
“No heart attacks before?”
“Not that I know.”
“Have the police been around?”
Llewellyn was cautious. “The police?”
“Asking questions.”
He showed his confusion. “Why should—” It caught up on him and he looked a little sick He hadn’t been told. But he understood. “No.” And then he wondered if it were a true answer. There’d always be a few strange customers dropping in, actually interested in books. The police didn’t necessarily wear uniforms. He went back to, “Not that I know.”
“Don’t tell them anything.”
The gratuitous advice put Llewellyn back on his feet. The sneer on his nicely shaped mouth was a well-bred one. “Tell the police?” And then the sickness seeped back under his skin. He wanted to comment but he’d been conditioned to accept gospel, not question it. He faltered, “Mr. Grasse was a good man.”
Steve said shortly, “He was a friend of mine.” Because the anger came up in him when he thought of Albie dying alone, without cause, in the fog, he added, “Someone didn’t want us to get together.” He didn’t give a damn if Llewellyn did pass on the thought to Mr. Schmidt.
He went to the desk and twitched a segment of the
Steve said, “You’re ahead of me.” The clerks were surprised that he knew Mr. Schmidt.
“I wished to check personally,” Schmidt said.
“Mind if I have a look?”
“Not at all.” The reply was too prompt; there’d be nothing left for Steve in the cubbyhole. Schmidt pointed his hand at the young man. “Llewellyn, this is Mr. Wintress from New York. A friend of Frederick’s.”
“Yes, sir.” The young man was alert.
“Llewellyn Meadows,” Mr. Schmidt identified him. “Assistant manager to Grasse.” To the young fellow he said, “You will give Mr. Wintress your co-operation.”
“Yes, sir.” A well-trained assistant. If Schmidt had said, “You will bump off Frederick Grasse on Wednesday night,” would Llewellyn have had no response but, “Yes, sir”? In his nice, polite voice?
Schmidt turned to the girls, making a frosty attempt at a smile. For some reason they brightened under it. “Miss Batts and Miss Zahner.” Steve never did find out which was which. “Mr. Wintress.” All of them went through how-de-dos as if this were a silver tea.
Steve said, “See you later,” to dismiss Schmidt. But he had to idle over a book while either Miss Batts or Miss Zahner fluttered at the important man—“Your review of that new picture was simply devastating”—while the other one smirked assent.
Mr. Schmidt deprecated, “Thank you.” But his shoulders were almost jaunty as he walked out of the store.
The blond shared her admiration. “There isn’t anyone with Jo’s touch, is there?”
“What kind of touch?”
She withdrew her comradeship. She was hurt if not suspicious. “He reviews motion pictures. He is the only honest reviewer in the city.”
Steve didn’t care where Schmidt peddled his propaganda or how. “Where’s Grasse’s office?”
Llewellyn said, “This way, Mr. Wintress.”
Steve let him lead into the gloom. He kept his distance until Llewellyn had reached into the cubbyhole and pulled an overhead light. It sprayed on a work-laden desk, old wooden filing cabinets, stacks of books and magazines and a morass of loose papers. Llewellyn flattened himself against the files to admit Steve. He wasn’t needed but he lingered. He had something on his mind. “It was you he was meeting at the airport.”
“Yes.”
“He had the heart attack before you arrived?”
“Yes.”
Llewellyn knew better than to ask why Steve had come inquiring for a dead man. You don’t ask foolish questions if you are ambitious.
Steve asked, “Had he been sick?”
The youth was startled to a quick answer, “Oh, no!” and then he wasn’t sure. “I mean, I don’t know—”
“No heart attacks before?”
“Not that I know.”
“Have the police been around?”
Llewellyn was cautious. “The police?”
“Asking questions.”
He showed his confusion. “Why should—” It caught up on him and he looked a little sick He hadn’t been told. But he understood. “No.” And then he wondered if it were a true answer. There’d always be a few strange customers dropping in, actually interested in books. The police didn’t necessarily wear uniforms. He went back to, “Not that I know.”
“Don’t tell them anything.”
The gratuitous advice put Llewellyn back on his feet. The sneer on his nicely shaped mouth was a well-bred one. “Tell the police?” And then the sickness seeped back under his skin. He wanted to comment but he’d been conditioned to accept gospel, not question it. He faltered, “Mr. Grasse was a good man.”
Steve said shortly, “He was a friend of mine.” Because the anger came up in him when he thought of Albie dying alone, without cause, in the fog, he added, “Someone didn’t want us to get together.” He didn’t give a damn if Llewellyn did pass on the thought to Mr. Schmidt.
He went to the desk and twitched a segment of the
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