of the main office. I glanced casually at the open ledgers. They meant nothing to me. I wished I had the redhead here. She was a whizz at the kind of figures you keep in a ledger.
I turned my attention to the right-hand desk drawers. One contained blank ledger sheets. Another contained paper with the company letterhead on it. The center drawer yielded pen nibs and rubberbands. I tried the left side of the desk. There was only one drawer but it was double depth, fitted to hold a suspension file.
But the drawer wasn’t doing its job. There was nothing inside but Healy’s squat, square bottle of old Scotch and his glass. I started to put the drawer shut. I was working too fast. The motion made the bottle tip over. I pulled the drawer out and reached into it to straighten the bottle.
I righted the bottle slowly. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. I started to push the drawer in again. Then I realized what was nagging at me. The Scotch bottle was a stubby one, less than nine inches high. Yet it came almost to the top of the desk drawer. Only the drawer was fitted for a suspension file. And that meant it should have been at least ten and a half inches deep.
I ran my fingers around the bottom of the drawer where it fit to the sides. I felt a small indentation, deep enough to hook a fingertip in. I hooked and pushed.
The bottom of the drawer began to slide away from me. I looked down into the compartment I had revealed. I could see a thick pile of filled ledger sheets and the corner of an envelope. I pulled the envelope into the open.
I heard footsteps coming down the hall. I crammed the envelope into my coat pocket. I slipped a few ledger sheets free from the pile and put them with the envelope. I slid the drawer bottom back and then shut the drawer. I eased out of the chair and moved crab-fashion to the rear of the office. I looked out through the window at a line of parked cars. I stared at a Caddy convertible, an Olds sedan, and a bright green MGA and listened to the footsteps come closer.
The footsteps went past toward Bonita’s office. I moved to the door in time to see Señor Lerdo go into Bonita’s outer office. I decided she wouldn’t miss me for a minute and I headed for the washroom.
I locked myself in a booth and took the envelope out of my pocket. It was addressed to
Mrs. Bonita Jessup, President, Jessup Trucking and Industrial Supply
. The printed return address was given as
Box
8,
Room
315 of a small Tucson office building.
The envelope contained a sheet of notepaper. There were only a few lines of typing on it. There was no salutation, no signature. I read:
As you must be aware, your present financial condition will not improve. Therefore
$125,000
is more than a fair offer for your interest in the company. You are advised to accept this offer without delay. As your financial position worsens, the offer will be reduced correspondingly
.
I put the letter away. I could see now where Healy had got the idea I might be a spy for an outfit wanting to buy up Jessup cheaply.
But cheaply was a poor word to describe this offer. A hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars for Bonita’s sixty per cent of a two billion dollar business was equivalent to ten cents on the dollar.
I decided that I needed a mind more trained than mine to handle this kind of financial hocus-pocus. I left the washroom to find a public phone.
The switchboard girl told me there was a pay booth at the far end of the loading dock. I found it and shut myself in. I called the redhead at her Tucson office.
She must have been waiting for a call. She answered on the first ring. When I was connected, I said, “Any news yet?”
“I called San Francisco,” she said. “I’m waiting to hear now.”
“What about the telephone service? Did you call them too?”
“I certainly did,” the redhead said, and she gave me a brisk rundown on what she had learned. Tuesday evening a woman claiming to be the
I turned my attention to the right-hand desk drawers. One contained blank ledger sheets. Another contained paper with the company letterhead on it. The center drawer yielded pen nibs and rubberbands. I tried the left side of the desk. There was only one drawer but it was double depth, fitted to hold a suspension file.
But the drawer wasn’t doing its job. There was nothing inside but Healy’s squat, square bottle of old Scotch and his glass. I started to put the drawer shut. I was working too fast. The motion made the bottle tip over. I pulled the drawer out and reached into it to straighten the bottle.
I righted the bottle slowly. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. I started to push the drawer in again. Then I realized what was nagging at me. The Scotch bottle was a stubby one, less than nine inches high. Yet it came almost to the top of the desk drawer. Only the drawer was fitted for a suspension file. And that meant it should have been at least ten and a half inches deep.
I ran my fingers around the bottom of the drawer where it fit to the sides. I felt a small indentation, deep enough to hook a fingertip in. I hooked and pushed.
The bottom of the drawer began to slide away from me. I looked down into the compartment I had revealed. I could see a thick pile of filled ledger sheets and the corner of an envelope. I pulled the envelope into the open.
I heard footsteps coming down the hall. I crammed the envelope into my coat pocket. I slipped a few ledger sheets free from the pile and put them with the envelope. I slid the drawer bottom back and then shut the drawer. I eased out of the chair and moved crab-fashion to the rear of the office. I looked out through the window at a line of parked cars. I stared at a Caddy convertible, an Olds sedan, and a bright green MGA and listened to the footsteps come closer.
The footsteps went past toward Bonita’s office. I moved to the door in time to see Señor Lerdo go into Bonita’s outer office. I decided she wouldn’t miss me for a minute and I headed for the washroom.
I locked myself in a booth and took the envelope out of my pocket. It was addressed to
Mrs. Bonita Jessup, President, Jessup Trucking and Industrial Supply
. The printed return address was given as
Box
8,
Room
315 of a small Tucson office building.
The envelope contained a sheet of notepaper. There were only a few lines of typing on it. There was no salutation, no signature. I read:
As you must be aware, your present financial condition will not improve. Therefore
$125,000
is more than a fair offer for your interest in the company. You are advised to accept this offer without delay. As your financial position worsens, the offer will be reduced correspondingly
.
I put the letter away. I could see now where Healy had got the idea I might be a spy for an outfit wanting to buy up Jessup cheaply.
But cheaply was a poor word to describe this offer. A hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars for Bonita’s sixty per cent of a two billion dollar business was equivalent to ten cents on the dollar.
I decided that I needed a mind more trained than mine to handle this kind of financial hocus-pocus. I left the washroom to find a public phone.
The switchboard girl told me there was a pay booth at the far end of the loading dock. I found it and shut myself in. I called the redhead at her Tucson office.
She must have been waiting for a call. She answered on the first ring. When I was connected, I said, “Any news yet?”
“I called San Francisco,” she said. “I’m waiting to hear now.”
“What about the telephone service? Did you call them too?”
“I certainly did,” the redhead said, and she gave me a brisk rundown on what she had learned. Tuesday evening a woman claiming to be the
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