eyes of their chief the puzzle pieces were all neatly in place. But to them they were still only puzzle pieces.
CHAPTER XII
Company Shutdown
There was quite a little bustle and activity in the offices of the Henderlin Corp.—offices which took up four and a half floors in the Henderlin Building, down in New York’s financial section. But even a man unfamiliar with offices would soon have sensed that there wasn’t as much routine commotion as there should have been.
Even up here on the top floor, where the big offices of the corporation executives were maintained in a discreet hush, you could soon ascertain that only a skeleton force of clerks and secretaries was present.
The first guess, of course, would be that the place had shut down because of the death of its president, Pratt Henderlin. But that first guess would have been wrong.
A battery of afternoon newspapers on the anteroom table told the story.
HENDERLIN PROPERTIES CLOSE
FOR INVENTORY
Mines and oil fields of the Henderlin Corp. have been ordered closed for a mid-season inventory, the vice president, Walter Gaffney, confided to the press today. Off the record, it was hinted that surplus stocks of coal and oil have piled up until it is advisable to close the collieries and wells and allow the stocks to be used up before more are added. The shut down, Mr. Gaffney insisted, would only last a few weeks—
A man passed the huge anteroom table and approached the girl at the information desk.
“Mr. Richard Benson to see Mr. Walter Gaffney,” the man said quietly.
That was all. Manner and tone were as quiet as could possibly be. But the information girl, glancing up at the caller’s face, could not suppress a start that was born half of fear and half of something like awe.
The girl was well informed. Girls at information desks of large corporations have to be. She knew the other, whispered name of this Richard Benson.
The Avenger!
She phoned instantly to the office of the vice president, Gaffney. And the vice president, figuratively speaking, threw from his office at once a person in his estimation far less important than the almost fabulous individual waiting in the anteroom.
The person leaving Gaffney’s office was a raven-tressed girl. She had jet-black eyes that would have been lovely if it were not for their almost metallic hardness.
“Yes, Mr. Benson?” said Gaffney, rising respectfully from his ornate walnut desk as The Avenger strode into his office. “What can I do for you?”
The diamond-drill eyes stared down at him with basilisk lack of expression till Gaffney swallowed nervously. He was a person who looked as important as he was—a big man with aggressive paunch. He seemed to shrivel a little under Benson’s quiet stare.
“I came to see you,” said Benson, “about this shutdown of yours. I find it very interesting in view of certain other circumstances. The news story is true?”
Gaffney cleared his throat.
“Yes, Mr. Benson. It is quite true.”
“And the reasons?” inquired Benson.
Gaffney’s large fingers fidgeted nervously with a gold pencil.
“The papers gave the reasons. We stopped producing until a rather dangerous surplus can be taken from our yards. Much more than we usually have on hand.”
“I glanced over your stock statements before coming here,” said The Avenger, voice even but cold. “I notice that you have, in coal yards and oil tanks, about enough fuel to meet average demands for four to five months. I recall that in the past it was your custom to have an eight-to ten-month stock on hand, to guard against strikes. Half the usual reserves on hand do not sound like a dangerous surplus.”
Gaffney colored a little, then went a little pale.
“Those figures—” he rasped. “No one is supposed to have access to those figures—”
“Nevertheless I saw them. And they disprove the surplus claim. The story of closing down for inventory will probably not fool even the average newspaper reader. May I
CHAPTER XII
Company Shutdown
There was quite a little bustle and activity in the offices of the Henderlin Corp.—offices which took up four and a half floors in the Henderlin Building, down in New York’s financial section. But even a man unfamiliar with offices would soon have sensed that there wasn’t as much routine commotion as there should have been.
Even up here on the top floor, where the big offices of the corporation executives were maintained in a discreet hush, you could soon ascertain that only a skeleton force of clerks and secretaries was present.
The first guess, of course, would be that the place had shut down because of the death of its president, Pratt Henderlin. But that first guess would have been wrong.
A battery of afternoon newspapers on the anteroom table told the story.
HENDERLIN PROPERTIES CLOSE
FOR INVENTORY
Mines and oil fields of the Henderlin Corp. have been ordered closed for a mid-season inventory, the vice president, Walter Gaffney, confided to the press today. Off the record, it was hinted that surplus stocks of coal and oil have piled up until it is advisable to close the collieries and wells and allow the stocks to be used up before more are added. The shut down, Mr. Gaffney insisted, would only last a few weeks—
A man passed the huge anteroom table and approached the girl at the information desk.
“Mr. Richard Benson to see Mr. Walter Gaffney,” the man said quietly.
That was all. Manner and tone were as quiet as could possibly be. But the information girl, glancing up at the caller’s face, could not suppress a start that was born half of fear and half of something like awe.
The girl was well informed. Girls at information desks of large corporations have to be. She knew the other, whispered name of this Richard Benson.
The Avenger!
She phoned instantly to the office of the vice president, Gaffney. And the vice president, figuratively speaking, threw from his office at once a person in his estimation far less important than the almost fabulous individual waiting in the anteroom.
The person leaving Gaffney’s office was a raven-tressed girl. She had jet-black eyes that would have been lovely if it were not for their almost metallic hardness.
“Yes, Mr. Benson?” said Gaffney, rising respectfully from his ornate walnut desk as The Avenger strode into his office. “What can I do for you?”
The diamond-drill eyes stared down at him with basilisk lack of expression till Gaffney swallowed nervously. He was a person who looked as important as he was—a big man with aggressive paunch. He seemed to shrivel a little under Benson’s quiet stare.
“I came to see you,” said Benson, “about this shutdown of yours. I find it very interesting in view of certain other circumstances. The news story is true?”
Gaffney cleared his throat.
“Yes, Mr. Benson. It is quite true.”
“And the reasons?” inquired Benson.
Gaffney’s large fingers fidgeted nervously with a gold pencil.
“The papers gave the reasons. We stopped producing until a rather dangerous surplus can be taken from our yards. Much more than we usually have on hand.”
“I glanced over your stock statements before coming here,” said The Avenger, voice even but cold. “I notice that you have, in coal yards and oil tanks, about enough fuel to meet average demands for four to five months. I recall that in the past it was your custom to have an eight-to ten-month stock on hand, to guard against strikes. Half the usual reserves on hand do not sound like a dangerous surplus.”
Gaffney colored a little, then went a little pale.
“Those figures—” he rasped. “No one is supposed to have access to those figures—”
“Nevertheless I saw them. And they disprove the surplus claim. The story of closing down for inventory will probably not fool even the average newspaper reader. May I
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