questions about a missing woman and some missing papers, not about in-house sexual relationships. Ask Arlene if you want an answer to that.”
“It’s not the kind of question I can ask her, and besides, we didn’t hit it off. Arlene tried to prevent me from speaking to you last Friday.”
“Then ask Marty.” She looked at her watch. “Is there anything else I can help you with? I have a full day’s work ahead of me and only half a day to do it in.”
“One last question. You said on the phone yesterday that you knew who took the papers. Who do you think that was?”
“I said I had an opinion. I don’t know anything for sure.” She got out of her chair and went to the most battered of the file cabinets, opened a drawer and pulled out a folder. “This is Natalie’s personnel file.”
I took it from her and looked inside. There was a sheet of paper dated about five years ago with notes written in ballpoint ink and signed MJ, phrases with opinions he must have jotted down during his initial interview with Natalie. Following that was a typed sheet with similar comments by EW. There was nothing from Hopkins, but there were three evaluation forms with comments by all three of the charter members of Hopkins and Jewell, good comments for the most part. The skimpiest were from Hopkins, the most detailed from Jewell. On the last one, done not long before Natalie left to be married, Hopkins noted that Natalie spent too much time on the phone. There was nothing else in the folder.
“Thank you very much for your candidness,” I said, handing the folder back to her.
Then I left.
12
I stopped in the downstairs lobby and opened my subway map. I had checked the address of my father’s office over the weekend and it hadn’t changed. It was still in downtown Manhattan and I could pick up a train a couple of blocks from where I was to get there. I buttoned up and went out into the cold.
If the photographs had stirred up my emotions, approaching the place where my father had worked most of his adult life nearly made them explode. Much of downtown Manhattan has changed little since the turn of the century. Some old factories and warehouses have been torn down or converted to fashionable living quarters or have become artists’ lofts, but this one was just as I remembered it, old, brick, solid, dirty, windows cracked or even boarded up. I had visited only a few times as a child, brought by my mother for occasions like a Christmas party or by my father once in a while, just to show me off. I had been treated like royalty, admired, complimented, hugged, and patted. Chocolates had materialized, cookies had been sent for. My father had glowed and my natural shyness had eventually given way to a feeling of comfort. I remember always going home with stories for my mother about this one and that one, sharing my cookies with her, telling her how everyone had liked my dress.
The street door was open and I climbed a steep flight of stairs to the second floor and walked inside. People weredressed in jeans instead of the more formal attire of a quarter century ago. One woman in a skirt and blouse asked if she could help me, and I said I was looking for a Mr. Jackman if he was still working there.
“Sure he’s here. Can I ask you what your business is?”
“It’s more personal than business. My father worked here for a long time.”
“Come on in. He’ll be glad to see you. I think he’s having lunch at his desk today.”
I had forgotten lunch, not unusual for me when I’m working on something. I considered leaving and coming back in half an hour, but she was already far ahead of me and I ran a couple of steps to catch up.
The office was the kind I remembered, windowed so you could see into it from the inside. But the man eating a sandwich at his desk was far too young to have been working here when my father had.
“Go on in. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks.” I went in and he stood and looked at
“It’s not the kind of question I can ask her, and besides, we didn’t hit it off. Arlene tried to prevent me from speaking to you last Friday.”
“Then ask Marty.” She looked at her watch. “Is there anything else I can help you with? I have a full day’s work ahead of me and only half a day to do it in.”
“One last question. You said on the phone yesterday that you knew who took the papers. Who do you think that was?”
“I said I had an opinion. I don’t know anything for sure.” She got out of her chair and went to the most battered of the file cabinets, opened a drawer and pulled out a folder. “This is Natalie’s personnel file.”
I took it from her and looked inside. There was a sheet of paper dated about five years ago with notes written in ballpoint ink and signed MJ, phrases with opinions he must have jotted down during his initial interview with Natalie. Following that was a typed sheet with similar comments by EW. There was nothing from Hopkins, but there were three evaluation forms with comments by all three of the charter members of Hopkins and Jewell, good comments for the most part. The skimpiest were from Hopkins, the most detailed from Jewell. On the last one, done not long before Natalie left to be married, Hopkins noted that Natalie spent too much time on the phone. There was nothing else in the folder.
“Thank you very much for your candidness,” I said, handing the folder back to her.
Then I left.
12
I stopped in the downstairs lobby and opened my subway map. I had checked the address of my father’s office over the weekend and it hadn’t changed. It was still in downtown Manhattan and I could pick up a train a couple of blocks from where I was to get there. I buttoned up and went out into the cold.
If the photographs had stirred up my emotions, approaching the place where my father had worked most of his adult life nearly made them explode. Much of downtown Manhattan has changed little since the turn of the century. Some old factories and warehouses have been torn down or converted to fashionable living quarters or have become artists’ lofts, but this one was just as I remembered it, old, brick, solid, dirty, windows cracked or even boarded up. I had visited only a few times as a child, brought by my mother for occasions like a Christmas party or by my father once in a while, just to show me off. I had been treated like royalty, admired, complimented, hugged, and patted. Chocolates had materialized, cookies had been sent for. My father had glowed and my natural shyness had eventually given way to a feeling of comfort. I remember always going home with stories for my mother about this one and that one, sharing my cookies with her, telling her how everyone had liked my dress.
The street door was open and I climbed a steep flight of stairs to the second floor and walked inside. People weredressed in jeans instead of the more formal attire of a quarter century ago. One woman in a skirt and blouse asked if she could help me, and I said I was looking for a Mr. Jackman if he was still working there.
“Sure he’s here. Can I ask you what your business is?”
“It’s more personal than business. My father worked here for a long time.”
“Come on in. He’ll be glad to see you. I think he’s having lunch at his desk today.”
I had forgotten lunch, not unusual for me when I’m working on something. I considered leaving and coming back in half an hour, but she was already far ahead of me and I ran a couple of steps to catch up.
The office was the kind I remembered, windowed so you could see into it from the inside. But the man eating a sandwich at his desk was far too young to have been working here when my father had.
“Go on in. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks.” I went in and he stood and looked at
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