"chap-08" - читать интересную книгу автора (Biggle Lloyd Jr. - All The Colours Of Darkness)8 Ted Arnold had never felt completely at ease in the presence
of a woman. When the woman was beautiful, and when she seemed on the verge of
either explosive anger or maudlin tears, the only counter-tactic he could think
of was flight. He said lamely, "I’m very busy right now. Perhaps later—" Jean Morris asked again, "But where can he be?" "Darzek can take care of himself," Arnold said, and
wished he felt as confident as he sounded. Jean and Ed Rucks, seated on his
office sofa, looked at him glumly. "He’s a rare type of individual," Arnold went on.
"He’s a man of action, and also an intellectual, besides which he’s as
smart as hell. He thinks on his feet. Was he planning on pulling off something
like this?" "If he was, he never mentioned it," Ed Rucks said. "Wherever he is, he’s all right. Those women never
seemed any the worse for disappearing. They always showed up again, plague ‘em!
You say Darzek thought that trip to Paris was important?" "He thought it might be. He thought it might mean that
they didn’t always succeed with whatever they were doing. After what happened
with Madam Z, I agree with him." "Ah! Tell me about Madam Z." "She turned up about twenty minutes after Darzek and
Miss X disappeared. She came from New York, as I found out later, and she was
also wearing disguise B." "Did you find out where Miss X came from?" Rucks shook his head. "By the time we thought to check
on it, it was too late. Anyway, Madam Z bought a ticket to London. She went to
London. Jean followed her, and followed her back to Brussels, and then I took
over. She left the terminal and went for a walk. She browsed through a couple of
shops without buying anything, she sat down in a little park and communed with
nature for a while, and then she went back to the terminal. She bought another
ticket to London. I was right behind her, though not as close as Darzek was to
Miss X. I went to London, but she didn’t. Ever since then we’ve been waiting
for them to come back to Brussels and try it again. What do we do now?" "Get a good night’s sleep," Arnold said promptly.
"You’ve earned it. Tomorrow you can carry on by yourselves until we hear
from Darzek." "Carry on how?" Jean Morris demanded. "Jan
didn’t have a long-range plan. Or if he did, he didn’t share it with
us." "I think he was playing it by ear," Rucks said. "Then you play it by ear. Figure out what Darzek would
have done next, and do it." Both of them scowled. Watching them, Arnold made a discovery
that struck him with tumultuous impact. A beautiful woman was—a beautiful
woman. She was beautiful when she scowled, and when she was angry, and when she
was on the verge of tears. Beauty underwent changes. It had, perhaps, dimensions
and facets in infinite measure. But it did not lessen. Just as an ugly man’s ugliness did not lessen, even in his
most heroic moments. Arnold patted his ample stomach, and fingered his bald
head, and sighed. He probably had more sex appeal than the fire extinguisher
outside his door, but not to a noticeable degree. It was the penalty a man paid
for doing all of his thinking sitting down. Darzek, on the other hand— Jean
Morris said thoughtfully, "I’m sure there won’t be any more
disappearances from Brussels." "Then you’ll have to wait until we find out where they’ll
hit next." "While we’re waiting," Rucks said, "we might
look at some pictures." Arnold arched his brows inquiringly. "You’ve been taking photos of all the passengers
leaving New York. That’s a lot of film. Have you had much of it
developed?" Arnold shook his head. "Just enough to get prints of the
women who disappeared." "Get prints of all of it," Rucks said. "It’d
be interesting to know if the dames had any dry runs here yesterday." "You’d better explain that." "If a dame disappeared while supposedly transmitting to
Chicago, we could check to see if she made a bona fide trip to Chicago a little
before that, just as Miss X went to Paris before she disappeared going to Paris,
and Madam Z went to London. I’d like to know if they always do a dry
run." "I would, too," Arnold said, "though I don’t
quite see that it makes much difference." "And since Madam Z went to Brussels from New
York, we could check to see if Miss X did, too. It may not mean anything, but
that’s the way Darzek works. He says if you keep collecting information,
sooner or later you’ll have something that adds up." "Good idea. I’ll have a room full of prints ready for
you in the morning, and you can look at pictures until we get word of another
disappearance. "If Jan doesn’t show up in the meantime," Jean
Morris said. "Right. He may have the whole thing wrapped up by morning. Do
you have any idea how many people he has working on this?" "None at all. Jan may have put it in a ledger at the
office, or he may not have bothered." "If any of them show up for instructions, just tell them
to carry on as before, or if they’ve finished whatever they were doing use
your own judgment. You two come in at eight, and I’ll have the prints in that
room Darzek was using." After they had left he made a telephone call to start action
on the passenger photos, and then for a long time he sat wreathed in cigarette
smoke and ideas that never—quite— found a target. Shortly after midnight his
door jerked open, and Thomas J. Watkins looked in with a grin. "Don’t you ever sleep?" "Only during board meetings," Arnold said.
"What about yourself?" "I’ve been riding herd on some auditors." "Don’t tell me Universal Trans has financial
problems!" Watkins crossed the room and tiredly dropped onto the sofa.
"Call it book-keeping problems. Which reminds me. I was going to raise your
salary. I’ll do it first thing in the morning. Have you heard from
Darzek?" "No," Arnold said. "And don’t ask me where
he went. I’ve been asked that question a hundred and ninety times since he
disappeared, mainly by the same two people, and it nauseates me." "Universal Trans is deeply indebted to Mr. Darzek,"
Watkins observed. "True." "To put it bluntly, he has saved our necks. We’d have
succumbed to panic that first day if it hadn’t been for him, and those
photographs were a stroke of genius. That was a most fortunate suggestion of
yours—hiring Mr. Darzek." "Anyone who knew him would have thought of it." "But where do you suppose he went?" Arnold slammed both fists down onto his desk. "I’d feel personally responsible if anything happened
to him," Watkins added quickly. "Let me tell you something about Darzek," Arnold
said. "He carries a gun, in a shoulder holster he designed himself. It’s
a ridiculous little automatic, and I don’t think even an expert could spot it
without searching him carefully. And he can hit a pinhead at ten feet and a dime
at twenty. Wherever he went, I feel sorry for the people he found there. I’ve
seen Darzek really angry just once, and that was enough to make very good
Christians out of a roomful of atheists. Did you notice that there weren’t any
disappearances this afternoon?" "That’s right. There weren’t." "I’m betting there won’t be any tomorrow." "In any case, there’s nothing we can do—is
there?" Arnold shook his head. "There is one problem. Darzek
hired a staff for this job, and if he should be—detained—we should advance
some money to his office for the payroll, and perhaps we should see that one of
his men takes charge temporarily." "Certainly. Handle it as you think best, and let me know
how much money is needed. Anything else?" "Not now, no. If I could just figure out how they work
those disappearances—" Early Friday morning Ron Walker came to see Arnold. He leaned
far over his desk, looked Arnold steadily in the eyes, and whispered, "May
I ask a question?" Arnold grunted noncommittally. Whereupon Walker shouted, "What the hell is happening
with Universal Trans?" "Plenty," Arnold said peacefully. "New
terminals opening up, business increasing, records broken almost every hour.
There’s even a chance that the Russians will relent and let us open a terminal
in Moscow. Go down to Public Relations, and they’ll fill you in." "Damn Public Relations. Where’s Darzek?" "I haven’t the vaguest idea." "When did you see him last?" "Yesterday morning." Walker pointed a finger. "I happen to know that he’s
working for Universal Trans." "I never even knew it was a secret." "But you don’t know where he is." "You know Darzek better than that. How long would he
stay on a job if his employer made him check in every ten minutes?" Walker backed off disgustedly, and plopped onto the sofa. "We had an anonymous letter this morning." "About Universal Trans?" Walker nodded. "Let me guess. Some woman claimed she tried to transmit
to Los Angeles, and ended up in a sewer in Brooklyn." "You’re warm," Walker said. "Let’s see it." "The boss has it locked in his safe. If true, it’s
worth its weight in platinum leaf, or something. If it’s not true—but either
way it’s dynamite. Did you know that a whole series of Universal Trans
passengers walked trustingly into your transmitters and vanished from the ken of
mortal man?" Arnold leaned back and gave what he hoped was a creditable
imitation of a laugh. "I can go you a lot better than that. Go down to
Public Relations, and tell them I said you were to see the Crank File. One guy
thinks we’re changing our passengers into pigeons. He’s noticed a dramatic
increase in New York’s pigeon population since Universal Trans opened." "This is no crank letter. At least, it isn’t the usual
kind of crank letter. It names names, and cites meetings of the board of
directors, and even quotes what was said. It claims Darzek was hired by
Universal Trans to attempt to locate the missing passengers." "It names the missing passengers?" "No. It names directors, and quotes them." "And what is your boss going to do with it?" "Obviously nothing at all unless he can turn up enough
solid evidence to withstand a libel suit. Care to make a statement?" "I’d be delighted. Of the millions of people who have
transmitted since Monday—Public Relations can give you the exact number—there
is not even one who is unaccounted for. You may quote me. To your boss, that
is." "That’s fine, as far as it goes. Why did you hire
Darzek?" "Yours isn’t the only anonymous letter that’s turned
up. We’d like to know who’s writing them." "I see. It sounds so plausible that it’s highly
suspect. When you see Darzek—" "What?" "Never mind. He wouldn’t give me a story anyway." "I sincerely hope not," Arnold said. Watkins had called a special meeting of the board of
directors at eleven that Friday morning. Carl Miller had insisted on it, to
consider the report of his freight committee. At eleven-fifteen Arnold labored
up the stairs with an armful of freight transmitter blueprints, only to find
that the meeting was canceled. "Mr. Miller couldn’t come," said Miss Shue,
Watkins’s private secretary for more years than either of them cared to
recall. "The others on the Freight Committee don’t know anything about
anything. The Old Man has called another meeting for this afternoon. Four o’clock."
The tough, self-reliant and brutally competent Miss Shue was at least as old as
Watkins, but she always referred to him as the Old Man, to the horror of the
other secretaries in the executive offices. She would have been equally
horrified to know that they referred to her as Old Shue Leather. "Does he want me this afternoon?" Arnold asked. "He didn’t say. He’s been in conference since nine.
Some jerk from the District Attorney’s office." "Ouch! What have we done?" "I haven’t the faintest." Miss Shue regarded him
with interest. "I didn’t know you had a bogy, though I suppose you’re
as much entitled to one as anyone else. Mr. Armbruster blanches that way when
anyone mentions the Interstate Commerce Commission. Mr. Riley is terrified of
Internal Revenue, only that doesn’t count because everyone is terrified of
Internal Revenue. Mr. Homer—" "Did I blanch? I didn’t intend to." "Of course not. No one ever intends to. Why are you
afraid of the District Attorney?" "It all dates back to that afternoon I murdered my
mother," Arnold said, and walked out, leaving her gaping after him. He
threaded his way through the battery of clicking type-writers in the outer
office, drawing hardly a side glance from the typists. If Darzek had walked
through that office, he told himself glumly, every typewriter in the place would
have come to a dead stop. Darzek. "Where the devil is Darzek?" he muttered. Back in his own office, he made a telephone call before he
tilted back meditatively and placed his shoeless feet on his desk. It was nearly
noon in New York, and late afternoon in Europe, and Universal Trans had
yet to record its first Friday disappearance. Arnold looked in at Darzek’s office before he went upstairs
at four o’clock. Jean Morris and Ed Rucks were blearily examining photographs.
Photographs were piled high on the desk. Photographs had spilled onto the floor,
in all directions. Cartons of photographs were stacked about the room— opened
and unopened. They did not hear Arnold come in, and he backed out discreetly
without disturbing them. Again he climbed the stairs with an armful of blueprints, and
Miss Shue directed him to a conference room. "The Old Man is still busy
with that D.A. fellow," she said. "They’ve started without him. You
didn’t really murder your mother, did you?" "Of course not," Arnold said. "My baby sister
did it, but I got blamed." There were only three men in the conference room—Armbruster,
a nondescript vice president who had not been present when Darzek was hired;
Cohen, a similarly nondescript vice president who had been; and Grossman, the
Universal Trans treasurer. "Board meetings shouldn’t be called on such short
notice," Armbruster was grumbling when Arnold walked in. "Strictly
illegal. Anyway, no one comes." "They shouldn’t be called without a darned good
reason," Cohen said. "That’s why no one came. Everyone is fed up
with listening to Miller’s harangue about the freight business. I wonder why
Watkins doesn’t turn him off." "There’s money to be made in the freight
business," Grossman said cheerfully. "Let the railroads have it. I say, Arnold, could we run
a railroad train through a transmitter?" "Certainly," Arnold said, "if we built a big
enough transmitter." "That might be the answer. Build railroad transmitting
points at strategic places about the country, and charge the railroads for using
them. The railroads could handle the freight, and we’d handle the railroads.
Make a nice profit without all the fuss and bother of setting up warehouses and
storage and delivery and that sort of thing. We’d cut days off the railroads’
long-distance freight runs. How about it, Arnold? Are you listening?" Arnold started. "Excuse me. I was half listening. The
other half of me was wondering if a train could run through a transmitter and
stay on the tracks. Might be messy if it couldn’t." "Build one and find out," Cohen suggested. "Why don’t you take it up with the Boss? I don’t
make policy here. I just follow orders." "I’ll take it up with Miller. Where is he, anyway? I
thought this was his meeting." "He’s detained out of town," Grossman said.
"I just talked with his secretary. She doesn’t know when he’ll be
back." "Great. He calls a special meeting, and then he can’t
make it. What are we hanging around here for?" "That was Miller’s meeting that was canceled this
morning," Grossman said. "Watkins called this one." "If he called it, the least he could do is attend. Those
disappearances, I suppose. Anything new, Arnold?" "What did the Boss tell you about it?" "He said we have the situation well in hand." "We have the situation well in hand." Cohen glowered at him. "Where’s that detective
fellow?" "I don’t know." "I thought he was reporting to you." "He is." "Then why doesn’t he report? I know the company’s
finally making money, but that’s no excuse for throwing the stuff away.
Anyway, it wouldn’t surprise me if someone on your engineering staff was
behind that monkey business. No one else knows anything about the transmitter,
and you guys know all about it, and it seems dratted queer that the
disappearances should be such a mystery to you. We should have hired our own
detective, instead of one of your pals. We might have learned something—like
what engineer has come up with a neat scheme for blackmailing the company." "For your information," Arnold said hotly, "if
there’s a crook inside Universal Trans, he’s one of the directors. We do
know that much." "Nonsense," Grossman said, hastily gushing large
quantities of soothing oil. "Why would a director—" He broke off as Watkins slipped quietly into the room and
took his place at the head of the table. He looked haggard, and so utterly
exhausted that Arnold wondered if he’d had any sleep at all the previous
night. Before he spoke he closed his eyes for a moment, and pressed a hand to
his head. "I’ve been waiting for Harlow," he said.
"But he can’t get away. What’s the trouble?" "Nothing much," Grossman said. "Here-let me
quiet every- one’s nerves with a financial statement." "Arnold says one of the directors is behind those
passenger disappearances," Cohen said. "I say only the engineers would
have the necessary know-how." Watkins turned to Arnold. "A director, Ted?" "Darzek’s idea," Arnold said. "He said he’d
certify it. Shouldn’t have shot off my mouth, but Cohen ruffled me. I’ll
give you the details later." "I’ll look forward to hearing them. I’ve been out of
touch today. How many disappearances?" "None." Watkins looked startled. "None? Do you suppose Darzek is
responsible?" "Wherever he is, I’m sure he’s his usual effective
self." "And Darzek has fingered-that’s the term, isn’t
it?-one of the directors. I regarded that young man highly from the first, but
not highly enough, it seems, because he happens to be right." The three directors stared at Watkins, who ignored them
completely. "Did he say who it is, Ted?" "I don’t believe he knows who it is." "Strange that he should happen onto the idea at
all." "It struck him suddenly a couple of nights ago,"
Arnold said dryly. "He’s been working at finding out who it is." "The next time you see him—" Watkins paused.
"He won’t need to work at it any longer. I know who it is. I’m sorry we
couldn’t have more of the Board here, but it was rather short notice. Charlie,
I’ve had auditors on your books since yesterday." "They say it’ll take weeks to get things unscrambled,
but they’re certain the shortage will run a hundred thousand, and perhaps much
more. We’ve had a specialist in from the D.A.’s office, and the police are
waiting now to take you into custody. The D.A.’s man would like to talk with
you. You don’t have to, of course." "I won’t." "In a way this is my fault. If I’d devoted more time
to managerial problems, where I’m an expert, and less time to technological
problems, where I’m not, it wouldn’t have happened. But I’ve known you for
thirty years, Charlie, and you’re almost the last person—" His voice
trailed away. Grossman had recovered his poise, but he avoided Watkins’s
eyes. His voice was higher pitched than usual, and tense. "I thought
Universal Trans would flop anyway, and I hated to see all that money go
down the drain. You say the police are waiting?" Watkins nodded. Grossman got to his feet slowly, and started for the door. "Just a moment," Arnold called. "Where’s
Darzek?" "Darzek? How would I know? I haven’t seen him
since the Board hired him." "How did you work the disappearances?" Grossman looked wonderingly at Arnold. "Do you really
think I had something to do with that?" He laughed. "I always thought
you knew your stuff, Ted, but maybe you’re a lousier engineer than I am a
treasurer. Either that, or one of us is crazy." He opened the door
carefully, stepped outside, and closed it. The two vice presidents had been stunned into silence.
Watkins said thoughtfully, "Maybe he’s trying for a deal. He’ll tell us
what he knows if we agree not to prosecute. He’s holding back something to
bargain with." "You bargain with him," Arnold said. "I’m
going back to work." As he hurried past Miss Shue’s desk, she flagged him down
with an afternoon paper. "I meant to ask you. What do you think about
this?" Arnold gazed unseeingly at the headlines. "Think about
what?" "You mean you haven’t heard? Why, everyone’s been
talking about it all day. The explosion on the Moon, that’s what. The
government says we didn’t do it, and the Russians have just gotten around to
claiming they didn’t do it, and everyone is accusing everyone else. It’s all
very confusing." "Both we and the Russians have men up there. Did anyone
think to ask them about it?" "Oh, it wasn’t anywhere near any of the Moon stations.
Look—there’s a map on the back page, showing where it happened. A scientist
like you ought to be interested in these things." Arnold waved the paper away. "I’m just a dumb engineer
with problems. Don’t bother me with your Moon explosions. I wouldn’t care if
the whole damned thing blew up." 8 Ted Arnold had never felt completely at ease in the presence
of a woman. When the woman was beautiful, and when she seemed on the verge of
either explosive anger or maudlin tears, the only counter-tactic he could think
of was flight. He said lamely, "I’m very busy right now. Perhaps later—" Jean Morris asked again, "But where can he be?" "Darzek can take care of himself," Arnold said, and
wished he felt as confident as he sounded. Jean and Ed Rucks, seated on his
office sofa, looked at him glumly. "He’s a rare type of individual," Arnold went on.
"He’s a man of action, and also an intellectual, besides which he’s as
smart as hell. He thinks on his feet. Was he planning on pulling off something
like this?" "If he was, he never mentioned it," Ed Rucks said. "Wherever he is, he’s all right. Those women never
seemed any the worse for disappearing. They always showed up again, plague ‘em!
You say Darzek thought that trip to Paris was important?" "He thought it might be. He thought it might mean that
they didn’t always succeed with whatever they were doing. After what happened
with Madam Z, I agree with him." "Ah! Tell me about Madam Z." "She turned up about twenty minutes after Darzek and
Miss X disappeared. She came from New York, as I found out later, and she was
also wearing disguise B." "Did you find out where Miss X came from?" Rucks shook his head. "By the time we thought to check
on it, it was too late. Anyway, Madam Z bought a ticket to London. She went to
London. Jean followed her, and followed her back to Brussels, and then I took
over. She left the terminal and went for a walk. She browsed through a couple of
shops without buying anything, she sat down in a little park and communed with
nature for a while, and then she went back to the terminal. She bought another
ticket to London. I was right behind her, though not as close as Darzek was to
Miss X. I went to London, but she didn’t. Ever since then we’ve been waiting
for them to come back to Brussels and try it again. What do we do now?" "Get a good night’s sleep," Arnold said promptly.
"You’ve earned it. Tomorrow you can carry on by yourselves until we hear
from Darzek." "Carry on how?" Jean Morris demanded. "Jan
didn’t have a long-range plan. Or if he did, he didn’t share it with
us." "I think he was playing it by ear," Rucks said. "Then you play it by ear. Figure out what Darzek would
have done next, and do it." Both of them scowled. Watching them, Arnold made a discovery
that struck him with tumultuous impact. A beautiful woman was—a beautiful
woman. She was beautiful when she scowled, and when she was angry, and when she
was on the verge of tears. Beauty underwent changes. It had, perhaps, dimensions
and facets in infinite measure. But it did not lessen. Just as an ugly man’s ugliness did not lessen, even in his
most heroic moments. Arnold patted his ample stomach, and fingered his bald
head, and sighed. He probably had more sex appeal than the fire extinguisher
outside his door, but not to a noticeable degree. It was the penalty a man paid
for doing all of his thinking sitting down. Darzek, on the other hand— Jean
Morris said thoughtfully, "I’m sure there won’t be any more
disappearances from Brussels." "Then you’ll have to wait until we find out where they’ll
hit next." "While we’re waiting," Rucks said, "we might
look at some pictures." Arnold arched his brows inquiringly. "You’ve been taking photos of all the passengers
leaving New York. That’s a lot of film. Have you had much of it
developed?" Arnold shook his head. "Just enough to get prints of the
women who disappeared." "Get prints of all of it," Rucks said. "It’d
be interesting to know if the dames had any dry runs here yesterday." "You’d better explain that." "If a dame disappeared while supposedly transmitting to
Chicago, we could check to see if she made a bona fide trip to Chicago a little
before that, just as Miss X went to Paris before she disappeared going to Paris,
and Madam Z went to London. I’d like to know if they always do a dry
run." "I would, too," Arnold said, "though I don’t
quite see that it makes much difference." "And since Madam Z went to Brussels from New
York, we could check to see if Miss X did, too. It may not mean anything, but
that’s the way Darzek works. He says if you keep collecting information,
sooner or later you’ll have something that adds up." "Good idea. I’ll have a room full of prints ready for
you in the morning, and you can look at pictures until we get word of another
disappearance. "If Jan doesn’t show up in the meantime," Jean
Morris said. "Right. He may have the whole thing wrapped up by morning. Do
you have any idea how many people he has working on this?" "None at all. Jan may have put it in a ledger at the
office, or he may not have bothered." "If any of them show up for instructions, just tell them
to carry on as before, or if they’ve finished whatever they were doing use
your own judgment. You two come in at eight, and I’ll have the prints in that
room Darzek was using." After they had left he made a telephone call to start action
on the passenger photos, and then for a long time he sat wreathed in cigarette
smoke and ideas that never—quite— found a target. Shortly after midnight his
door jerked open, and Thomas J. Watkins looked in with a grin. "Don’t you ever sleep?" "Only during board meetings," Arnold said.
"What about yourself?" "I’ve been riding herd on some auditors." "Don’t tell me Universal Trans has financial
problems!" Watkins crossed the room and tiredly dropped onto the sofa.
"Call it book-keeping problems. Which reminds me. I was going to raise your
salary. I’ll do it first thing in the morning. Have you heard from
Darzek?" "No," Arnold said. "And don’t ask me where
he went. I’ve been asked that question a hundred and ninety times since he
disappeared, mainly by the same two people, and it nauseates me." "Universal Trans is deeply indebted to Mr. Darzek,"
Watkins observed. "True." "To put it bluntly, he has saved our necks. We’d have
succumbed to panic that first day if it hadn’t been for him, and those
photographs were a stroke of genius. That was a most fortunate suggestion of
yours—hiring Mr. Darzek." "Anyone who knew him would have thought of it." "But where do you suppose he went?" Arnold slammed both fists down onto his desk. "I’d feel personally responsible if anything happened
to him," Watkins added quickly. "Let me tell you something about Darzek," Arnold
said. "He carries a gun, in a shoulder holster he designed himself. It’s
a ridiculous little automatic, and I don’t think even an expert could spot it
without searching him carefully. And he can hit a pinhead at ten feet and a dime
at twenty. Wherever he went, I feel sorry for the people he found there. I’ve
seen Darzek really angry just once, and that was enough to make very good
Christians out of a roomful of atheists. Did you notice that there weren’t any
disappearances this afternoon?" "That’s right. There weren’t." "I’m betting there won’t be any tomorrow." "In any case, there’s nothing we can do—is
there?" Arnold shook his head. "There is one problem. Darzek
hired a staff for this job, and if he should be—detained—we should advance
some money to his office for the payroll, and perhaps we should see that one of
his men takes charge temporarily." "Certainly. Handle it as you think best, and let me know
how much money is needed. Anything else?" "Not now, no. If I could just figure out how they work
those disappearances—" Early Friday morning Ron Walker came to see Arnold. He leaned
far over his desk, looked Arnold steadily in the eyes, and whispered, "May
I ask a question?" Arnold grunted noncommittally. Whereupon Walker shouted, "What the hell is happening
with Universal Trans?" "Plenty," Arnold said peacefully. "New
terminals opening up, business increasing, records broken almost every hour.
There’s even a chance that the Russians will relent and let us open a terminal
in Moscow. Go down to Public Relations, and they’ll fill you in." "Damn Public Relations. Where’s Darzek?" "I haven’t the vaguest idea." "When did you see him last?" "Yesterday morning." Walker pointed a finger. "I happen to know that he’s
working for Universal Trans." "I never even knew it was a secret." "But you don’t know where he is." "You know Darzek better than that. How long would he
stay on a job if his employer made him check in every ten minutes?" Walker backed off disgustedly, and plopped onto the sofa. "We had an anonymous letter this morning." "About Universal Trans?" Walker nodded. "Let me guess. Some woman claimed she tried to transmit
to Los Angeles, and ended up in a sewer in Brooklyn." "You’re warm," Walker said. "Let’s see it." "The boss has it locked in his safe. If true, it’s
worth its weight in platinum leaf, or something. If it’s not true—but either
way it’s dynamite. Did you know that a whole series of Universal Trans
passengers walked trustingly into your transmitters and vanished from the ken of
mortal man?" Arnold leaned back and gave what he hoped was a creditable
imitation of a laugh. "I can go you a lot better than that. Go down to
Public Relations, and tell them I said you were to see the Crank File. One guy
thinks we’re changing our passengers into pigeons. He’s noticed a dramatic
increase in New York’s pigeon population since Universal Trans opened." "This is no crank letter. At least, it isn’t the usual
kind of crank letter. It names names, and cites meetings of the board of
directors, and even quotes what was said. It claims Darzek was hired by
Universal Trans to attempt to locate the missing passengers." "It names the missing passengers?" "No. It names directors, and quotes them." "And what is your boss going to do with it?" "Obviously nothing at all unless he can turn up enough
solid evidence to withstand a libel suit. Care to make a statement?" "I’d be delighted. Of the millions of people who have
transmitted since Monday—Public Relations can give you the exact number—there
is not even one who is unaccounted for. You may quote me. To your boss, that
is." "That’s fine, as far as it goes. Why did you hire
Darzek?" "Yours isn’t the only anonymous letter that’s turned
up. We’d like to know who’s writing them." "I see. It sounds so plausible that it’s highly
suspect. When you see Darzek—" "What?" "Never mind. He wouldn’t give me a story anyway." "I sincerely hope not," Arnold said. Watkins had called a special meeting of the board of
directors at eleven that Friday morning. Carl Miller had insisted on it, to
consider the report of his freight committee. At eleven-fifteen Arnold labored
up the stairs with an armful of freight transmitter blueprints, only to find
that the meeting was canceled. "Mr. Miller couldn’t come," said Miss Shue,
Watkins’s private secretary for more years than either of them cared to
recall. "The others on the Freight Committee don’t know anything about
anything. The Old Man has called another meeting for this afternoon. Four o’clock."
The tough, self-reliant and brutally competent Miss Shue was at least as old as
Watkins, but she always referred to him as the Old Man, to the horror of the
other secretaries in the executive offices. She would have been equally
horrified to know that they referred to her as Old Shue Leather. "Does he want me this afternoon?" Arnold asked. "He didn’t say. He’s been in conference since nine.
Some jerk from the District Attorney’s office." "Ouch! What have we done?" "I haven’t the faintest." Miss Shue regarded him
with interest. "I didn’t know you had a bogy, though I suppose you’re
as much entitled to one as anyone else. Mr. Armbruster blanches that way when
anyone mentions the Interstate Commerce Commission. Mr. Riley is terrified of
Internal Revenue, only that doesn’t count because everyone is terrified of
Internal Revenue. Mr. Homer—" "Did I blanch? I didn’t intend to." "Of course not. No one ever intends to. Why are you
afraid of the District Attorney?" "It all dates back to that afternoon I murdered my
mother," Arnold said, and walked out, leaving her gaping after him. He
threaded his way through the battery of clicking type-writers in the outer
office, drawing hardly a side glance from the typists. If Darzek had walked
through that office, he told himself glumly, every typewriter in the place would
have come to a dead stop. Darzek. "Where the devil is Darzek?" he muttered. Back in his own office, he made a telephone call before he
tilted back meditatively and placed his shoeless feet on his desk. It was nearly
noon in New York, and late afternoon in Europe, and Universal Trans had
yet to record its first Friday disappearance. Arnold looked in at Darzek’s office before he went upstairs
at four o’clock. Jean Morris and Ed Rucks were blearily examining photographs.
Photographs were piled high on the desk. Photographs had spilled onto the floor,
in all directions. Cartons of photographs were stacked about the room— opened
and unopened. They did not hear Arnold come in, and he backed out discreetly
without disturbing them. Again he climbed the stairs with an armful of blueprints, and
Miss Shue directed him to a conference room. "The Old Man is still busy
with that D.A. fellow," she said. "They’ve started without him. You
didn’t really murder your mother, did you?" "Of course not," Arnold said. "My baby sister
did it, but I got blamed." There were only three men in the conference room—Armbruster,
a nondescript vice president who had not been present when Darzek was hired;
Cohen, a similarly nondescript vice president who had been; and Grossman, the
Universal Trans treasurer. "Board meetings shouldn’t be called on such short
notice," Armbruster was grumbling when Arnold walked in. "Strictly
illegal. Anyway, no one comes." "They shouldn’t be called without a darned good
reason," Cohen said. "That’s why no one came. Everyone is fed up
with listening to Miller’s harangue about the freight business. I wonder why
Watkins doesn’t turn him off." "There’s money to be made in the freight
business," Grossman said cheerfully. "Let the railroads have it. I say, Arnold, could we run
a railroad train through a transmitter?" "Certainly," Arnold said, "if we built a big
enough transmitter." "That might be the answer. Build railroad transmitting
points at strategic places about the country, and charge the railroads for using
them. The railroads could handle the freight, and we’d handle the railroads.
Make a nice profit without all the fuss and bother of setting up warehouses and
storage and delivery and that sort of thing. We’d cut days off the railroads’
long-distance freight runs. How about it, Arnold? Are you listening?" Arnold started. "Excuse me. I was half listening. The
other half of me was wondering if a train could run through a transmitter and
stay on the tracks. Might be messy if it couldn’t." "Build one and find out," Cohen suggested. "Why don’t you take it up with the Boss? I don’t
make policy here. I just follow orders." "I’ll take it up with Miller. Where is he, anyway? I
thought this was his meeting." "He’s detained out of town," Grossman said.
"I just talked with his secretary. She doesn’t know when he’ll be
back." "Great. He calls a special meeting, and then he can’t
make it. What are we hanging around here for?" "That was Miller’s meeting that was canceled this
morning," Grossman said. "Watkins called this one." "If he called it, the least he could do is attend. Those
disappearances, I suppose. Anything new, Arnold?" "What did the Boss tell you about it?" "He said we have the situation well in hand." "We have the situation well in hand." Cohen glowered at him. "Where’s that detective
fellow?" "I don’t know." "I thought he was reporting to you." "He is." "Then why doesn’t he report? I know the company’s
finally making money, but that’s no excuse for throwing the stuff away.
Anyway, it wouldn’t surprise me if someone on your engineering staff was
behind that monkey business. No one else knows anything about the transmitter,
and you guys know all about it, and it seems dratted queer that the
disappearances should be such a mystery to you. We should have hired our own
detective, instead of one of your pals. We might have learned something—like
what engineer has come up with a neat scheme for blackmailing the company." "For your information," Arnold said hotly, "if
there’s a crook inside Universal Trans, he’s one of the directors. We do
know that much." "Nonsense," Grossman said, hastily gushing large
quantities of soothing oil. "Why would a director—" He broke off as Watkins slipped quietly into the room and
took his place at the head of the table. He looked haggard, and so utterly
exhausted that Arnold wondered if he’d had any sleep at all the previous
night. Before he spoke he closed his eyes for a moment, and pressed a hand to
his head. "I’ve been waiting for Harlow," he said.
"But he can’t get away. What’s the trouble?" "Nothing much," Grossman said. "Here-let me
quiet every- one’s nerves with a financial statement." "Arnold says one of the directors is behind those
passenger disappearances," Cohen said. "I say only the engineers would
have the necessary know-how." Watkins turned to Arnold. "A director, Ted?" "Darzek’s idea," Arnold said. "He said he’d
certify it. Shouldn’t have shot off my mouth, but Cohen ruffled me. I’ll
give you the details later." "I’ll look forward to hearing them. I’ve been out of
touch today. How many disappearances?" "None." Watkins looked startled. "None? Do you suppose Darzek is
responsible?" "Wherever he is, I’m sure he’s his usual effective
self." "And Darzek has fingered-that’s the term, isn’t
it?-one of the directors. I regarded that young man highly from the first, but
not highly enough, it seems, because he happens to be right." The three directors stared at Watkins, who ignored them
completely. "Did he say who it is, Ted?" "I don’t believe he knows who it is." "Strange that he should happen onto the idea at
all." "It struck him suddenly a couple of nights ago,"
Arnold said dryly. "He’s been working at finding out who it is." "The next time you see him—" Watkins paused.
"He won’t need to work at it any longer. I know who it is. I’m sorry we
couldn’t have more of the Board here, but it was rather short notice. Charlie,
I’ve had auditors on your books since yesterday." "They say it’ll take weeks to get things unscrambled,
but they’re certain the shortage will run a hundred thousand, and perhaps much
more. We’ve had a specialist in from the D.A.’s office, and the police are
waiting now to take you into custody. The D.A.’s man would like to talk with
you. You don’t have to, of course." "I won’t." "In a way this is my fault. If I’d devoted more time
to managerial problems, where I’m an expert, and less time to technological
problems, where I’m not, it wouldn’t have happened. But I’ve known you for
thirty years, Charlie, and you’re almost the last person—" His voice
trailed away. Grossman had recovered his poise, but he avoided Watkins’s
eyes. His voice was higher pitched than usual, and tense. "I thought
Universal Trans would flop anyway, and I hated to see all that money go
down the drain. You say the police are waiting?" Watkins nodded. Grossman got to his feet slowly, and started for the door. "Just a moment," Arnold called. "Where’s
Darzek?" "Darzek? How would I know? I haven’t seen him
since the Board hired him." "How did you work the disappearances?" Grossman looked wonderingly at Arnold. "Do you really
think I had something to do with that?" He laughed. "I always thought
you knew your stuff, Ted, but maybe you’re a lousier engineer than I am a
treasurer. Either that, or one of us is crazy." He opened the door
carefully, stepped outside, and closed it. The two vice presidents had been stunned into silence.
Watkins said thoughtfully, "Maybe he’s trying for a deal. He’ll tell us
what he knows if we agree not to prosecute. He’s holding back something to
bargain with." "You bargain with him," Arnold said. "I’m
going back to work." As he hurried past Miss Shue’s desk, she flagged him down
with an afternoon paper. "I meant to ask you. What do you think about
this?" Arnold gazed unseeingly at the headlines. "Think about
what?" "You mean you haven’t heard? Why, everyone’s been
talking about it all day. The explosion on the Moon, that’s what. The
government says we didn’t do it, and the Russians have just gotten around to
claiming they didn’t do it, and everyone is accusing everyone else. It’s all
very confusing." "Both we and the Russians have men up there. Did anyone
think to ask them about it?" "Oh, it wasn’t anywhere near any of the Moon stations.
Look—there’s a map on the back page, showing where it happened. A scientist
like you ought to be interested in these things." Arnold waved the paper away. "I’m just a dumb engineer
with problems. Don’t bother me with your Moon explosions. I wouldn’t care if
the whole damned thing blew up." |
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