“You're staying on this evening, Mr. Stewart?”
Her voice was low-keyed-like her personality, he thought. And her appearance. Attractive enough, with the fresh, clear complexion contrasted with the prematurely gray hair, but the severely tailored suit and the glasses militated against the masculine head-turn in a crowd, the hallmark of the man's woman.
“A few moments only, Miss Richardson.” He nodded down at the opened folders in front of him. “I have a late dinner engagement, and I thought I might use the time profitably to update one or two of these programs.”
“If there's anything I can do-”
“Nothing, thanks. I'm just noodling, actually.”
“Well, if you're sure… you'll get the safe?”
“I won't forget. I'll take care of it.”
“I'll put the night latch on the outer door as I leave. Good night, Mr. Stewart.”
“Good night, Miss Richardson.” He sat and listened again to the tap-tap of her heels, diminishing now, and then the slight sound of the door. Capable girl-damn capable. He was lucky to have her. Kept the office running like a watch, and no fuss and feathers about it, either.
He pushed a folder absently along the side of his desk with a stiffened forefinger and leaned back lazily in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. He stared for a moment at the far wall with its framed certificates, an idle toe tapping idly on the inner well of the desk. He unclasped his hands and stood up restlessly, shoving the hands deeply into his pockets.
He wandered out into the outer office, from whose floor space his own partitioned-off, glassed-in privacy had been carved. It was quiet now in the office after the daylong tac-tac-tac of the machines. Approvingly he noted the neat, clean desk tops; he insisted upon a clean desk at quitting time. A six-girl office, Stewart, he reminded himself; do you remember when you used to wonder if you'd ever have a one-girl office? Or a place of your own at all? And not so long ago, either.
He glanced at the gold lettering on the heavily frosted glass of the outer door; it always reassured him to see it there. He was reading it backward from where he stood, of course, but then he really didn't need to read it at all. He'd carried those letters of gold in his heart for ten years before he ever got them up on glass. Walter Stewart, Insurance Broker. And directly beneath in smaller block print, we sell service. Neat, but not gaudy. Conservative insurance service for conservative clients. Too bad you couldn't put that up on the door, too.
He rested an elbow on a chest-high, olive green filing cabinet, and as an afterthought tested the top drawer. Locked, as it should be. Miss Richardson checked them personally each evening before she left; he'd never found her to be careless. Away from the office as much as he was, it was a relief not to have to be eternally concerned with the grinding function of the hour-by-hour small emergencies of office routine. Miss Richardson handled it all. He himself had no patience for such details; he begrudged the time spent in such fashion as a distraction from a broker's true metier. He Three sharp raps on the glass aroused him; he crossed to the gold-lettered door, opened it and stood aside. “Come in.”
A big man entered; he was dressed flamboyantly in a vividly checked sport coat and light-colored slacks. He wore an expensive panama with a too-wide brim, and he had a livid scar that slightly pulled down a corner of the heavy mouth. The face was a scarred full moon.
Walter Stewart led the way directly back to the inner office, and pulled the guest chair up beside his desk. The big man seated himself and removed a small notebook from an inside breast pocket which he passed across the desk to Walter Stewart, who thumbed casually through its closely written contents, then nodded. He opened the center drawer of his desk and took out a sealed white envelope; he leaned forward slightly to hand it to the big man, who slit the flap with a thumbnail, removed the small sheaf of bills, flipped them between thumb and forefinger as casually as Walter Stewart had thumbed the notebook, restored the bills to the envelope and the envelope to the inside breast pocket.
Not a word had been spoken during the almost ritualistic transfer, but as the big man made a movement to rise Walter Stewart raised a hand.
“One moment,” he said. His eyes followed the movement of his hands on the desk top as they faced two folders together on the blotter. He kept his eyes on the folders as he continued. “I find that I shan't need the service any longer.” He forced himself to look across the desk.
“Sorry to hear it, Mr. Stewart.” There was no change, of expression on the heavy features; in the quiet office the voice was a rolling bass, ruggedly deep. “We're a little bit proud of our service. Is it something specific?”
“Not at all,” Walter Stewart said. He said it hastily. “It's the fact rather that circumstances have changed-” He paused; he didn't like the sound of the phrase. He tried again. “There eventually comes a time when it becomes necessary to reassess a given situation.”
“In other words, you feel you've outgrown us, Mr. Stewart.”
Walter Stewart restrained the impulsive reply on the tip of his tongue. He felt warmth invading his features, but he made himself speak calmly. “Such a statement implies ingratitude on my part. I neither feel nor wish to be made to feel ungrateful.”
“Look at it from our point of view.” The heavy voice rolled over Walter Stewart as the big man leaned back in his chair and ran his eye appraisingly from the comfortably furnished office in which they sat on out to the spacious exterior. “I've been making these little visits to you for about four years now, Mr. Stewart. Not always to this address; three different addresses, I believe. Each in turn a little more substantial, a little more fashionable. You've prospered; you've moved on and up. Do you remember the first address, Mr. Stewart?”
Walter Stewart did remember; he sat, silent. The big man waved a negligent hand about him. “I personally much prefer this address, and the circumstances it represents. I think you do, too. My associates and I like to feel that our service was of some material help to you in attaining the address and circumstances. You know the expense involved in maintaining our service; it is an expense which we can support only by a firm, equitable arrangement with our clients. You follow me, Mr. Stewart?”
Walter Stewart circled dry lips with his tongue. “I have always felt our arrangement to be equitable.”
“Exactly,” the heavy voice said, and waited. Walter Stewart sought for words. He was clever with words, but he could find none at the moment to avoid the direct question he had previously side-stepped. Despite himself his voice sharpened. “Do you take the attitude then that this arrangement is permanent?”
“A matter of terminology. I myself prefer the word 'Irrevocable'.”
“I refuse to concede-” Walter Stewart broke off suddenly. His blunt fingers drummed rapidly on the desk top. He looked up in sudden alarm as the big man rose, but there was a smile on the moon face. Or it could have been a smile except for the scar.
“You'll excuse me, I'm sure, Mr. Stewart. I have another appointment. I'd like to leave you with this thought. My associates and I dislike sounding arbitrary, but we feel that over the years our relationship has developed into something mutually profitable. We wouldn't like to see the status quo disturbed. We really wouldn't, believe me.” Thick fingers flirted with the too-wide brim of the panama as he settled it more firmly on his head. “See you next month, Mr. Stewart. As usual. Unless you call. And if I were you, I wouldn't call. Good night.”
Walter Stewart sat and listened to the tread of the heavy footsteps, cut off by the sound of the closing door. He drew a long breath, and stared down unseeingly at the blotter on his desk.
So now you know, Stewart. Now you know.
He sank back in his chair and closed his eyes, then leaned forward as he forced himself to open them again. What are you worried about? he asked himself impatiently. Nothing has changed. Not one single thing has changed.
Blackmail. He rolled it around on his tongue. He shrugged; sticks and stones may break your bones, Stewart, but names will never hurt you. You may be tied to the railroad track, but as the man very carefully pointed out you like the way you're living, too.
There's no difference, except that now you know that you bought the whirlwind.
And haven't you really always known?
Johnny sat bolt upright on the bed, startled from sleep by a thumping on his chest. His instinctively quick movement dislodged the scampering Sassy, who bounded down to the end of the bed and turned to wrinkle her nose at him disapprovingly. “You got to cut that out, baby doll; I might swing first and look later.”
He stretched and looked at the late afternoon sunlight beneath the three-quarters-drawn shade. Might as well get up and eat. He lay back and stared up at the ceiling. He'd get going in a minute; shower first, shave…
Sassy boarded his right leg, walked smoothly up the length of his body, and resettled herself on his chest,
