“Then I began hearing he was ill.”
“From whom? When?”
“Well, from Alex Corcoran, who, if you don’t know by now, is president of Wagnall-Phipps.”
“I do know.”
“Of course, next to Alex almost everyone looks ill. He’s a big, florid man, plays golf almost every day of the week. That’s all right. He makes more money for Wagnall-Phipps on the golf course than all the other sales personnel combined.”
“When did Alex mention to you he thought Bradley was ill?”
“About two years ago. I don’t know, really. I like to think I had noticed it myself, first.”
“What did you notice?”
“About Tom? A weight loss. He seemed to be … becoming quieter. More reserved. He seemed distracted. I really don’t know.”
“So you understood something was wrong with him.”
“Right. Then came the announcement that he was going to Europe for medical treatments. Prolonged medical treatments. Nothing was specified. When nothing is specified in a case like that, I guess, well, I guess we all thought the worst. Cancer.”
“So no one, as far as you know, pressed for a full explanation.”
“Of course not. It was announced that in his absence Enid Bradley would step in as Acting Chairperson.”
“How come men are Chairmen and women are Chairpersons?”
“I don’t know. Enid did just fine. Sometimes I’d ask her a question and she didn’t have the answer, or hadn’t thought it out, but by next morning she would have the answer, and it would always prove to be the correct one.”
“How did you explain that to yourself? Did you think she had talked with Thomas Bradley overnight?”
“Yes, I did. At first. That made perfect sense to me, because many mornings, once or twice a week, I would get rather detailed memos from Bradley—I mean, Thomas Bradley. Nothing personal in them. Just memos regarding the backroom bookkeeping of Wagnall-Phipps.”
“What do you mean, you
“No. They’d just be on my desk. I assumed Enid Bradley was bringing them into the office and leaving them for me.”
“Okay. So the guy was in the hospital somewhere, maybe in Europe, keeping in touch with his wife by telephone, and keeping his hand in the business by communicating with his treasurer by detailed memoranda.”
“Yes. Then, last November, a Friday afternoon, the rumor went through the office that Thomas Bradley was dead. You know how rumors go through an office?”
“Ask the man who is one. A rumor, I mean.”
“No one really says anything. The sound level, the tone, of an office changes. People walk differently. The expressions on their faces are different. Sometimes you just figure something is wrong, and then try to figure what is wrong. Do you know what I mean?”
“Sure. But I can’t see a literal minded man like you leaving matters like that. If there’s a fact out there, somewhere, I suspect you pursue it.”
“I did. I was worried, anxious. At about eight o’clock that night, I telephoned Alex Corcoran. Well, how do I say this? He had been drinking. He sounded terribly upset. He confirmed my suspicion.”
“He said Thomas Bradley was dead?”
“He did. His speaking was uneven, his breathing was uneven. He said Enid was going through a terribly hard time. He asked me not to talk to Enid about it. She was being strong. She wanted no condolences, no flowers. She wasn’t planning a memorial service.”
“And that struck you as odd.”
“Not really. The Bradleys were very quiet, sort of withdrawn people. They had few friends, if any, that I know of. The socializing they did with people in the office was perfunctory, if you know what I mean. Anyway, Alex, in a sort of drunken manner, asked me not to confront Enid with the fact of her husband’s death.”
“And you didn’t.”
“No. I was surprised to see her in the office on Monday. She didn’t leave for Switzerland until Tuesday.”
“Do you know she went to Switzerland?”
“Let me think. I know Alex Corcoran said she went to Switzerland.”
“Because that’s where Thomas Bradley died?”
“Yes. So I understood.”
“How long was she gone?”
“Oh, she returned the end of the next week. Thursday or Friday.”
“Ten days, roughly.”
“Ten days. And all that’s all right. But, like an intelligent man, like any employee, intelligent or otherwise, I wondered what effect the death would have upon the company.”
“What effect did it have?”
“Zero. Except for Alex Corcoran’s statement to me, it was never stated that Thomas Bradley was dead.”
“You accept that.”
“Only more or less. I mean, Enid’s not a warm woman, but you’d think she’d plant a flower somewhere for her dead husband. She continued to be listed as Acting Chairperson, instead of Chairperson.”
“I understand that. Francine …”
“The routine remained as it was before. I mean, of course, I was expecting financial shifts in the company, little tell-tale signs, a cutting back of expenses, divestiture of certain assets, shifts of stock ownership. There was none of that. Of course the stock is held by an instrument called The Bradley Family Company.”
“You’re talking about the need to pay death taxes, estate taxes, whatever they’re called.”
“I presumed that the family had enough personal wealth to pay taxes without touching the assets of the firm.”
“Is that likely?”
“It’s possible. The Bradleys have never been big spenders. As far as I know, as a family they own one house, four cars, and a horse. How much does it cost to feed a horse? The. only other family expense I know of is tuition for the son.”
“Might as well be poured down the drain.”
“Why do you say that?”
“So everything, so far, Mister Blaine, is understandable.”
“Not at all. I said the routine remained identical. In conference with Enid Bradley, clearly she would not know the answers, what to do, how to decide. The next day, she would indeed have the answer for me, and, again, it would prove to be the correct answer.”
“And she wasn’t talking to her husband by telephone.”
“Not unless the telephone company has made a technological advance they haven’t publicized.” Charles Blaine’s paunch trembled with his own humor.
“Do you know about Thomas Bradley’s sister, Francine?”
“Yes. I understand she and Tom were very close. That she is very clever in business. That Tom frequently consulted her.”
“So Enid could have been getting advice from Francine on how to run the company.”
“Yes. I suppose so.”
“Do you know that Enid may be only filling in for Francine? That Francine might come out to take over Wagnall-Phipps?”
Charles Blaine smiled. “It seems to me you know more about this company than you did last week when we talked, Fletcher.”
“I’m doing this week what I guess I should have done two weeks ago. But, frankly, I still don’t think a twelve graf story about a piddly little company like Wagnall-Phipps is worth the effort.”
“So why are you doing it?”
“I’m worth the effort. I’m a good reporter.”
