'Not in a file like this, of course. There isn't enough room. But it doesn't have to be like this. We don't have so many salesmen that we couldn't set up a separate file on each one, give each man a section in one of the filing cabinets.'
Kaggs scratched his head. 'Hmm,' he said. 'Well maybe.'
'It ought to be done, Perk. It just about has to be if you're going to have a clear picture of what's going on. Tie the sales slips to the salesmen, and you know which men are selling and which are running a milk route. Ordertakers. You know what items are moving and which need pushing, and which should be dropped entirely. Of course, you'll know all that eventually, anyway. But waiting can cost you a hell of a lot of money and-'
Roy broke off abruptly, suddenly abashed by his tone and his words. He shook his head, dismayed, like a man coming into wakefulness.
'Just listen to me,' he said. 'I come in here for the first time, and I start kicking your system to pieces.'
'So kick it some more. Kick the crap out of it!' Kaggs beamed at him. 'How are you feeling, anyway? Getting tired? Want to knock off for the day?'
'No, I'm okay. But-'
'Well, let's see, then.' Kaggs skidded his chair closer, and reached for a pencil. 'What would you say to…'
An hour went by.
Two hours.
In the outer offices, one of the clerks turned a startled stare on her neighbor. 'Did you hear that?' she whispered. 'He was
'I heard,' said the other girl, grimly, 'but I don't believe it. That guy never learned how to laugh!'
At five-thirty that evening, the telephone operator plugged in her night numbers and closed her board. The outer offices darkened and became silent, as the last of the office employees filed out. And at six, the downstairs workers departing to the muted clanging of the time- clock, the silence and the dimness became absolute.
At eight o'clock-
Perk Kaggs removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. He looked around, blinking absently, and a bewildered look spread over his face. With an amazed curse, he jumped to his feet.
'My God! Look at the time! Where the hell did the day go to?'
'What?' Roy frowned. 'What's the matter, Perk?'
'Come on, you're getting out of here! Right this minute, damnit! My God-' Kaggs swore again. 'I ask you to drop in for a few minutes and you put in a day's work!'
They had a late dinner together.
As they said good night, Kaggs gave him a sharp searching glance. 'Level with me, Roy,' he said quietly. 'You do want this job, don't you? You want to be sales manager?'
'Well…' Roy hesitated for a flicker of a second.
There it was. Here was his chance to refuse. And he knew suddenly that he could refuse, without apology or explanation. He could say simply no, that he didn't want it, and that would be that. He could go back to his old life where he had left it. For something had happened between him and Kaggs, something that made them friends. And friends do not question each other's motives.
'Why, of course, I want it,' he said firmly. 'What gave you the idea that I didn't?'
'Nothing. I just thought that-nothing.' Kaggs returned to his usual briskness. 'To hell with it. To hell with you. Go home and get some sleep, and don't show up at the shop again until the doctor says you're ready!'
'You're the boss,' Roy grinned. ''Night, Perk.'
Driving back to the hotel, he started to rationalize his decision, to find some devious reason for doing what he had done. But that passed very quickly. Why shouldn't he take a job that he wanted to take? Why shouldn't a man want a friend, a real friend, when he has never before had one?
He put the car away and entered the hotel. The elderly night clerk hailed him.
'You had a phone call this morning, Mr. Dillon. Your mother.'
'My mother?' Roy paused. 'Why didn't you leave word for me where I work?'
'I was going to, sir, but she said not to bother. Didn't have time to wait, I guess.'
Roy picked up a house phone, put in a call to Lilly's apartment. He hung up a moment or two later, puzzled, uneasy.
Lilly was gone. She had checked out of her apartment this morning, leaving no forwarding address.
He went upstairs. Frowning, he shucked out of his clothes and lay down on the bed. He tossed and turned for a while, worrying. Then, gradually, he relaxed and began to doze.
Lilly could take care of herself. There could be- must be-an innocent reason for her sudden move.
Del Mar… She might have moved there for the race meet. Or she might have found a more desirable apartment here in town that had to be taken immediately. Or perhaps BoboJustus had suddenly recalled her to Baltimore.
He fell asleep.
After what seemed only an instant, he came awake.
Sunlight flooded the room. It was late in the morning. He was conscious that the phone had been ringing for a very long time. It was now silent, but its din was still in his ears. He started to reach for it, his senses dull, not fully free of the stupor of sleep, and there was a knock on the door, a steady knocking.
He crossed to it, opened it enough to look out. He blinked at the man there; then, the man identifying himself, stating his business with professional regret-apologizing for the errand that had brought him here-Roy let the door open wide.
And he stood shaking his head as the man came inside.
He said it aloud, glaring at his visitor. The latter pursed his lips thoughtfully.
'You didn't know she was in Arizona, Mr. Dillon? She didn't tell you she was going?'
'Of course, she didn't! Because she didn't go! I- I-' He hesitated, some of his caution asserting itself. 'I mean, my mother and I weren't very close. We went our own ways. I hadn't seen her for almost eight years until she came here a few weeks ago, but-'
'I understand,' the man nodded. 'That jibes with our information, such as it is.'
'Well, you're wrong, anyway,' Roy said doggedly. 'It's someone else. My mother wouldn't…'
'I'm afraid not, Mr. Dillon. It was her own gun, registered to her. The proprietor of the tourist court remembers that she was very distraught. Of course, it does seem a little odd that she'd use a gun with a silencer on it for -. – for something like that. But-'
'And she didn't! It doesn't make sense!'
'It never does, Mr. Dillon. It never makes sense when a person commits suicide…'
22
The man was slightly bald, heavy-set, with a plump, honest face. His name was Chadwick, and he was a Treasury Department agent. Obviously, he felt a little awkward about being here at such a time. But it was his job, distasteful though it might be, and he meant to do it. He did, however, lead into his business circuitously.
'You understand why I came rather than the local police, Mr. Dillon. It really isn't their affair, at least at this point. I'm afraid there may be some unpleasant publicity later on, when the circumstances of your
