The Troubled Air (28 page)

“Do you think I could do that?” Archer asked, feeling himself grow angry at this estimate of himself.

“I don’t know,” Vic said. “But if I were you I’d try. You weren’t mixed up in it when there were no penalties involved. Why dive in so late in the game when they’ll pile all over you if they catch you looking cross-eyed at a photograph of Herbert Hoover?”

“How about you?” Archer asked.

“The question doesn’t arise for me,” Vic said, his voice low. “They’re after me and I’ve got to fight for my life.” He grinned. “Actually, I don’t mind so much. A little fight now and then does wonders for a sedentary liver. Life on Park Avenue has been pretty placid for the last four or five years. This’ll put a new sparkle into the eye.”

“It won’t be easy,” Archer said.

“No,” Vic agreed. “I suppose they’ve got a case against me or what passes for a case these days and they’ll push it for all it’s worth. In my time I guess I belonged to a few organizations that had Communists in them. Maybe I still do. I’m not going to kid anybody. I wouldn’t hide it if I could. I hate the people who pretend they never met a real live Communist in their whole lives,” Vic said, “and that they wouldn’t know one if he came up and hit them over the head with a plaster bust of Karl Marx. For a long time the comrades were real valuable citizens and we were all delighted to give them a buck when they went off to get themselves killed in Spain and when they smuggled refugees out of Germany and kissed the Germans off at Stalingrad. And if they’re for low-cost housing and free milk for babies and giving Negroes a high-school education, I’m not going to spit in their faces now, either. I’m afraid of what’s happening, Clement. People feel that the best way to prove how loyal they are is to be as nasty and backward as they know how, and I’m not buying any of that, either, no matter what Mr. Hurt says. I’m no great shakes as a politician, and I figured out that maybe the reason I gave a couple of dollars here and there and a little of my time is because I felt guilty. I’ve been lucky all my life. I’ve had dough and people have been clubbing each other over the head for the privilege of giving me things on a platter ever since I was two months old and it’s made me feel a little better to pay up from time to time. If that’s treachery, then everybody who endows a new wing on a hospital ought to be sent to Leavenworth. And I saw the Communists in Europe, in the underground, and they did a first-class job and they didn’t have the USO and the Red Cross around to entertain them either. They were wrong a lot of the time, but they’ve done some very sticky jobs in the line of duty, too, and I want to reserve the privilege to cheer for them when they’re on my side, and kick them in the ass when they’re not. And if any two-bit patriot tries to make me kick them in the ass automatically and on sight, whether they’re stealing atom secrets or trying to get doctors to cure hillbillies of pellagra, he’s going to have a battle on his hands from me. The bugle will now blow assembly, after which we shall advance slightly north by left. Spectators are advised to buy their tickets early and to stay off the playing field at all times. …”

“Thanks for the hint,” Archer said, “but it comes a little late.”

“Why?”

“I’m in,” Archer said. “I told Alice Weller I’d guarantee her job.”

Vic pursed his mouth thoughtfully. He picked up his glass, but didn’t drink. “Gallantry,” he said. “Admirable, old-fashioned, characteristic and dangerous, not necessarily in that order.”

“Also,” Archer said, “I’m doing the same thing for you. Right now. When I leave here I’m going right up to Hutt’s office and put it on the line.”

Vic glanced across at Archer, his eyes measuring and troubled. “Archer,” he said, “go to the locker room and get yourself a new uniform. The team colors are black and blue. I hope they’re becoming to bald men.”

“Mr. Hurt isn’t here,” Miss Walsh was saying, “He’s in Florida. He left Wednesday night.” Miss Walsh was putting on her hat, preparing for the week-end. The hat was very involved, with brightly colored artificial flowers on it and a dotted veil. But even the veil didn’t help her. Miss Walsh was the one plain secretary on the entire floor. Long years of loyal sitting at the desk outside Hutt’s office had spread her behind and made her skin the color of an old lampshade and her voice with everyone but Hutt was snappish and suspicious, as though defending his privacy against all comers had cost her whatever charm she might have had in her distant youth. If Miss Walsh ever thought about it, you knew she would have gladly accepted the sacrifice as a small price to be paid for the pleasure of guarding her master. “He went fishing,” Miss Walsh said. “A friend of his has a boat at Key West. He needed it, he needed a vacation very badly,” she said accusingly through her veil, as though it was because of the inconsiderateness of Archer and others like him that Mr. Hutt sometimes felt fatigue. “He’s a very tired man.”

“When is he getting back?” Archer asked, looking away from Miss Walsh. He always avoided looking at her when he was in the office, fearful that she would see the distaste in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Miss Walsh said, whining. “I told him to stay away a long time. He was looking perfectly awful. Exhausted. I said to him, ‘Let the others do some work for once,’ I said, ‘You can’t carry the whole world on your own shoulders all the time,’ I said.”

“Yes,” said Archer, patient and sourly polite, “but when did he say he’d come back?”

“He didn’t say. When he’s thoroughly rested, I hope.” She tied the veil behind her hat with thick fingers. A thin smell of armpit came from Miss Walsh when she lifted her arms. Loyalty, Archer thought, sometimes comes rather high in a warm office building. She must be sensationally efficient.

“He left word that Mr. O’Neill would handle whatever came up,” Miss Walsh said. By her tone Archer understood that she had little hope that Mr. O’Neill could handle anything at all.

“Thanks,” Archer said. He left Miss Walsh to her artificial flowers, her week-end, her veil and her armpits. He walked through the empty office, past the cleared desks and the antique furnishings to O’Neill’s office. O’Neill’s secretary was gone and the door was open. O’Neill was sitting at his kidney-shaped desk, bulking over it, his eyes closed, sleeping, sitting erect. Great, Archer thought, watching O’Neill, one fishing and one asleep. He felt a surge of strong, unreasonable anger at Hutt for going off at a time like this. The least he might do, Archer thought, is hang around this week. And O’Neill might have the grace to keep his eyes open.

“Emmet,” he said loudly, “wake up. The building’s on fire.”

O’Neill blinked. He looked up soddenly at Archer. “What’s the matter?” he asked thickly. “What’d you say?” He shook his head, recovering from sleep. “Oh. Clem. Forgive me. Saturday afternoon—nap-time. What’s new?”

“I want to talk to Hutt,” Archer said.

O’Neill yawned. He had very white teeth and when he yawned Archer could see that there were no fillings in them. “Excuse me,” O’Neill said. “Some day I’m going to take a vacation. Sleep for two months.” He shook himself vigorously and stood up, rubbing his hands briskly through his hair. “Hutt’s in Florida.”

“I know,” Archer said. “I spoke to the exquisite Miss Walsh.”

“On a boat. Sailfishing.”

“How do I get in touch with him?”

O’Neill shrugged. “Beats me. Put a note in a bottle.”

“Will he be back this week?”

“Ask Miss Walsh.”

“I did.”

“What’d she say?”

“He’s exhausted, she said. He’ll be back when he stops being exhausted.”

“That’s what he told me,” O’Neill said. “He called me two o’clock Thursday morning from Palm Beach. The reins’re in my hands, he said, until further notice.” O’Neill extended his hands and gazed at his palms soberly. He flexed his fingers.

“Just this week,” Archer said. “The bastard.”

“President of the concern,” O’Neill said complacently. “One of the biggest men in the business.”

“The reins are in your hands,” Archer said. “What did he mean by that?”

“Depends,” O’Neill said. Archer could see that he intended to be cautious. “I don’t imagine I can sign checks for more than ninety thousand dollars or hire Lana Turner for a year or anything like that. In a moderate way, I guess you could say the reins are in my hands.”

“What about Herres and Atlas, et cetera?”

O’Neill yawned again. It was a nervous yawn this time. Deep wrinkles appeared around O’Neill’s eyes, making him look less youthful. “Sit down, pal,” O’Neill said. “Times’re tough enough as it is.”

Archer sat down on the edge of the desk. “All right,” he said.

“Want a drink?” O’Neill asked, pulling open a drawer in the desk to reveal a bottle. “To celebrate Saturday afternoon?”

“No.”

O’Neill closed the drawer, sighing. “Always feel sad on Saturday afternoon,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Gray weather … gray weather. …”

“Waiting,” Archer said.

“Clement,” O’Neill said gently, looking up, “I’m afraid they’ve had it. All of them.”

“Hutt said he’d give me two weeks,” Archer said, trying to keep from speaking too fast. “I’ve dug up a lot of information. …”

“Hutt’s been digging up information, too, he says,” O’Neill said neutrally. “When he called me from Palm Beach, he told me to tell you that as far as he’s concerned, his position stands.”

“You knew that Thursday,” Archer said, standing up. “Why did you keep me on the string?”

“Orders from the man I work for,” O’Neill said quietly. “I’m sorry, Clem. He told me not to bring it up until you did. Mine not to reason why, mine but … oh, hell.” He stood up, too. “Let’s go out and have lunch.”

“That was a cheap thing for Hutt to do,” Archer said. “Run out at a time like this, leaving you with the dirty work.”

“I’ll pass on your feelings in the matter,” O’Neill said formally. “I’m sure Mr. Hutt is always open to constructive criticism.”

“Exactly what did he mean by saying that his position stands?”

“No one of the five works next week or thereafter, to infinity,” O’Neill said. “Exactly.”

“I threatened I’d quit,” Archer said, “when I talked to him. What’s the word on that?”

“Lunch,” O’Neill said, “I’m dying for a large, wet lunch.”

“Come on, Emmet,” Archer said. “Let’s have it.”

O’Neill walked slowly toward the window, then turned and faced Archer. There was a look of troubled pleading in his eyes. “He said that if you wanted to quit, Clem, I was empowered to accept your resignation.”

There was silence for a moment. In the quiet building, Archer could hear the faint sound of an elevator dropping hollowly in its shaft. Archer got off the desk. He rubbed his head thoughtfully. Here it is, he thought, here’s the moment again. Once more around the track and in front of the judges’ stand still one more time.

“Clem,” O’Neill said. “That’s all for me. That’s as far as I go. My duties to the firm of Hutt and Bookstaver are discharged for the week. I won’t say another word. Let’s go and have lunch.”

Archer hesitated. “Sure,” he said, after a pause. “Might as well eat.”

He watched as O’Neill put on his hat and coat. “I have to meet my wife for lunch, too,” O’Neill said. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Delighted,” Archer said absently, feeling blank.

“We’ve been quarreling,” O’Neill said, as they got to the door of his office. “I’ve discovered a natural truth about marriage. The prettier they are, the more they fight. You can act as a buffer state.”

Archer stopped before O’Neill could close the door.

“What’s the matter?” O’Neill asked nervously.

“Emmet,” Archer said slowly, “I have a call to make. Do you mind if I use your telephone?”

“Of course not.” O’Neill waved toward his desk. “I’ll wait for you.”

“I don’t think you’d better hear this call,” said Archer.

“Sure,” O’Neill said. “I’ll wait-for you at the elevator.”

“I’m going to call the sponsor,” Archer said. “I want to go to him and put the whole thing up to him.”

O’Neill blinked. He looked uneasily up and down the empty outer office, at the neat, vacant desks and the covered typewriters. “The rule is, of course,” he said flatly, “that nobody but Hutt talks to the sponsor.”

“I know all about the rule.”

“It’s Saturday afternoon,” O’Neill said. “He won’t be in his office.”

“I’ll call him at his home.”

“He lives in Paoli,” O’Neill said. “He has an unlisted phone. You won’t be able to get him.”

“You have his number,” Archer said. “I know that. You’ve called Hutt there when Hutt went down for week-ends.”

“The last man who went over Hutt’s head and talked to a sponsor was fired the next week,” O’Neill said.

“I know.”

“Just wanted to keep you
au courant
with the local customs.”

“What’s the number, Emmet?”

They stood facing each other, very close. O’Neill’s face was serious and tight. Then it relaxed. He grinned, his face looking boyish and mischievous. “Sometimes, Clem,” O’Neill said, “I wish I was back in the old carefree United States Marines. I’m going down to meet my pretty wife, because I’m late already, and our marriage is tottering as it is. On my desk, there’s an address book. In it, it’s just barely possible you might find an unlisted number or two. Under S. Don’t tell me about it. I’ll be waiting for you at the bar, with a Martini in reserve.”

He patted Archer’s arm with a swift gesture, and swung on his heel and walked sturdily toward the elevators, a man having trouble hanging on to his eighteen thousand dollars a year.

Archer watched him march past the empty desks, then went into the office. The address book was of heavy green tooled leather and was standing against a leather-framed photograph of O’Neill’s wife. O’Neill’s wife had long, blond hair and she regarded the transactions on her husband’s desk with a pure, delicious, sidelong air. Under S, Archer found the name Robert Sandler, with a Paoli number. Archer sat down at O’Neill’s desk and, staring at the pretty, framed face, dialed the operator.

Fifteen minutes later, when he joined O’Neill and his wife at the bar downstairs, he casually dropped the information that he had to get a morning train on Monday for Philadelphia.