Читать книгу Ordeal by Terror - Lloyd Biggle jr. - Страница 6

CHAPTER 2

At ten minutes before one o’clock, Adelle seated herself at her desk to begin a new page of statistics. She was being extravagantly overpaid. Giving Z-R Publications a generous measure of whatever it was they thought they were paying her for was the least she could do in return.

Madam’s cheerful voice sounded in the hallway as she tiptoed past Adelle’s open door. “Back at it already, Darlink? Those pants look nice.”

Adelle waved without looking up. Apparently Madam had never seen a pants suit before, and she was still grappling with the idea of a dressed up woman in trousers. Her blank expression when Adelle walked in that morning—wearing the first new outfit she had bought in more than a year—was a memory to be cherished.

She typed one seven-digit number and paused to frown at the next. The copy was in pencil, and the figures had been corrected without erasing—an eight changed to a six, she thought, followed by a five corrected to a three or vice versa.

She glanced at her watch and then picked up the copy. When she stepped into the hallway, she caught sight of Goon 1 vanishing around a corner. Smiling, she headed in the opposite direction, descended the hanging staircase, and turned away from the main corridor toward the sound of splashing water.

At the end of a short intersecting hallway, a massive door stood ajar. Beyond it, the oversized opening had been screened around the framing of a normal-sized screen door. Adelle emerged in a small courtyard surrounded by a stone-faced gothic exterior. The fountain was a hideous gargoyle on the wall that spat a stream of water into an equally hideous sculpture whose mouth served as a basin. On a stone bench in one corner, knees drawn up and clasped, placidly puffing on a cigarette, was Kevin Mondor.

He was slender, dark, clean-shaven, and dressy-looking—he always wore a sport jacket and tie to work—and ridiculously finicky about his appearance. One of Craig Dolan’s insults, told to Madam as coming from Adelle, was that Mondor pressed his own permanent press slacks each night. Mondor also had his hair cut weekly, but for some reason he left it long in front to tumble down over his face. His thick glasses were an indication of the havoc that could be wreaked on one’s eyesight by a lifelong fascination with mathematics. The lenses gave his brown eyes a perpetual wildly-staring look. In any rational organization, his title of Researcher/Statistician would have ranked him far above Adelle in both status and salary. At Z-R Publications, there was no status, and their salaries were the same. He was the senior member of the production staff—he had been employed three weeks longer than Adelle and two weeks longer than Craig Dolan.

Adelle preferred the French jardin for her lunch hour. Mondor favored this medieval courtyard, and though he never brought his lunch from home, he came here daily the moment he returned from The Greenry. Perhaps the surroundings put him in mind of a happier age when mathematics had not yet got cluttered up with computers and pocket calculators.

She thrust the copy under his nose. “Pity they don’t teach mathematics students to write legible numerals,” she said.

“Pity they don’t teach liberal arts students to read them,” he answered without looking up. He exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“Well—what is it?” she demanded. “I’m assuming the first numeral is a six. Is the next one a five or a three?”

Mondor studied the page for a moment. “Yes,” he answered.

“Yes, what?”

“It’s a five or a three. I’ll check after the lunch hour.”

“It’s after the lunch hour.”

He turned her wrist so he could see her watch. “I have two more minutes.”

“Why don’t you get your watch fixed?” she asked disgustedly. “You’re as bad as Dolan.”

“I resent that insult. At least I own a watch, even if it doesn’t run, and I keep it in a safe place at home. I have a high regard for anything involving numbers. But who needs a timepiece in this building? There are clocks striking everywhere.” He settled back to enjoy his two minutes. “I never thought I’d learn to hate an Eighteenth Century drawing room. But then, I never expected to work in one. What’s the hurry? Dolan’s always late, and no one says anything. It isn’t as though we have a deadline.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

He flipped the cigarette in the direction of the fountain and missed. “Tell me honestly,” he said, lowering his voice. “Don’t you think there’s something loony about this place?”

“Everything is loony about it, including the building.”

“There’s an explanation for the building,” he said, still keeping his voice low. “Granted the explanation is loony, too, but the building has been here for a long time, and looniness half-a-century old has a certain patina. Z-R Publications and its alleged books are unequivocally loony. Does anyone really care how many refrigerators were sold in Istanbul in 1981 or how many automobiles were sold in Algiers in this year or that?”

“Manufacturers and exporters ought to.”

Mondor shook his head. “No. They care about how many they can sell next year, which may have no connection whatsoever with 1981. And they have local contacts of their own who no doubt are capable of giving them all the past statistics and future prognostications they want. I figure Z-R Publications is going to sell a maximum fifty copies per book to the sales departments of giant corporations that can afford to buy things and not use them. Is it loony, or isn’t it?”

“Loony or not, I’m going to take the money as long as it’s offered.”

“Aren’t we all? But I prefer a job that makes sense. There’s something about this setup I can’t get a grip on. Loony isn’t quite the word for it. I’d ask Dolan for a better one, but he’d have to look it up. Try ‘sinister.’ The way Madam snoops around gives me the creeps. Does she go through your stuff during the noon hour?”

“Is it Madam? I thought it might be my pet Goon 1. Is Goon 3 still spying on you?”

“Goon 3 or Goon 4. I think they change off on me.”

“On my first day here, I learned to take my purse when I go to lunch,” Adelle said.

“Was anything missing?”

“No. But things couldn’t have been stirred more thoroughly with an egg beater. That’s why I thought it was a man. Men think all women’s purses are miniature trash containers and any amount of pawing won’t be noticed. I keep mine organized.” She glanced at her watch. “You’re a fraud. You can’t hear clocks striking out here. It is now one minute after the lunch hour.”

“I worked three minutes overtime this morning.” Mondor transferred his gaze to the fountain and resumed his speculation about looniness. “Would any sane management hire three such incompatible people as us? The girl you replaced was comparatively human. You’re just an accessory to your computer. And look at that slob Dolan. I got along fine with the writers that worked here before him.”

“Were they vegetarians?” Adelle asked maliciously.

“No, but they weren’t slobs. Each one lasted a week. Then they hired him. And then they hired you. A writing slob and a word machine.”

“To work with a calculating cad,” Adelle suggested.

“If you say so,” Mondor said imperturbably. “If we three had to occupy the same office, there’d be murder before the end of a week. We survive only because we work so far apart, but that’s another thing that’s loony. This setup would give an efficiency expert apoplexy.” He got to his feet resignedly and turned off the fountain. “I’ll call you about those figures.”

She turned and went back into the building without waiting for him. Word machine, indeed! When she reached her office, the phone was ringing. She hurried to answer it.

“Six, three,” Mondor said. “Did I muck up anything else?”

She glanced over the next six pages and told him most of the figures were half legible.

Craig Dolan came in a few minutes later, grinning broadly and waving some typewritten sheets of copy. Mondor had once said Dolan could pass for Santa Claus if the padding was moved from his head to his stomach, but this was an exaggeration on several counts. He was an inch or two taller than six feet and large framed, but thus far the beer that he drank had put very little fat on him—perhaps because he consumed so few calories from other sources. Adelle thought his twinkling blue eyes indicated malice rather than mischief, and if she had heard him exclaim, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” she would have looked quickly to see whose leg had just been broken. His blond beard was medium length and neatly trimmed, and he wore bushy sideburns and kept his hair long. His trousers and open sport shirt always looked in need of pressing and cleaning. With a protruding jaw, he could have posed in a museum’s Neanderthal exhibit. Give Neanderthal Man long hair, a beard, sideburns, and sloppy modern dress, and—presto! Craig Dolan.

Gerald Wyman, the young man she had a date with, also had blond hair and blue eyes, and the contrast between him and Dolan had been a revelation to her. Because there had been so few men in her life, she was guilty of generalizing from insufficient evidence.

Dolan flourished the copy he was carrying. “Madam lost it. Then she insisted I’d never done it. I found it on her desk under umpteen dozen other things including that suitcase she calls a purse.”

“Handbag,” Adelle said. “I’ve never heard her call it a purse.”

“It’s certainly a bag,” Dolan agreed. “Hand, overnight, weekend, nose—take your pick. For that matter, so is she. A bit unhinged, too. Have you talked with the nicotine fiend today?” Dolan, who didn’t smoke, enjoyed razzing Mondor about his noon hour indulgence in a cigarette or two.

“Not willingly,” Adelle said.

“No one talks with Mondor willingly. Did he give you his lecture about this setup being loony?”

“He did. And it is, isn’t it?”

“Of course, but it isn’t politic to say so. If he’s right, our rooms probably are bugged.”

“In that case, we ought to do our work and shut up,” Adelle said politely. She took the copy from him. “I suppose this has to be done at once.”

“It was supposed to be done yesterday, but I told Madam I didn’t think you could manage that. ‘Loony’ is far too mild a word, but Mondor is only a Researcher/Statistician. Probably it was the best he could do.”

“As I remember it, he also mentioned ‘sinister.’”

“Then he’s found a thesaurus since I talked with him. ‘Sinister’ comes closer. Why are we called researchers when none of us researches anything? Someone furnishes the figures Mondor does his statistical stuff on, and the notes I base my copy on, and when I need a stray fact I telephone Madam, and she calls me back and tells me. The goons must look things up for her in their spare time, of which they seem to have quite a lot. I’ll swear she couldn’t find a fact or anything else all by herself. But why call me a researcher, and pay me for it, when all I do is write? Why call you one when you don’t do anything but massage a computer keyboard?”

“Future anticipation, maybe,” Adelle said. “Why are the three of us spread all over the building? Maybe each of these wings is going to be a separate department.”

“I hope you’re right. A couple more weeks of this, and my paychecks will become a habit. The setup is loony and also sinister, and when I have time, I’ll teach Mondor a few new words. On the other hand, Z-R Publications does show indications of actually intending to publish something. Madam just asked me what I thought of some offset pages of one of your lovely printouts.”

“Really?” Adelle exclaimed. “Do the goons have a press to play with?”

“I think Madam had someone offset a few pages to see how your copy would look. It looks good. When you finish that stuff, give her a buzz.”

“I’ll do it as soon as I finish this page,” Adelle promised.

Dolan pulled up a chair, a spindly item that looked much too small for his bulk and too fragile for his weight. “This place is double-phony,” he said. “Have you noticed how the interior of every wing is in a different style from the exterior? Tell me this. Did Mondor ever try to date you?”

Adelle sat frowning at the copy he had brought. Who had tried to date her, Mondor or anyone else, certainly was none of Dolan’s business. She said, “Of course. He’s a normal male—lecherous and obnoxious.”

“And you consider me abnormal?”

“Supernormal. Lecherous, obnoxious, and nauseating.”

“But only in the presence of a two-legged refrigerator,” Dolan grinned.

She shook her head. “Freezer. When you’re around, any respectable refrigerator becomes one. Now if you don’t mind—”

“Tell me why you hate men.”

“I don’t. That’d be silly. Why hate half the human race? It’s just that at the moment I don’t care to own one.”

“One more question. Have you dated anyone at all since you came to Ann Arbor?”

Adelle smiled at him. She felt immensely grateful to Gerald Wyman, the nice young man in her apartment building. Thanks to his concert invitation, she could answer truthfully, “Of course I have.”

Dolan stared at her for a moment. Then he got to his feet, returned the chair to its original position, and strode away. Adelle’s smile broadened. In one afternoon she’d been called a word machine and a two-legged refrigerator. It made her day a double success.

Whether Z-R Publications was loony and sinister, or one or the other, or neither, she was being paid an extraordinary salary for a simple typing job, and she intended to work as enthusiastically as she could while it lasted and ask no questions. She finished the page of statistics. Then she typed Dolan’s copy and telephoned Madam.

A short time later Madam tiptoed in, beaming with pride and bringing the offset pages to show to Adelle. Adelle agreed that they looked excellent. Madam complimented Adelle’s typing, and Adelle generously gave the credit to her computer and printer, especially the printer, which produced even, crisp letters that looked very much like printed material.

“Those pants really are lovely, Darlink,” Madam said. She took the copy and departed, tossing a last, superfluous “Darlink” over her shoulder as she went out the door. Adelle wearily returned to Mondor’s statistics.

While she typed, she thought about the evening ahead of her: bath, book, and bed. Tomorrow, the visit to Greenfield Village. She was amused at the number of people she encountered who had lived in Southeastern Michigan all their lives and never seen it.

And then her Sunday date. She had met Gerald Wyman in the apartment building’s laundry room, and they chatted while their laundry was being done. She enjoyed talking with him, and they seemed to have a great deal in common, but she was far too practical to spin a fantasy on the basis of half an hour’s conversation. One date did not, as Dolan thought, constitute a relationship.

She began new columns of figures: Mondor’s figures, based on information Z-R Publications had obtained from—where? There was indeed something peculiar about a company that lodged itself in such sumptuous surroundings, produced so little, and paid its employees with insane generosity. On the other hand, a new publisher had to expect to make a substantial outlay in order to get its first books into print, and Z-R Publications might be paying ridiculously low rent for the preposterous building it occupied. There couldn’t be much commercial demand for a place like Feinstwaller Manor.

The one totally inexplicable item was their salaries. Adelle could think of no rationalization at all for them. She would have been willing and eager to work for less. So would hundreds of others.

The afternoon passed without further incident. When the grandfather clock in the hallway struck five, Adelle finished the page she was working on, saved her material, and copied it onto a backup disk. She filed the disk, covered her computer, picked up her purse and coat, and glanced around the room to make certain she hadn’t inadvertently moved a chair out of line or committed some other trivial outrage to the pseudo-antique decor.

When she reached the stairway, she saw Goon 1 standing at the far end of the hallway. She called, “Did you want something?” For a moment she thought he was going to speak, but he turned and disappeared into a side hall.

“Oh, well—he works here, too.” she said and shrugged.

At the massive front door, she paused to put on her coat and slip her purse strap over her shoulder. She was reaching for the door knob when she heard Madam’s voice. “Darlink!”

Madam came hurrying toward her on tiptoe. “You look nice today, Darlink. Such a practical thing to wear!”

Adelle murmured her thanks for the fifth or sixth time and wondered if Madam were enthusiastic enough to imitate her. The sight of this odd little woman in a pants suit would be one to cherish.

“I need a folder, Darlink. The one on automobile tires. Would you get it for me? I know it’s after hours, but—”

“Of course,” Adelle said. “Where is it?”

“In the basement. Down the stairs, straight ahead, and there are some black filing cabinets against the far wall. It’s in number two. Second from the left.” Madam paused. “I can’t remember which drawer. Sure you don’t mind? I’ve got to have the figures ready for Add to start on next week. You’re not in a hurry?”

“Not at all. Is the folder labeled, ‘Tires’?”

“‘Tires—Europe,’” Madam said. She sighed. “It’s supposed to be. It ought to be. It’s a folder that was used for something else, so the something else is crossed out and the ‘Tires—Europe’ is on the right hand side of the tab if someone hasn’t messed it up. I’m sure it’ll be easy to find. Second black filing cabinet from the left. ‘Tires—Europe.’”

“I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Adelle promised.

She flipped the light switch and moved quickly down the basement stairs. It was an enormously deep basement, and Adelle didn’t blame Madam not wanting to negotiate the long stairway with her worn heels. The scene at the bottom, with concrete pillars and cement block partitions, looked more like a parking garage than the basement of a mansion. There was nothing else visible in the lighted area except groups of filing cabinets in various colors.

But none of them were black. “Down the stairs and straight ahead” lay beyond the lighted area, and the dimness in that remote part of the enormous room was punctuated only by a single high, small window.

Adelle had been downstairs several times on errands but never to that part of the basement. She paused and looked about her. A metal pipe descended a concrete column and terminated in a box with two switches. The first turned off the lights behind her. She turned them on again and tried the second switch. Lights came on ahead of her, illuminating the basement to its far wall, and against it she saw the row of black four-drawer cabinets.

She walked forward confidently. “Second from the left,” Madam had said. A folder with something crossed out and “Tires—Europe” on the right. If the drawers were full, finding one folder might take time.

They weren’t full. The top drawer of the second cabinet felt empty as she began to pull it open, but she never saw its interior.

The floor dropped from under her. As she fell, she clutched wildly at the handle of the cabinet’s drawer, but her grip had been too loose. It slipped through her fingers, and for an instant she fell into nothingness. Then she landed on a steep incline of smooth metal. Her feet hit first and instantly shot out from under her, and she fell backward with a thud that stunned her. She caught a glimpse of a trap door closing over her head as she slid rapidly down the incline into darkness.