Executive Suite Read Free Page B

dead, that stock will break ten points.” He glanced at his watch again. “Damn it, only twenty minutes. We’ll be lucky to get short of a couple of hundred shares.”
    Steigel looked at him, slack-lipped and staring. “There are some ways it don’t seem right to make money.”
    A lip-twisting smile formed on Bruce Pilcher’s face. “If you’d prefer, Julius, I’m quite willing to handle this on my own account.”
    Bruce Pilcher watched the door close, beating a fast tattoo on the desktop with the tips of his long-fingered right hand. He felt a tremendous surge of exhilarated pride in the speed and decisiveness with which he had acted. There had been too many times in his life when he had fumbled opportunity, tripped by caution and fear. Poor old Julius was showing his age. The slightest excitement now and the old boy had to go to the toilet.
    2.44 P.M. EDT
    Alex Oldham, manager of the New York branch office of the Tredway Corporation, was having the kind of an afternoon that he always had when he knew that Mr. Bullard was in the city. He might decide to drop in and he might not … you never knew. All you could do was sit on the griddle and fry, sweating it out, waiting, keeping an eye on the office to be sure no one started any horseplay. If you relaxed for one minute and let some fool thing happen, that was sure to be the very instant old Bullard would come busting in the front door. That’s the way he was … you could have one undusted piece in the whole showroom and, by God, he’d walk right up to it!
    Oldham poured a glass of water out of the silver carafe on his desk. The water was lukewarm and tasted like dust, gagging him. He spat it back in the glass and felt as if he were about to retch.
    â€œMr. Oldham, I—oh, I’m sorry.”
    It was his secretary, Mary Voskamp, backing embarrassedly through the door she had just opened.
    â€œNo, no! Come here!” he commanded. “Miss Voskamp, would you mind making certain that I have fresh water every morning?”
    â€œBut you almost never touch it. I—yes, sir. I’m sorry, Mr. Oldham.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œMr. Flannery called and wanted to know if he could bring Mr. Scott over at four-thirty. It’s about that finish complaint on those tables. But if you’re too busy—”
    Oldham worked his lips nervously. “I don’t know. Mr. Bullard’s in town. He might stop in.”
    â€œMr. Bullard? Isn’t he going back to Millburgh on the three-five?”
    â€œThree-five?”
    â€œWe got him a Pullman seat and sent it over to his hotel. He called in just before lunch.”
    â€œYou might have told me!” he flared.
    â€œI didn’t know that you were—I’m sorry, Mr. Oldham.”
    â€œAll right, all right,” he said, straining against collapsing anger. “Not your fault, Miss Voskamp. Just—well, it’s been one of those days.”
    â€œI’ll tell Mr. Flannery that it would be better to wait until tomorrow. He said that would be all right if you were tied up.”
    Oldham nodded gratefully. “Yes, make it tomorrow.”
    He waited until he heard the door close and then slipped the palms of his hands over his face like a blanking curtain, shutting in the terror. Something’s happened to me … never used to let things get me this way … maybe I’m cracking up … like Wally in Detroit. No! I’ve got to hang onto myself. If old Bullard ever gets an idea that I’m slipping … if he ever suspects …
    â€œThe bastard,” he whispered aloud—and then he said it again. The syllables made burning little puffs of air in the damp palms of his hands. It’s the waiting that raises hell with a man … how can you help having an ulcer … all this damned waiting … never knowing?
    2.51 P.M. EDT
    Anne Finnick opened the door of the women’s washroom