“Ballou and Stark makes money?”
“If it were a corporation instead of a limited partnership, I wouldn’t be in a rush to buy up a lot of stock.”
“It will keep on going for a long time?”
“Call it the transfusion method. Money is the blood of business. Mr. Gardener, one of the partners, is a transfusion expert.”
“Do they worry?”
“They don’t seem to. That’s not my business. Maybe it’s a hobby with Mr. Stark. Maybe he sends Gardener the transfusions. I wouldn’t know.”
Jamison thought in silence for a time. He said, “No more questions.”
“That was a lot easier than I expected, Lieutenant. I don’t have to say anything about your keeping the mouth firmly closed, do I?”
“Not a word.”
“Now I’ll ask one. Is there any danger of my losing a client?”
“There’s always that danger,” Jamison said...
During the afternoon, during a lull in the procession of people who considered themselves too important to get traffic tickets and had to be disillusioned, Jamison called a salesman friend of his, asked some questions, jotted down terminology on a scratch pad.
And then he called Mr. Gardener. He said, “My name is Hunt, sir. I’m lining up wholesale houses for a new product called Lynadrine. We—”
“We can’t take on any new items at this time,” Gardener said bruskly.
“But we’re spending upwards of a million in national advertising, guaranteeing you a local sale of at least a hundred thousand dollars a year, with an eighteen percent gross profit to your firm, Mr. Gardener.”
“The offer is attractive, Mr. Hunt, but we find that our present lines are all that we can handle at this time. Thank you for thinking of us.” The line clicked dead.
Jamison hung up the phone, slouched in his chair and frowned at the far wall.
At six he met Corrine. She had taken the day off, and found the jewelry store, had the name and address of the clerk who had made the sale. The clerk was young and lived with his parents. They caught him just as he was on his way out.
“Sure, I remember the guy. What’d he do? Steal the dough to buy the ring? It cost him nine hundred and fifty.”
“How did he pay?”
“Cash, mister. Cash on the line. All in fifty dollar bills.”
“Did he act any different than any other customer?”
“He seemed happy and he told me that the ring was for the most wonderful girl in the world and he was whistling about ‘Happy Days Are Here Again’. Say, miss, you’re wearing the ring, aren’t you? Yeah, that’s the one. What gives?”
Jamison thought fast. He said quickly, “If you see the man again, please don’t mention this little visit. Miss Smith wants to borrow a small amount on the ring and I wanted to check and see if the purchase price was as she said.”
The clerk looked wise. “Uh... Oh, sure. Never saw you in my life. How about a lift downtown if you’re going that way?”
Chapter Three
Smoke Screen
Corrine looked haggard and worried, and she had no appetite. Jamison pushed his coffee cup aside and lit a cigarette. She said, “Why don’t you let me in on what you are guessing?”
“How do you know I’m guessing anything?”
“At first you were casual, and even... amused. Now you’ve tightened up. You must be thinking something.”
“Tell me what you know about Gardener.”
“Mr. Gardener? He’s nice to work for. He manages the office as well as being sales manager. He’s married and has a nice house outside of town. He isn’t a slave driver.”
“What does he look like?”
“Fiftyish. Tall and a little heavy. Youthful clothes. Suntan all year round. Don’t ask me how.”
“Do the men like him? The salesmen?”
“Oh, yes.”
“He seems well off?”
“I guess he makes a very good salary, and also he owns some of the firm, you know. But why are you asking me all this?”
“Corrine, if you have a haystack and you suspect there’s a needle in it, the best method I know is to keep rolling around in the haystack until something sticks you.”
“Felt anything yet?”
“Not yet. Does Gardener seem interested in his work?”
“Very, Jamie. A long time ago he was a pharmacist, before he got into sales work. I guess he’s clever. He maintains his own lab down at the warehouse and makes up a special product called Gardener Headache Powders. He’s so anxious for the product to catch on that he does all the sales work himself.”
Jamison had the cigarette between his thumb and first finger. He looked steadily at Corrine. Slowly he became conscious of having squeezed the cigarette so tightly that the paper tore.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“The needle, honey. The needle.”
“Is there enough... to refer the case to one of your divisions?”
“Not quite enough.”
“Can we get more?”
“If I’m right, we can get a lot more.”
“When, Jamie?”
“Ballou and Stark is closed now. Can you get back in there?”
“Why, yes. I have a key. But—”
“Let’s go...”
Gardener’s office door was locked. Jamison cursed softly. He told Corrine what he wanted. She went to the supply cabinet, found extra desk pads that had been printed for Mr. Gardener’s use. “From the Desk of A. William Gardener.”
She rolled it into her typewriter. Then she had to go and look up the name of the night warehouse man.
Her fingers were brisk on the keys as he dictated.
“Seaton,
I have asked Miss Dobbs to make an early delivery for me tomorrow to a dealer who is out of Gardener Powders. Please turn over a case of the powders to Miss Dobbs.”
She found Gardener’s signature. Jamison turned the sheet upside down and carefully drew the signature.
“I don’t get it,” Corrine said plaintively.
“Just be a good girl and do as I say...”
The entrance to the warehouse was at the blind end of an alley, with a high loading platform. Jamison backed his car to the loading platform, helped Corrine out, jumped up, gave her his hand, pulled her up.
A feeble light shone through the wired window of the office door at the side.
Corrine said, “Shouldn’t I go in alone?”
“I’m just a guy to carry the box, Corrine.” He hammered at the office door. He paused and listened, heard the slow steps coming toward the door. The bolt was shot back. The door opened and a sleepy, elderly man looked out at them.
Corrine said, “I’m Miss Dobbs from the office.”
“Oh, sure. Didn’t recognize you. Come on in.” They stepped into the office and the man shut the door. He yawned, took the note which Corrine handed him.
He moved his lips as he read. Then he looked at Corrine angrily. “Wish he’d make up his mind. Keeps a man confused all the time. Gave me hell a while back for giving out them pet powders of his and told me that no one gets ’em but him, and then he goes and writes this.”
“The ones you gave to Kiern?” Jamison asked softly,
“Yeah. How the hell did I know the lad was lying to me when he said Mr. Gardener asked him to get them? How did I know the lad was trying to be a ball of fire on the job by muscling into the boss’s private product?”
“He seems to have changed his mind again,” Jamison said.
The man cackled. “Little forgetful, though, ain’t he? Had that wire cage built and never did give me the key for it. Let’s see what he says.”
The man went over to the narrow stairway, leaned into it and yelled up, “Mr. Gardener! Hey, Mr. Gardener!”
Steps were heavy on the stairs. Jamison bit his lip. A bad tactical error. They should have asked first if Mr. Gardener was in his private lab. Gardener appeared, first neatly shined shoes, then stained white smock, then a puzzled, heavy face.