Duffy brightened, grabbed Shartelle by the arm, and steered him towards the forever-open door. “I’ve got the whole morning open for you, Clint. We’ll have a bit of a natter, and then you’ll meet the candidate. He flew in two days ago and is leaving this afternoon, but you’ll have a chance to get acquainted at lunch.” Duffy turned his head. “Come on, Pete.” I took it as a nice afterthought.
We walked down the hall past Duffy’s two secretaries to where The Hatrack guarded his doorless entrance. The Hat- rack was a statue made of welded scrap metal. It stood seven feet high on an onyx base and was supposed to be representative of the Crucifixion. And at least that was its real name. The main crosspiece looked for all the world like the corrugated bumper from a 1937 DeSoto, the kind once held at a premium by the hot rod crowd in Los Angeles. Slightly tight and Philistinish after a particularly good lunch, I once had hung my bowler on it. Duffy wouldn’t speak to me for a week, but since then everyone called it The Hatrack. Shartelle gave it an appreciative glance as we moved into Duffy’s office.
It wasn’t an office exactly; it was more of a huge livingroom that smelled of leather from the hexagonal pieces of quarterinch-thick cowhide that served as wallpaper. There was a view of the square and the Embassy, a fireplace with a fire in it, some highly comfortable chairs and a huge oaken coffee table made, Duffy claimed, from the butt end of an ancient giant wine cask. Here and there, placed strategically on small individual shelves that jutted from the walls, were the products of the major clients: a box of instant tea, a package of tissues, a bottle of ale, a model of a jet airliner, a miniature of a bank, a model automobile, a package of cocoa, and a cigarette package. Each had its own niche and to get it, the billing had to top three million pounds a year. There was no desk, but a telephone was handy to Duffy’s chair, which sat in a corner behind the immense wine-cask coffee table.
Duffy took his seat and gestured Shartelle and me to chairs. Shartelle gave the room a long and careful appraisal. Then he nodded his head. “You’ve done right well by the English folks, I’d say,” he told Duffy.
“We’re growing, Clint, expanding a little every year.”
We were interrupted by Wilson Davis, the art director. He didn’t knock. He just walked in and stuck a layout under Duffy’s nose.
“Hello, Pete,” Davis said to me.
“How are you, Wilson?” I asked.
“If he ever makes up his mind what he wants, I’ll be all right.”
“Giving you a hard time?”
“This is the fourth rough. The fourth, mind you.”
“Now that’s more like it, Wilson,” Duffy said. “Now that’s something that you could say bears the DDT imprint.”
“It isn’t bad,” Wilson admitted.
“All right, then proceed.”
“You’re not going to change your mind again?”
“No. That’s the basis of the campaign I promised. That’s the one I’ll deliver.”
Wilson picked up the rough from the coffee table and left.
“It’s like that all day,” I told Shartelle. “The DDT open door policy.”
“Saves time, really,” Duffy said. “Does away with morale problems. That young man is a talented art director — the best in London and as good as you’ll find in New York. He wants to see me so he walks in. He doesn’t have to work his way past a half-dozen secretaries or assistants. He doesn’t have to wait a half-hour outside a closed door, wondering if I’m talking about him. He just walks in, states his business, and a minute later walks out. His time is worth about five guineas an hour. I estimate that this method saves a half- hour of his waiting time plus another half-hour of what I call fuming time when he gets back to his own shop.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Shartelle said, “and as long as you brought money up, I think maybe I’d better remind you of my usual terms.”
“Third now, third halfway through, and a third the week before it’s all done. Right?”
“Plus expenses,” Shartelle said.
Duffy picked up the telephone and dialed a single number. “Would you find out whether Mr. Theims has countersigned the check for Mr. Shartelle yet? Fine, bring it in.”
One of Duffy’s secretaries brought in the check. Duffy read it and handed it to Shartelle. “Ten thousand pounds.”
Shartelle glanced at it and slipped it into an inside breast pocket. He drew out his package of Picayunes and lighted one. “Pig, old buddy,” he said, “just what do you want me to do to earn this money?”
Duffy stared at Shartelle with his china blue eyes, gripped the arms of his chair, and leaned forward slightly. “This is the biggest one of your career, Clint. The most important one. Whitehall has its eyes on this one and so does State. I’ve been to Albertia, Clint, and it’s fantastic. It’s the opportunity to carve out a bastion of democracy in Africa. It’s the chance to establish your reputation as one of the world’s foremost political strategists. But most important, to me — and I know to you — it’s the opportunity to elect a good man to office.”
“Your client?” Shartelle said.
“Chief Akomolo.”
“I guess you heard about Renesslaer,” Shartelle said. “They’re craving to elect a good man to office, too. Alhaji Sir Alakada Mejara Fulawa — my, that is a pretty mouthful!”
The blue eyes of my leader grew cold. “Renesslaer’s got Fulawa? Who told you?”
“Some friends in New York. Not very good friends at that. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard.”
Duffy turned to me. “Did you know?”
“Shartelle told me.”
Duffy picked up the phone. “Bring your book,” he snapped.
A secretary came in. I don’t know where he got them, but there seemed to be a new one every week. After one day, they seemed to know all about the agency and all about the people in it. Then they would quietly disappear to be replaced by someone equally efficient.
“Cable Trookein, New York: HEARTELL BIG R CONNING SKYCHIEF OPERATION PAWPAWLAND. WHY WE UNKNOW? SEND FULL REPORT PROSCARFACE SOONEST ENDIT DUFFY.” The way he barked, it came out all caps.
“No regards?” the secretary asked.
“Hell, no!” Duffy said.
“Let’s see, now,” Shartelle said, “Big R would be Renesslaer. Skychief would be old Alhaji Sir. Pawpawland, I reckon, would be Albertia. Who’s Scarface?”
“That’s Chief Akomolo,” I said. “It’s his code name because of his tribal markings.”
Shartelle chuckled softly. “You wear the secret code ring, Petey?”
“We need a name for Clint,” Duffy said.
“How about Shortcake?” Shartelle suggested with a straight face.
“Damn good. Put it on the list,” Duffy told the secretary.
“What’re you called, Pete?” Shartelle asked.
“Scaramouche,” I said and shrugged.
“How ’bout you, Pig?”
“I’m Hiredhand.”
“Is it necessary?”
“Yes and no. It wouldn’t fool any intelligence operation, but it keeps the casually curious from lifting information that they might sell or gossip about. It’s just a minor precaution really.”
“It sure as hell wouldn’t fool any of the bright boys from Renesslaer.”
Duffy smiled pleasantly. “No it wouldn’t, Clint. That’s going to be your job.”
“Just so we get everything nice and clear, Pig, I hope you’ve told the candidate about the ground rules. First, I run the campaign — from buttons to banquets. Second, I don’t handle money.”
“I know and the candidate knows,” Duffy said. “The money’s taken care of. All you have to do is find ways to spend it.”
“I’m usually pretty good at that.”