I looked down at her bare breast as we danced. Above the nipple was marked C.P.P. It was not tattooed, it was in black, in raised, shiny ornate letters, like the engraving on an expensive calling card. She said Dodd had done it, and the hideous mouth grinned. I said she had to get back into the coffin. She danced me to the coffin and I looked into it and saw why she could not. Nancy Raymond lay in the coffin, naked, her body gilded. On her body crouched a monstrous hairy spider with iridescent eyes. I awoke in cold sweating childhood terror and knew I had cried out because the echo of my cry seemed to be in the room. It was a long time before I slept again.
At eight-twenty-five the next morning, a grey gusty Monday, I parked with my front bumper under the little white sign that said MR. SEWELL. With such small conveniences are the souls of executives purchased. My office, along with the space assigned to Engineering and to Research, is on what you could call a mezzanine looking out over the main production floor. My secretary is in the room with me, along with filing cases for blueprints, a pair of drafting tables, my desk, sundry straight chairs. The office wall nearest the production area is duo-therm glass from waist-height up. Beyond that wall is a railed catwalk that extends the length of the building, with a circular iron staircase at either end.
To get a piece of work out you need men, machines and materials at the right place at the right time. To facilitate this I have four production chasers, a production record clerk. I keep a beady eye on inventory, on quotas, on equipment maintenance, on absenteeism. With the system we have, it should run like watches. But it never does. If it isn’t an industrial accident, then it’s some storeroom monkey counting an empty box as being a hundred available items necessary for assembly. Next some setup man blunders and an automatic milling machine works busily all day turning out scrap. When things start to roll, a cancellation and change order comes in from on high. Then maintenance fumbles and we tear the gearing out of a turret lathe. You get behind and try to jolly the boys into doing a little back busting to catch up and the union steward comes around talking darkly about speedups. Then I have to go down on the floor with my time and motion study man and quack with the steward.
Half the time it is like working in a madhouse, and the rest of the time you are merely a one-armed juggler. I love it. There is always more than just keeping the thing running. Right now, coordinating with Engineering, I was in the middle of changing one of the lines, unbolting equipment, jackhammering places for new equipment, resetting conveyor lines. Sales, in New York, was hollering. I knew that once the new line was set and checked out, we’d have to go on two-shift operation.
I like to get there early. I like to stand out on the catwalk and look down for a few minutes at the silent waiting equipment. Its arrangement is an exercise in logic. All the beds and housings and turrets are cold grey, and all the moving parts are bright Chinese red. It is a good place to work. It is clean, air conditioned, well lighted. Labor relations are pretty good. C.P.P. is very mildly paternalistic, but not so much that the guy on the machine wishes they’d knock off the expensive fluff and put the difference in his envelope.
I took my morning look at the floor and then went into the small office next to mine where my records clerk works. I studied the big score board, made a mental note of the weak spots and went into my own office. It is air conditioned and sound-proofed, but with the door shut once the day gets going, the rumble of the floor can make you feel as though you’re on an ocean liner. People go in and out my door all day long. Every time the door is opened the blast of pure noise, metal-cutting noise, is monstrous.
I had picked up a morning paper on the way to work, but I hadn’t had a chance to do more than glance at a fat black headline — OLAN HEIRESS MISSING. I had expected newspaper coverage, but not so much. This went all the way across the top of page one, dwarfing a second headline about a Paris conference. I hadn’t known Mary Olan was quite that important.
I spread the paper out on my desk to read the account. Warren has two papers, the morning Ledger-Tribune and the evening Ledger-Record, both owned by the same firm. Except on Monday, the morning paper is usually a warmed over version of the evening paper. They are excessively dull papers, full of editorial caution, unwilling to offend any local group. No particularly controversial syndicate columnist is ever used.
The subhead said,
Mary Olan, twenty-six-year-old niece of Mr. and Mrs. Willis Pryor of this city, and heiress to the Rolph Olan estate, has been missing since late Saturday evening, and police state today that no trace of her has been found. A late model black convertible found yesterday near an abandoned farm south of Highlands was identified as belonging to the missing woman. A search of the surrounding area has been organized.
Miss Olan left the Pryor home on Saturday at noon, alone. She lunched at the Locust Ridge Club and, during the afternoon, played golf with Miss Neale Bettiger. She had taken other clothing to the club with her, and she dressed there and met friends for dinner and a club dance. She left the club after midnight, with the stated intention of returning to her home. It has been reported that Miss Olan did not seem disturbed or emotionally upset in any way.
Police have not ruled out the possibility of kidnaping, and a close watch is being kept on the Pryor home. They found no evidence of foul play in Miss Olan’s automobile. She was last seen wearing a white skirt, a dark grey sleeveless blouse and high-heeled dark grey shoes. She is five feet four, brunette and weighs approximately a hundred and twenty pounds. Her eyes are grey.
Miss Olan is the granddaughter of Thomas Burke Olan who founded the Warren Citizens Bank and Trust Company, and Olan Tool and Die, which is now the Federated Tool Company, Inc.
Miss Olan was born in this city at the old Olan home on Prospect Street, now headquarters of the Heart of America Historical Association, which was given the property under the terms of Mr. Rolph Olan’s will. Miss Olan was educated in private schools here and abroad, and has made her home here for the past four years.
It was typical tippy-toe Warren coverage. No mention of the family killing. No mention of Mary’s abortive marriage and annulment. No hint of her mother’s incurable illness. They’d even had her going home from the club at a more reasonable hour. I was glad that the police had apparently kept the name of her dinner dance companion to themselves. Otherwise I would have had a reporter or two hanging around. Or maybe not; perhaps the Warren papers thought there was something unclean about going out and tracking down the principals in a disappearance of this kind.
I knew where Highland was. It was a small rural community about fifteen miles from town. Mary had driven me out through there to the Pryor farm one day to show me a horse. The horse had rolled his eyes, laid his ears back and tried to make a meal off my arm. She had said he was “spirited.” I watched from a safe place while John Fidd saddled the horse and Mary took him out and ran him. He was foaming and wilted when she brought him back. Fidd took him and started walking him around. She showed me most of the farm and then we went back to town, with Mary smelling faintly of horse.
The paper had run a cut of Mary. It saddened me to look at it. It had been taken some years ago, before life had put that look of mockery and hardness in her eyes. She looked very young, very earnest.
My girl came in at quarter to nine. Her name is Antonia MacRae. She is a slim pleasant morsel, and satisfyingly bright. She decorates and implements an office adequately. Italian and Scots combine to make an intriguing woman. Her mother gave her her coloring, her suggestively rounded figure with its promise of languor and lazy Sundays in bed. But from Papa she inherited a cool, canny eye, a lot of skepticism, and a brain that goes click like an I.B.M. machine.