Agency. He squeezed it softly in his right hand as he continued looking around the room.
A gray metal, horizontal file cabinet stood behind the chair, and he swiveled to open it. Three stacked drawers of vertical file folders held absolutely nothing. The sound of the vacant drawers echoed like an empty airplane hangar.
Turning back to the desk, he checked the drawers; one of the three small drawers to his left held blank sheets of computer paper, a small tray of push pins, and notepads; another held a dog-eared internal phone directory as well as a telephone directory for Perth. The other drawer held hanging file folders that were empty.
Dennis looked in the small trash bin under the desk. It was empty. The walls were nearly bare except for a hanging calendar on the back of the door and a large wall map of Australia. Standing up and positioning his face inches away from the portion of the map portraying Western Australia, Dennis strained to see if any area had been marked, circled, or stabbed with a pushpin.
It was hard to tell in the low light of the room, so he grabbed the table lamp off the desk and held it at an angle several inches away from the map. There were tiny holes here and there on the map that he took for pushpin holes. But these could have been from a predecessor who used the room. Putting the lamp down, he walked over and removed the calendar off the door.
It appeared to be brand new, and there was not a mark on it for any previous month, though it was open to the current month.
He sighed and finally put down the stress ball, tempted briefly to keep it, since he felt an odd satisfaction in squeezing it. Maybe if he squeezed it hard enough, his problems with St. Regis would simply go away.
Before he left the room, he employed on old investigator’s trick to look for fallen or misplaced items. He pulled open the bottom drawer of the file cabinet and reached behind the hanging files, searching for items that had fallen to the bottom. He found three paper clips and an empty hanging folder.
Standing up, he grabbed the entire file cabinet and hinged it forward at the top a few inches from the wall. Peering behind it he noticed a piece of paper had fallen and was wedged at the bottom. He managed to tease it out from the side, letting the empty cabinet boom as it went back into place.
He opened the folded piece of lined notepaper. In longhand were four lines written in pencil:
Not Kimberly
Nor the way of the lake
But a Savory treat!
For all Europium
This idiot was really into poetry, Dennis thought. Strange guy .
He pocketed the verse, turned off the light, and pulled the door tight behind him.
Casolano appeared to have been waiting outside.
“Um, the CG would like to see you,” he said.
“Again?” Dennis groaned.
“Yes.”
“Before we see the CG, can you show me your mail room?”
“Can I ask what you’re looking for?” Casolano asked.
“Garder’s mailbox,” Dennis said. “You folks must have a mailbox for messages and mail, stuff like that.”
“Oh, I see,” Casolano said. “Sure, follow me. But we have to hurry. The CG asked me to tell you it was urgent he see you.”
On the second floor, near a bank of copy machines, Dennis was shown an old-fashioned, wall-mounted maze of boxes with names above each opening. Dennis found Garder’s name and was surprised that there was a single pink message slip.
Dennis snatched it. The message in longhand stated: Mr. Pearson returned your call. 899-1900, ext. 45.
He jammed the slip in his top pocket and followed Casolano to St. Regis’s outer office and was left there. After several minutes, St. Regis came out and stood over Dennis, who was leafing through a Time magazine.
“I just spoke to Jillian Carter, and she told me about the kind of questions you asked her,” he said, the corners of his mouth pulled taut with anger. “I find it unconscionable, your line of questioning. It’s boorish and unprofessional. I refuse to let
A gray metal, horizontal file cabinet stood behind the chair, and he swiveled to open it. Three stacked drawers of vertical file folders held absolutely nothing. The sound of the vacant drawers echoed like an empty airplane hangar.
Turning back to the desk, he checked the drawers; one of the three small drawers to his left held blank sheets of computer paper, a small tray of push pins, and notepads; another held a dog-eared internal phone directory as well as a telephone directory for Perth. The other drawer held hanging file folders that were empty.
Dennis looked in the small trash bin under the desk. It was empty. The walls were nearly bare except for a hanging calendar on the back of the door and a large wall map of Australia. Standing up and positioning his face inches away from the portion of the map portraying Western Australia, Dennis strained to see if any area had been marked, circled, or stabbed with a pushpin.
It was hard to tell in the low light of the room, so he grabbed the table lamp off the desk and held it at an angle several inches away from the map. There were tiny holes here and there on the map that he took for pushpin holes. But these could have been from a predecessor who used the room. Putting the lamp down, he walked over and removed the calendar off the door.
It appeared to be brand new, and there was not a mark on it for any previous month, though it was open to the current month.
He sighed and finally put down the stress ball, tempted briefly to keep it, since he felt an odd satisfaction in squeezing it. Maybe if he squeezed it hard enough, his problems with St. Regis would simply go away.
Before he left the room, he employed on old investigator’s trick to look for fallen or misplaced items. He pulled open the bottom drawer of the file cabinet and reached behind the hanging files, searching for items that had fallen to the bottom. He found three paper clips and an empty hanging folder.
Standing up, he grabbed the entire file cabinet and hinged it forward at the top a few inches from the wall. Peering behind it he noticed a piece of paper had fallen and was wedged at the bottom. He managed to tease it out from the side, letting the empty cabinet boom as it went back into place.
He opened the folded piece of lined notepaper. In longhand were four lines written in pencil:
Not Kimberly
Nor the way of the lake
But a Savory treat!
For all Europium
This idiot was really into poetry, Dennis thought. Strange guy .
He pocketed the verse, turned off the light, and pulled the door tight behind him.
Casolano appeared to have been waiting outside.
“Um, the CG would like to see you,” he said.
“Again?” Dennis groaned.
“Yes.”
“Before we see the CG, can you show me your mail room?”
“Can I ask what you’re looking for?” Casolano asked.
“Garder’s mailbox,” Dennis said. “You folks must have a mailbox for messages and mail, stuff like that.”
“Oh, I see,” Casolano said. “Sure, follow me. But we have to hurry. The CG asked me to tell you it was urgent he see you.”
On the second floor, near a bank of copy machines, Dennis was shown an old-fashioned, wall-mounted maze of boxes with names above each opening. Dennis found Garder’s name and was surprised that there was a single pink message slip.
Dennis snatched it. The message in longhand stated: Mr. Pearson returned your call. 899-1900, ext. 45.
He jammed the slip in his top pocket and followed Casolano to St. Regis’s outer office and was left there. After several minutes, St. Regis came out and stood over Dennis, who was leafing through a Time magazine.
“I just spoke to Jillian Carter, and she told me about the kind of questions you asked her,” he said, the corners of his mouth pulled taut with anger. “I find it unconscionable, your line of questioning. It’s boorish and unprofessional. I refuse to let
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