Read Online Confidentially Yours by Charles Williams - Free Book Online
Authors: Charles Williams
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packet of bonds in the suitcase, locked the car, and carried the bag into the terminal. I had a cup of coffee at the lunchroom, asked the cashier for some change, and headed for a telephone booth, setting the suitcase down where I could watch it through the door.
I dialed the long distance operator and put in a person-to-person call to Ernie Sewell. I didn’t know his number, but he lived on Springer Street, on the edge of town, in a small ranch-style house he and his wife were paying off. She worked for the county, in the Tax Assessor’s office. He was a serious-minded and hard-working young man of about 24 who’d been a track and basketball star in high school, and had been in charge of the sporting-goods department at Jennings Hardware before he went to work for Roberts.
“Hello?” he said sleepily. “Oh. Mr. Warren? I thought the operator said New Orleans.”
“She did,” I said. “I came down last night. I’m sorry to get you out of bed this early.”
“It’s all right. Matter of fact, I was going to call you today. But I won’t bother you about it now, over long distance.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “What is it?”
“Well,” he replied hesitantly, “it’s about the store. I don’t want to sound like a ghoul, with Roberts not even buried yet, but somebody’s going to buy the stock and fixtures, probably one of those bankruptcy outfits. My idea is that since you own the building you’d rather have the store there than the vacant space. All I’ve got is a few hundred dollars saved up, but I thought maybe if you’d put in a word for me at the bank I might be able to swing it. Run right, that place could make money.”
“You mean it didn’t? I thought Roberts was doing all right.”
“Well, that’s the funny part of it; it seemed to make money, and maybe the books’ll show a big profit, but I wouldn’t want to try to get the loan under false pretenses. The truth is we didn’t move enough merchandise to make anything after he paid the rent and my salary. The potential’s there, all right, or I wouldn’t want it, but he just didn’t seem to have any interest in the place, and he wouldn’t give me any authority to speak of. For one thing, he’d never keep his stock up; he wouldn’t order anything until somebody asked for it, and then it’s too late—they’d just go to Jennings. And I couldn’t get him to advertise.”
“I see,” I said, thinking of that Browning shotgun, and the Porsche, and a thousand-dollar membership in the Duck Club. “How’d he keep going?”
“I don’t know, so help me, Mr. Warren. He never seemed to have any trouble meeting his bills, and he always had a good-sized balance at the bank. But I do know that if somebody took hold of that place who knew how to run a sporting-goods store and would stay home and run it, he could have Jennings looking at his hole card inside of three months. He hasn’t got anybody over there that knows anything about guns and fishing tackle.”
“I know,” I said. “Then you think Roberts was doctoring his books, or had some other source of income?”
“Well, I don’t know whether he was faking the books or not, but he sure seemed to be banking more money than we took in. I realize it’d be easier to get the loan if I didn’t say anything about this, but I don’t like to do business that way.”
“I’ll see you get the loan,” I said. “But what about Roberts’ family? Have they located anybody yet?”
“Yes. Mr. Scanlon and I went down to the store yesterday evening after supper and found a couple of letters with his brother’s address on them. He lives in Houston, Texas. Scanlon sent off a wire, and got one back in a couple of hours. The brother’s making arrangements to have the body shipped to Houston for the funeral. It’ll be a week or ten days, though, before he can get down here to pick up Roberts’ personal stuff and see about disposing of the store.”
“Do you remember the brother’s
I dialed the long distance operator and put in a person-to-person call to Ernie Sewell. I didn’t know his number, but he lived on Springer Street, on the edge of town, in a small ranch-style house he and his wife were paying off. She worked for the county, in the Tax Assessor’s office. He was a serious-minded and hard-working young man of about 24 who’d been a track and basketball star in high school, and had been in charge of the sporting-goods department at Jennings Hardware before he went to work for Roberts.
“Hello?” he said sleepily. “Oh. Mr. Warren? I thought the operator said New Orleans.”
“She did,” I said. “I came down last night. I’m sorry to get you out of bed this early.”
“It’s all right. Matter of fact, I was going to call you today. But I won’t bother you about it now, over long distance.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “What is it?”
“Well,” he replied hesitantly, “it’s about the store. I don’t want to sound like a ghoul, with Roberts not even buried yet, but somebody’s going to buy the stock and fixtures, probably one of those bankruptcy outfits. My idea is that since you own the building you’d rather have the store there than the vacant space. All I’ve got is a few hundred dollars saved up, but I thought maybe if you’d put in a word for me at the bank I might be able to swing it. Run right, that place could make money.”
“You mean it didn’t? I thought Roberts was doing all right.”
“Well, that’s the funny part of it; it seemed to make money, and maybe the books’ll show a big profit, but I wouldn’t want to try to get the loan under false pretenses. The truth is we didn’t move enough merchandise to make anything after he paid the rent and my salary. The potential’s there, all right, or I wouldn’t want it, but he just didn’t seem to have any interest in the place, and he wouldn’t give me any authority to speak of. For one thing, he’d never keep his stock up; he wouldn’t order anything until somebody asked for it, and then it’s too late—they’d just go to Jennings. And I couldn’t get him to advertise.”
“I see,” I said, thinking of that Browning shotgun, and the Porsche, and a thousand-dollar membership in the Duck Club. “How’d he keep going?”
“I don’t know, so help me, Mr. Warren. He never seemed to have any trouble meeting his bills, and he always had a good-sized balance at the bank. But I do know that if somebody took hold of that place who knew how to run a sporting-goods store and would stay home and run it, he could have Jennings looking at his hole card inside of three months. He hasn’t got anybody over there that knows anything about guns and fishing tackle.”
“I know,” I said. “Then you think Roberts was doctoring his books, or had some other source of income?”
“Well, I don’t know whether he was faking the books or not, but he sure seemed to be banking more money than we took in. I realize it’d be easier to get the loan if I didn’t say anything about this, but I don’t like to do business that way.”
“I’ll see you get the loan,” I said. “But what about Roberts’ family? Have they located anybody yet?”
“Yes. Mr. Scanlon and I went down to the store yesterday evening after supper and found a couple of letters with his brother’s address on them. He lives in Houston, Texas. Scanlon sent off a wire, and got one back in a couple of hours. The brother’s making arrangements to have the body shipped to Houston for the funeral. It’ll be a week or ten days, though, before he can get down here to pick up Roberts’ personal stuff and see about disposing of the store.”
“Do you remember the brother’s
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