Research Association. He wiped his damp cheeks with a monogrammed linen handkerchief and stepped into an anteroom.
A girl behind a glistening glass wall slid a glass panel open with a red-nailed hand and said. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“I have an appointment with Mr. Norris Hayden.”
“Your name, please?”
“William Johnson.”
“Will you please be seated.”
But he was too nervous to sit down in one of the cream-leather chairs. He glanced at the covers of a score of technical magazines displayed on the table. They dealt with aviation, steel, utilities, railroads. Five minutes passed and an office boy appeared to usher him out of the anteroom. Behind the glass wall, three stenographers clicked away at their machines; six men worked at flat desks. Bill was reminded of the A.R.A. office in Washington. The office boy led him past this common office to a cream-colored door in the rear. “Mr. Hayden’s assistant, Colonel Bretherton, will see you sir.”
Bill seized the chrome door knob and went inside. He saw skyscraper spires and blue sky in a window. The Colonel was sitting at a desk to the left of the window. He was lank and lean, his temples iron grey and he wore rimless glasses. His grey hair was combed back from a narrow forehead. “Mr. Hayden will see you in a few minutes, Johnson. Sit down, won’t you?”
“Thanks.”
“Pull that chair over, Johnson.”
Bill smiled at the Colonel. He was thinking that Hayden was one hell of a big-shot to rate a Colonel as his assistant. “Now,” the Colonel was saying. “We know that you are William Johnson but we have to be positive. I want you to write me something on this pad of paper. Anything will do. A few lines. Here’s a pencil.” Bill sat down at the desk, accepted the pencil and wrote:
“I’ve come north from Baton Rouge. I’ve come on business. I hope that that’s all I have to write. A few lines.”
“Here you are,” Bill said. The Colonel was opening a drawer in his desk. He took out a photograph which he showed to Bill.
“This is you, Johnson,” he explained. He compared the black and white image with the living face in front of him. He dropped the photograph and, holding what Bill had written to one side, he compared it with a small white card he fished out of the drawer. Bill guessed that his handwriting was on that card, his spine stiffened as if he had been dragged into a police station. “You’re Johnson, all right,” the Colonel announced, sweeping sheet, card and photograph into the drawer. He took a cigar out of the humidor on his desk, lit it importantly, saying between puffs, “They’re my own brand. Made for me. Try one if you wish.”
“No, thanks.” He lit a cigarette, feeling a little better. He hadn’t expected to be identified by an elderly man who looked like a banker. But this was the New York City organization. They must be hell on wheels up here. He recalled a remark of Heney’s: “Hayden runs the show up there and he’s smart even if he’s the son of a millionaire. He’s no rich man’s son made a big stick out of just because he was born rich. Hayden started from the bottom in the organization and he’s got where he is because he’s smart. Maybe his old man’s money helped a little but it wasn’t everything.”
“When do I meet Mr. Hayden, Colonel?”
“Right away. Johnson, do you recall the Sojourner Truth Housing project?”
“Not very clearly.”
“I think it might be instructive if I sketched it to you.”
Bill stared. “Has it any connection with my job up here?”
The Colonel blew out a streamer of white smoke. “Every connection. The Sojourner Truth project was built for the Detroit blacks by the Government. As they began to move in, the organization in Detroit promoted a series of incidents. We formed a united white front, comprising Klan and Black Legion elements, real estate interests, politicians and union men. The U.A.W. fought us but we gained the support of many union men.
A girl behind a glistening glass wall slid a glass panel open with a red-nailed hand and said. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“I have an appointment with Mr. Norris Hayden.”
“Your name, please?”
“William Johnson.”
“Will you please be seated.”
But he was too nervous to sit down in one of the cream-leather chairs. He glanced at the covers of a score of technical magazines displayed on the table. They dealt with aviation, steel, utilities, railroads. Five minutes passed and an office boy appeared to usher him out of the anteroom. Behind the glass wall, three stenographers clicked away at their machines; six men worked at flat desks. Bill was reminded of the A.R.A. office in Washington. The office boy led him past this common office to a cream-colored door in the rear. “Mr. Hayden’s assistant, Colonel Bretherton, will see you sir.”
Bill seized the chrome door knob and went inside. He saw skyscraper spires and blue sky in a window. The Colonel was sitting at a desk to the left of the window. He was lank and lean, his temples iron grey and he wore rimless glasses. His grey hair was combed back from a narrow forehead. “Mr. Hayden will see you in a few minutes, Johnson. Sit down, won’t you?”
“Thanks.”
“Pull that chair over, Johnson.”
Bill smiled at the Colonel. He was thinking that Hayden was one hell of a big-shot to rate a Colonel as his assistant. “Now,” the Colonel was saying. “We know that you are William Johnson but we have to be positive. I want you to write me something on this pad of paper. Anything will do. A few lines. Here’s a pencil.” Bill sat down at the desk, accepted the pencil and wrote:
“I’ve come north from Baton Rouge. I’ve come on business. I hope that that’s all I have to write. A few lines.”
“Here you are,” Bill said. The Colonel was opening a drawer in his desk. He took out a photograph which he showed to Bill.
“This is you, Johnson,” he explained. He compared the black and white image with the living face in front of him. He dropped the photograph and, holding what Bill had written to one side, he compared it with a small white card he fished out of the drawer. Bill guessed that his handwriting was on that card, his spine stiffened as if he had been dragged into a police station. “You’re Johnson, all right,” the Colonel announced, sweeping sheet, card and photograph into the drawer. He took a cigar out of the humidor on his desk, lit it importantly, saying between puffs, “They’re my own brand. Made for me. Try one if you wish.”
“No, thanks.” He lit a cigarette, feeling a little better. He hadn’t expected to be identified by an elderly man who looked like a banker. But this was the New York City organization. They must be hell on wheels up here. He recalled a remark of Heney’s: “Hayden runs the show up there and he’s smart even if he’s the son of a millionaire. He’s no rich man’s son made a big stick out of just because he was born rich. Hayden started from the bottom in the organization and he’s got where he is because he’s smart. Maybe his old man’s money helped a little but it wasn’t everything.”
“When do I meet Mr. Hayden, Colonel?”
“Right away. Johnson, do you recall the Sojourner Truth Housing project?”
“Not very clearly.”
“I think it might be instructive if I sketched it to you.”
Bill stared. “Has it any connection with my job up here?”
The Colonel blew out a streamer of white smoke. “Every connection. The Sojourner Truth project was built for the Detroit blacks by the Government. As they began to move in, the organization in Detroit promoted a series of incidents. We formed a united white front, comprising Klan and Black Legion elements, real estate interests, politicians and union men. The U.A.W. fought us but we gained the support of many union men.
Similar Books
