Read Online Executive Suite by Cameron Hawley - Free Book Online Page B

of votes behind it and right away MacIntosh has got to make it “special”… yah, and at twenty to five just so it would make him miss his train.
    Frank Gross replaced his glasses, blinked his eyes into focus, and examined the flimsy carbon of the report form. WALLET … no. PAPERS … none. LAUNDRY MARKS … none … there ought to be a federal law about laundry marks … initials A.B. on shirtsleeves. SUIT … medium brown with faint red overplaid … custom-tailored by D. Andruzzi, Palm Beach, Florida … no customer label. Coat … 44 long. Trousers … 40 waist, 35 inseam. HAT … Dobbs, 6⅞, initials A.B. CONTENTS OF POCKETS … small coins, total $1.57, bus token from Canton, Ohio, Camel cigarettes, Dunhill lighter with initials A.B.
    Frank vented an impatient snort at the imbecile who had made out the report, mumbling aloud, “I know his initials are A.B. How many times you got to keep telling me?”
    With a resigned sigh, he opened the upper right-hand drawer of his desk and took out a pad of message blanks. He wrote two telegrams. One was addressed to CHIEF POLICE , PALM BEACH , FLA ., the other to CHIEF POLICE , CANTON , OHIO . On out-of-the-city cases, Frank never addressed a message to an individual of lesser status than Chief Police. If they didn’t like it, so what? Served them right for allowing their citizens to make a nuisance of themselves to the City of New York.
    The message written, Frank Gross walked to his locker, took out his hat, and started for home. MacIntosh had said to make it special … Okay, it was special. What more could he do?
    5.02 P.M. EDT
    George Caswell, breasting the five o’clock human tide that roared down Wall Street toward the subway entrance, finally managed to make the appointed corner. The traffic officer recognized him, grinned a polite salute and flipped his hand to indicate the Cadillac that was idling in the No Parking zone halfway up the block.
    Neil Finch was already in the back seat and the chauffeur had the car moving the moment that Caswell was inside. The two men were friends of long standing, a relationship so secure that it had withstood both competition and proximity. They were the heads of two rival stock-brokerage houses—Caswell & Co. and Slade & Finch—and for the last nine years they had lived in adjoining Long Island estates. During the summer months they rode back and forth together, using their cars on alternate days.
    â€œHope it wasn’t too inconvenient, Neil, my holding you up like this,” Caswell said.
    â€œNo. Good thing. Gave me a chance to clear a few things off my desk.”
    They rode in silence until the car stopped, blocked by a traffic snarl.
    â€œI hear your friend was in town today,” Finch said.
    â€œWho’s that?”
    â€œAvery Bullard. Wingate happened to see him coming out of your office.”
    â€œOh. Yes, Bullard was in. As a matter of fact that’s one thing that held me up, waiting for him to call me.”
    â€œFound himself an executive vice-president yet?”
    â€œThat’s what he was to call me about. He was having lunch with Bruce Pilcher.”
    â€œBruce Pilcher?”
    â€œYou know him, don’t you?”
    â€œOf course.” There was a pointed pause. “You say Pilcher had lunch with Avery Bullard?”
    â€œYes. Why?”
    â€œTredway in any kind of trouble, George?”
    â€œTrouble? What do you mean?”
    â€œSomething must have happened at lunch that gave Pilcher an extremely unfavorable impression of the Tredway Corporation.”
    â€œI can’t imagine what it could be.”
    â€œYou’re sure there’s no bad news in the offing?”
    â€œPositive.”
    â€œWell, you ought to know,” Finch said. “You’re still on the Tredway board, aren’t you?”
    â€œYes. What do you mean about Pilcher getting an unfavorable