Read Online Man in the Gray Flannel Suit by Sloan Wilson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sloan Wilson
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off, this crazy anger had risen in him, and for no reason at all he felt the same way now. Then he was in the gold elevator, going up, high into the sky. He looked at the operator and was absurdly relieved to find it was not the man whose face and voice had been so strangely familiar.
“Hello!” Walker said as Tom entered his office. “You’re right on time!”
Tom smiled. “I try to be punctual,” he said primly, and felt absurd.
Walker put his small puffy white hands on his desk and painfully eased his enormous bulk from his reclining chair. “We’ll pick up Bill Ogden and go on up to see Mr. Hopkins,” he said.
Ogden looked more like a fashion plate than ever. “Glad to see you,” he said to Tom, but he didn’t sound glad at all–he didn’t sound as though he had ever been glad about anything except the happy circumstances which had caused him to be handsome and slender and well dressed and in a position of at least a little authority.
With Ogden leading the way, and Walker puffing along behind, Tom got back into the gold elevator. Following Ogden, he stepped out at the fifty-sixth floor. The corridors there were wider, he immediately noticed. The floors were carpeted more richly, and eventhe light fixtures on the ceiling were of a heavier brass than on the floors below. In the air, he felt, there was almost the smell of money, impregnating everything, like musk.
Hopkins’ outer office was a large room, in which two pretty girls and one gray-haired woman sat at big typewriters which looked like cash registers. There were five comfortable chairs made of molded plywood arranged in a circle around an ash tray on a pedestal. Three doors, all of them shut, led from this outer office. One of these doors was especially broad and obviously led to the final retreat of Hopkins himself.
“Mr. Hopkins is busy,” the gray-haired woman said to Walker, and smiled. Everybody in this building smiles, Tom thought–even Ogden managed a thin little twinge of the lips whenever he spoke. It must be a company rule.
They sat in the chairs surrounding the ash tray, and Tom saw a row of carefully framed photographs on the wall in front of him. One was of Winston Churchill debarking from an airplane. Something was written in a bold script across the bottom of the photograph, but Tom was not close enough to read it, and somehow it would have been unthinkable to get up and inspect the photograph closely.
“He has Mr. Givens with him,” the gray-haired woman said. “They’ll be through in a moment.” She smiled again, and both Ogden and Walker smiled back at her.
Ten minutes later a tall, distinguished-looking man emerged from the largest of the three doors and walked briskly through the outer office toward the elevators.
“You can go in now,” the gray-haired woman said.
Following Ogden, Tom entered a large rectangular room with big windows on two sides of it. The view of the city was breath-taking–the floor seemed almost like a platform suspended in mid-air. At the far end of the room, behind a huge rectangular desk, sat Hopkins. He was small, not more than five feet three or four–somehow Tom had expected him to be seven feet tall. He was pale, slender, and partly bald. His eyes were deep set, the face narrow, and the nose short like the nose of a child. His smile was curiously boyish. He was dressed in a brown worsted suit.
“Hello!” he said, getting up from his chair and walking briskly around the end of the desk. “Good morning, Gordon! How are you,Billl And you’re Tom Rath! I certainly do appreciate your taking the time to have lunch with us!”
His manner was both warm and deferential. He shook Tom’s hand heartily, and without making it necessary for him to say more than “How do you do?” kept up a steady patter of conversation.
“I hear you’re working with the Schanenhauser Foundation,” he said. “My, that’s a fine outfit! I’ve done a little work with Dick Haver on committees. . .
“Hello!” Walker said as Tom entered his office. “You’re right on time!”
Tom smiled. “I try to be punctual,” he said primly, and felt absurd.
Walker put his small puffy white hands on his desk and painfully eased his enormous bulk from his reclining chair. “We’ll pick up Bill Ogden and go on up to see Mr. Hopkins,” he said.
Ogden looked more like a fashion plate than ever. “Glad to see you,” he said to Tom, but he didn’t sound glad at all–he didn’t sound as though he had ever been glad about anything except the happy circumstances which had caused him to be handsome and slender and well dressed and in a position of at least a little authority.
With Ogden leading the way, and Walker puffing along behind, Tom got back into the gold elevator. Following Ogden, he stepped out at the fifty-sixth floor. The corridors there were wider, he immediately noticed. The floors were carpeted more richly, and eventhe light fixtures on the ceiling were of a heavier brass than on the floors below. In the air, he felt, there was almost the smell of money, impregnating everything, like musk.
Hopkins’ outer office was a large room, in which two pretty girls and one gray-haired woman sat at big typewriters which looked like cash registers. There were five comfortable chairs made of molded plywood arranged in a circle around an ash tray on a pedestal. Three doors, all of them shut, led from this outer office. One of these doors was especially broad and obviously led to the final retreat of Hopkins himself.
“Mr. Hopkins is busy,” the gray-haired woman said to Walker, and smiled. Everybody in this building smiles, Tom thought–even Ogden managed a thin little twinge of the lips whenever he spoke. It must be a company rule.
They sat in the chairs surrounding the ash tray, and Tom saw a row of carefully framed photographs on the wall in front of him. One was of Winston Churchill debarking from an airplane. Something was written in a bold script across the bottom of the photograph, but Tom was not close enough to read it, and somehow it would have been unthinkable to get up and inspect the photograph closely.
“He has Mr. Givens with him,” the gray-haired woman said. “They’ll be through in a moment.” She smiled again, and both Ogden and Walker smiled back at her.
Ten minutes later a tall, distinguished-looking man emerged from the largest of the three doors and walked briskly through the outer office toward the elevators.
“You can go in now,” the gray-haired woman said.
Following Ogden, Tom entered a large rectangular room with big windows on two sides of it. The view of the city was breath-taking–the floor seemed almost like a platform suspended in mid-air. At the far end of the room, behind a huge rectangular desk, sat Hopkins. He was small, not more than five feet three or four–somehow Tom had expected him to be seven feet tall. He was pale, slender, and partly bald. His eyes were deep set, the face narrow, and the nose short like the nose of a child. His smile was curiously boyish. He was dressed in a brown worsted suit.
“Hello!” he said, getting up from his chair and walking briskly around the end of the desk. “Good morning, Gordon! How are you,Billl And you’re Tom Rath! I certainly do appreciate your taking the time to have lunch with us!”
His manner was both warm and deferential. He shook Tom’s hand heartily, and without making it necessary for him to say more than “How do you do?” kept up a steady patter of conversation.
“I hear you’re working with the Schanenhauser Foundation,” he said. “My, that’s a fine outfit! I’ve done a little work with Dick Haver on committees. . .
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