I asked her.
She didn’t smile. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said formally. “If there’s anything you’d like, please call me.”
“Is that legit?” I grinned.
For the first time an expression appeared on her face. She looked puzzled. I laughed aloud. “D’you mean that?” I translated.
The puzzled frown vanished. “Of course,” she replied. “Cigars and cigarettes are in the humidor on the table. Magazines and papers on the rack beside it.” She closed the door before I had a chance to say anything else.
I looked around the room. It was richly and quietly furnished. The walls were oak-panelled, the heavy furniture of comfortable leather. The carpets were thick and seemed to come up to your ankles. My eye was caught by a group of photographs neatly framed, hung in a cluster on the wall opposite the door.
I walked over to them. Some very familiar faces looked down at me. Seven photographs all autographed to Matt Brady personally. All Presidents of the United States. Woodrow Wilson, Harding, Coolidge, Hoover, F.D.R., Truman and Eisenhower.
I ground out my cigarette in a tray. No wonder the operator hadn’t gone for my joke. Presidents come and go but Matt Brady went on forever. I sat down and stared up at the photographs. Tough little man, Matt Brady. Smart. He didn’t keep these pictures in his office like any other man would, where he could point to them or ignore them consciously to impress his visitors. He kept them in his waiting room as if to keep them in their place.
I began to wonder what I was doing here. Any guy who had as highly developed a sense of public psychology as Matt Brady seemed to have didn’t need a guy like me for anything. I looked at my watch. I had already been in the room about five minutes. If I had it figured right, it would be ten minutes before he would call for me. By then I would have had time to absorb the psychological effect of the waiting room.
I grinned to myself. For a moment he almost had me. But two can play at that game. I got out of the chair and opened the door.
The girl looked up at me, a startled expression in her eyes. I picked a magazine from the rack. “Where’s the washroom?” I asked.
Silently she pointed to a door opposite mine. I crossed the office quickly. As I opened the washroom door her voice caught me. “But Mr. Brady will be free in a few minutes.”
“Ask him to wait,” I said, quickly closing the door behind me.
I had been in the can almost ten minutes when the door opened and someone came in. From under the tile booth door I could see a pair of men’s shoes stand hesitantly in front of the booth. They were cops’ shoes. I didn’t have to see the grey trouser cuffs to know that. I grinned and kept silent. A few seconds later the shoes went away and the door slammed again.
It had taken a long time, but one of my father’s predictions had just come true. Years ago I remembered him saying to my mother that the only way they would ever get me out of the bathroom was to get the cops after me.
I sat there and flipped the pages of the magazine. About five minutes later the door slammed again.
I looked down under the booth. A pair of small shiny black shoes went past. I smiled grimly to myself. This round was mine.
Quickly I dropped the magazine to the floor. A second later I came out of the booth and crossed
over to the washstand.
The little man standing there looked up at me questioningly. I grinned down at him in apparent surprise. Mr. Brady,” I said, “What nice offices you have here!”
Matt Brady’s own office was big enough to serve as the lobby for Radio City Music Hall. It was on a corner of the building and two of its walls were large picture windows through which one could see building after building, all bearing the gleaming stainless steel signs reading Consolidated Steel.
His desk occupied the large corner where the two windows came together. Around his desk were three bucket chairs facing him. On the
She didn’t smile. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said formally. “If there’s anything you’d like, please call me.”
“Is that legit?” I grinned.
For the first time an expression appeared on her face. She looked puzzled. I laughed aloud. “D’you mean that?” I translated.
The puzzled frown vanished. “Of course,” she replied. “Cigars and cigarettes are in the humidor on the table. Magazines and papers on the rack beside it.” She closed the door before I had a chance to say anything else.
I looked around the room. It was richly and quietly furnished. The walls were oak-panelled, the heavy furniture of comfortable leather. The carpets were thick and seemed to come up to your ankles. My eye was caught by a group of photographs neatly framed, hung in a cluster on the wall opposite the door.
I walked over to them. Some very familiar faces looked down at me. Seven photographs all autographed to Matt Brady personally. All Presidents of the United States. Woodrow Wilson, Harding, Coolidge, Hoover, F.D.R., Truman and Eisenhower.
I ground out my cigarette in a tray. No wonder the operator hadn’t gone for my joke. Presidents come and go but Matt Brady went on forever. I sat down and stared up at the photographs. Tough little man, Matt Brady. Smart. He didn’t keep these pictures in his office like any other man would, where he could point to them or ignore them consciously to impress his visitors. He kept them in his waiting room as if to keep them in their place.
I began to wonder what I was doing here. Any guy who had as highly developed a sense of public psychology as Matt Brady seemed to have didn’t need a guy like me for anything. I looked at my watch. I had already been in the room about five minutes. If I had it figured right, it would be ten minutes before he would call for me. By then I would have had time to absorb the psychological effect of the waiting room.
I grinned to myself. For a moment he almost had me. But two can play at that game. I got out of the chair and opened the door.
The girl looked up at me, a startled expression in her eyes. I picked a magazine from the rack. “Where’s the washroom?” I asked.
Silently she pointed to a door opposite mine. I crossed the office quickly. As I opened the washroom door her voice caught me. “But Mr. Brady will be free in a few minutes.”
“Ask him to wait,” I said, quickly closing the door behind me.
I had been in the can almost ten minutes when the door opened and someone came in. From under the tile booth door I could see a pair of men’s shoes stand hesitantly in front of the booth. They were cops’ shoes. I didn’t have to see the grey trouser cuffs to know that. I grinned and kept silent. A few seconds later the shoes went away and the door slammed again.
It had taken a long time, but one of my father’s predictions had just come true. Years ago I remembered him saying to my mother that the only way they would ever get me out of the bathroom was to get the cops after me.
I sat there and flipped the pages of the magazine. About five minutes later the door slammed again.
I looked down under the booth. A pair of small shiny black shoes went past. I smiled grimly to myself. This round was mine.
Quickly I dropped the magazine to the floor. A second later I came out of the booth and crossed
over to the washstand.
The little man standing there looked up at me questioningly. I grinned down at him in apparent surprise. Mr. Brady,” I said, “What nice offices you have here!”
Matt Brady’s own office was big enough to serve as the lobby for Radio City Music Hall. It was on a corner of the building and two of its walls were large picture windows through which one could see building after building, all bearing the gleaming stainless steel signs reading Consolidated Steel.
His desk occupied the large corner where the two windows came together. Around his desk were three bucket chairs facing him. On the
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