paused. “I like that bit about the door,” she added.
At that moment the telephone rang. Grace nodded to Margaret to answer it.
“Grace Rutherford’s office.” She put a hand over the receiver. “A Richard Sedgwick for you?”
“Gracie, have you ever read The Vision ?”
“Hasn’t everyone? Why?”
“I’d like you to interview Dexter O’Connell for the Herald .”
Grace sat up straighter. “You want me to interview Dexter O’Connell ?”
“It’s to be written up as a conversation between O’Connell and Diamond Sharp. All the usual Sharpisms. I don’t want you to spare him. Got it?”
“Yes. Of course.” Grace was smiling all over her face. “How marvelous.”
“He’s in London. The rumor is he’s just finished a new book—the masterpiece he’s been threatening for years.”
“You want me to ask him?”
“Don’t mess it up. He almost never gives interviews. It’s an exclusive. How well do you remember The Vision ?”
Grace scratched her head. “Well, I’ll reread it, of course. It’s been years. I was still at school—”
“There won’t be time for that. You’re meeting him tonight.”
“Tonight! I can’t possibly…I have plans and…” But Grace was already rethinking her evening, adjusting her priorities. “All right. Tonight it is. I just wish I could remember the book better.”
Margaret was mouthing something. Grace turned away from her, vaguely annoyed.
“Tour Eiffel at eight,” said Dickie. “The table’s booked in his name.”
“Tour Eiffel again…You’re obsessed with the place, Sedgwick.”
“His choice. I’ll need your copy by the end of tomorrow. Two thousand words should do it.”
“Crikey—you don’t ask much, do you!”
Margaret was mouthing to her again—tapping her on the shoulder to try to get her attention. Grace scowled and brushed her off.
“Charm him.” Dickie sounded oddly sheepish. “All your feminine wiles. I want the piece to be personal. Intimate.”
“Goodness, Dickie, what do you think I am?”
“I know what you are, Grace.” His voice was softer now. “And I know how you can get the best out of him. I’ll have a boy run a copy of The Vision around to your office just in case you have a little reading time this afternoon. That and anything else we have on file about O’Connell.”
“Very good.” Grace attempted a clipped, businesslike tone. “Oh—and Dickie, thanks for giving me a chance at this.”
“It’s not me you have to thank.” There was an edge to hisvoice. “It’s O’Connell that wanted you. Good luck. And be careful. He has quite a reputation.”
“Bye, Dickie.”
Grace placed the receiver back in its cradle and turned to face Margaret.
“Miss Rutherford—”
“Let’s just finish this letter before I lose my thread, shall we?” She cleared her throat. “Now, where was I?”
Margaret read from her dictation pad.
“Ah, we’d pretty much finished. Sign off from Mr. Aubrey Pearson: All the best, or whatever he usually says.”
Margaret gaped. “You’re sending this in Mr. Pearson’s name?”
“That’s right.” Grace looked her straight in the eye. “Our secret—right? Don’t worry. If there’s any trouble, I’ll take full responsibility. It won’t rebound on you.”
“But, Miss Rutherford…”
“Yes?”
Margaret chewed the end of her pencil. “The letter would be better as coming from Mr. Henry Pearson. He’s closer to Potter. And if it works—well—I think he’ll just be pleased. Mr. Aubrey—he’s likely to go off at the deep end whether it works or not.”
Grace stared at the inscrutable face: the thick, black-rimmed glasses. “You’re quite right.”
“Grace.” Margaret had seemingly forgotten her place. “Why are you doing this? You could lose your job.”
Grace decided to tell the truth. “Because I’m someone who has lots of responsibilities—too many. Sometimes they weigh heavily on me. And it’s then, when I should be extra careful
At that moment the telephone rang. Grace nodded to Margaret to answer it.
“Grace Rutherford’s office.” She put a hand over the receiver. “A Richard Sedgwick for you?”
“Gracie, have you ever read The Vision ?”
“Hasn’t everyone? Why?”
“I’d like you to interview Dexter O’Connell for the Herald .”
Grace sat up straighter. “You want me to interview Dexter O’Connell ?”
“It’s to be written up as a conversation between O’Connell and Diamond Sharp. All the usual Sharpisms. I don’t want you to spare him. Got it?”
“Yes. Of course.” Grace was smiling all over her face. “How marvelous.”
“He’s in London. The rumor is he’s just finished a new book—the masterpiece he’s been threatening for years.”
“You want me to ask him?”
“Don’t mess it up. He almost never gives interviews. It’s an exclusive. How well do you remember The Vision ?”
Grace scratched her head. “Well, I’ll reread it, of course. It’s been years. I was still at school—”
“There won’t be time for that. You’re meeting him tonight.”
“Tonight! I can’t possibly…I have plans and…” But Grace was already rethinking her evening, adjusting her priorities. “All right. Tonight it is. I just wish I could remember the book better.”
Margaret was mouthing something. Grace turned away from her, vaguely annoyed.
“Tour Eiffel at eight,” said Dickie. “The table’s booked in his name.”
“Tour Eiffel again…You’re obsessed with the place, Sedgwick.”
“His choice. I’ll need your copy by the end of tomorrow. Two thousand words should do it.”
“Crikey—you don’t ask much, do you!”
Margaret was mouthing to her again—tapping her on the shoulder to try to get her attention. Grace scowled and brushed her off.
“Charm him.” Dickie sounded oddly sheepish. “All your feminine wiles. I want the piece to be personal. Intimate.”
“Goodness, Dickie, what do you think I am?”
“I know what you are, Grace.” His voice was softer now. “And I know how you can get the best out of him. I’ll have a boy run a copy of The Vision around to your office just in case you have a little reading time this afternoon. That and anything else we have on file about O’Connell.”
“Very good.” Grace attempted a clipped, businesslike tone. “Oh—and Dickie, thanks for giving me a chance at this.”
“It’s not me you have to thank.” There was an edge to hisvoice. “It’s O’Connell that wanted you. Good luck. And be careful. He has quite a reputation.”
“Bye, Dickie.”
Grace placed the receiver back in its cradle and turned to face Margaret.
“Miss Rutherford—”
“Let’s just finish this letter before I lose my thread, shall we?” She cleared her throat. “Now, where was I?”
Margaret read from her dictation pad.
“Ah, we’d pretty much finished. Sign off from Mr. Aubrey Pearson: All the best, or whatever he usually says.”
Margaret gaped. “You’re sending this in Mr. Pearson’s name?”
“That’s right.” Grace looked her straight in the eye. “Our secret—right? Don’t worry. If there’s any trouble, I’ll take full responsibility. It won’t rebound on you.”
“But, Miss Rutherford…”
“Yes?”
Margaret chewed the end of her pencil. “The letter would be better as coming from Mr. Henry Pearson. He’s closer to Potter. And if it works—well—I think he’ll just be pleased. Mr. Aubrey—he’s likely to go off at the deep end whether it works or not.”
Grace stared at the inscrutable face: the thick, black-rimmed glasses. “You’re quite right.”
“Grace.” Margaret had seemingly forgotten her place. “Why are you doing this? You could lose your job.”
Grace decided to tell the truth. “Because I’m someone who has lots of responsibilities—too many. Sometimes they weigh heavily on me. And it’s then, when I should be extra careful
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