Tuesday to Bed. Francis Sill Wickware
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They passed through the gates above the ramp and emerged in the vast stir and turmoil of the station. They stood there, making a little eddy in the stream of people issuing from the trains.
“Afterward, somebody—I think it was the McRaes—gave a party for the cast. We were invited, and that’s how we met Paige. Why, Mr. Hazen?”
The lawyer seemed to be pondering the animated signs on the station walls. On the near side these urged the smoking of Chesterfields and the drinking of Four Roses; on the far side, Alka-Seltzer was recommended for that headachy feeling. Against the tall eastern windows the New Haven had erected a photo-mural glorifying an autumn vacation in the Berkshires. Overhead, golden gods sprawled on the blue vault of the ceiling and tossed casual golden stars back and forth.
Hazen tapped the marble floor with his cane and said, “Ah . . . you will be in your office all morning? Definitely?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you may hear from me. Nice to see you anyway, Stanton. I’ll get a cab out here. Too old for these subways, you know.”
“Mr. Hazen——”
But the old man only nodded, and stepped spryly into the moving crowd. Stanton stared after him for several seconds, frowning. He was conscious of a vague feeling of disquiet, even apprehension, as he walked slowly toward the Lexington Avenue doors and crossed the street to the Chrysler Building. Why should Chester Hazen even be aware of the existence of Billy Paige, let alone have so many questions to ask about him?
CHAPTER 3
STANTON’S secretary, Miss Rice, was in a fine flutter when he arrived at his office. She was a small, pert, birdlike girl who generated an almost incandescent enthusiasm.
“Oh, Mr. Wylie! So many exciting things are happening to us!” she greeted him. “You should see the morning mail!”
Stanton grinned at her. “You know, Helen, I wish I got as much fun out of this business as you seem to,” he said. He tossed his coat and hat onto the sofa and went over to his desk. “Well, what’s the score?”
“All sorts of wonderful things!” she gushed. “Here’s one from the Civic Improvement League of Omaha. They want you to make a speech out there the first week in November. This one’s from the Royal Canadian Society of Engineers, inviting you to attend their convention in Montreal December third and fourth, and make a speech too.”
“Gad!” Stanton protested. “There seems to be a general conspiracy to make me stand on a platform and make noises. I’m no lecturer! Anything else?”
“Yes.” Miss Rice giggled. “The Harvard School of Architecture wants to know if, as a distinguished alumnus, you would deliver a series of lectures. There’s a note from the headmaster of your old school, offering congratulations, and inquiring delicately whether your son isn’t about ready for prep school. Are you sending him to Ely, incidentally?”
“No,” said Stanton. “Mrs. Wylie decided on St. Paul’s.”
“Here’s an answer from Corning about that glass brick you wanted. They say they can’t promise anything less than eight weeks ahead. This one’s a query from something called Pacific Industries, in Los Angeles. They want to know if you will help them design what they call a packaged kitchen. They’re getting out a line of interrelated equipment to be sold as a unit. . . .” She paused for breath. “This is a letter from a book publisher, asking if you could do a book on new trends in design, what the world will be like twenty-five years from now. . . .”
“Will there be a world twenty-five years from now?” said Stanton. “That publisher is an optimist. Anyway, Walter Teague’s already written the book.”
“Well, they want another. Why shouldn’t there be a world twenty-five years from now, Mr. Wylie? Of course there will be.” Miss Rice was not notably gifted with imagination. “Oh, that reminds me—the young lady from Life called and asked what space you have on the train, so she can find you this afternoon. And a man called from the Herald Tribune asking for an interview they could print in the Sunday edition, but I told them about the Life article, so he said they’d wait awhile. We are getting famous, aren’t we?” she exclaimed, looking flushed and happy.
“Ah, yes,” Stanton agreed. “I suppose that’s the main thing, isn’t it? Well, there must be a few headaches in the midst of all this sunshine. What’s the bad news?”
“I was coming to that. Mr. Sanderson called from Long Island, just beside himself, and said the plasterers had walked off the project because of that prefabricated wall-board you ordered—honestly, after the local agreed to use it only a week ago! And the electricians are kicking because those sinks have an electric garbage-disposal unit in the drain. They claim they ought to install the sinks, not the plumbers, and the plumbers say they—— Really, it’s so infuriating! With thousands and thousands of people trying to find a decent place to live, these fools haggle over things like that!”
“I know,” said Stanton. “They’re cutting their own throats, but they don’t know it. Well—” he shrugged—“I’ll go out to the project Monday and try to persuade the plasterers all over again. If I don’t, I suppose I’ll have to cancel the wallboard order and let the boys put the houses together with sticks and mud, like the Pueblos. . . . The Pueblos at least finished theirs. I wonder whether we’ll ever finish Happy Homes. What else, Helen?”
“Oh—oh, yes, General Electric. A letter from Mr. Browning in Schenectady, about that eccentric gear you designed for the magnesium elevator. He says the engineers don’t think it’s possible to make a sintered part that large, with so many stress points.”
“I don’t agree with the engineers,” Stanton said.
“Well, they’re willing to try, but they won’t guarantee anything, and they estimate that the die alone will cost $10,000.”
“Ouch! The client won’t swallow that. What else?”
“The blueprints for the new Galveston airport building. They were blurred, and they have to be done over. . . . The model maker wants another two weeks on that truck job. . . .”
“He’s a month late now. I’ll give him one more week, no longer. What else?”
“Monsanto—positively no Lucite before the first of the year. And the Airfoam for your self-adjusting theater seat, not before April. But—” Miss Rice looked at her pad—“Lear Avia can deliver those quarter h.p. motors you wanted. I guess that’s all.”
“Hm.” Stanton glanced at the pile of letters. “I’ll call Sanderson, and you can tell Wilhelm that I want that truck model not later than next Friday, or it’s the last work he gets from me. I’ll let everything else ride over the week end. I want to work on my speech. I’d like to give you the day off, Helen, but I may need you for typing later on. But you can leave early.”
“Oh, Mr. Wylie—” little Miss Rice stood in front of the desk, twisting her stenographer’s pad between her hands—“I want to stay as long as you need me. It’s so wonderful, the way everything is clicking,” she said, rushing her words together. “I’m so proud to be working for you, and I know the speech will be sensational.”
There was an embarrassing amount of adoration in her eyes and her voice, and Stanton pretended to hunt for something in the file drawer of his desk.
“Can I help you, Mr. Wylie?”
“No, no, Helen.” He stood up. There was too much invitation in the girl’s manner; he didn’t want her behind the desk. “Jake here?” he asked casually.
“Yes, he’s in the shop. Mr. Wylie, I wondered——”
“Yes, Helen?”
“After you’ve made the speech you won’t need the manuscript