“Yes. He’s been leaving messages for me all over town. This is just my first opportunity to get back to him.”
She returned to the phones. This time when she finished she asked me to take a seat. I lowered myself into an overstuffed armchair and flipped through a copy of the annual report thoughtfully placed next to it. Humboldt’s Brazil operations had shown a staggering growth last year, accounting for sixty percent of overseas profits. Their capital investment of $500 million in the Amazon River Project was now paying handsome dividends. I couldn’t help wondering how much capital development it would take before the Amazon looked like the Calumet.
I was studying the breakdown of profits by product line, feeling a proprietary pleasure in the good performance of Xerxine, when the polished receptionist summoned me—Mr. Redwick would see me. I followed her to the third in a series of doors in a little hallway behind her desk. She knocked and opened the door, then returned to her station.
Mr. Redwick got up from his desk to hold out a hand to me. He was a tall, well-groomed man about my own age, with remote gray eyes. He studied me unsmilingly while we shook hands and uttered conventional greetings, then gestured me to a small sofa set against one wall.
“I understand you think Mr. Humboldt wishes to see you.”
“I know Mr. Humboldt wishes to see me,” I corrected him. “You wouldn’t be talking to me if that weren’t the case.”
“What is it you think he wants to see you about?” He pressed his fingertips together.
“He’s left a couple of messages for me. One at the insurance offices of Art Jurshak, the other at the Ironworkers bank in South Chicago. Both messages were most urgent. That’s why I came here in person.”
“Why don’t you tell me what he said, and then I can evaluate whether he needs to talk to you himself or whether I can handle the matter.”
I smiled. “Either you are totally in Mr. Humboldt’s confidence, in which case you know what he said, or you’re not—in which case he would much prefer that you not find it out.”
The remote eyes grew colder. “You can safely assume that I’m in Mr. Humboldt’s confidence—I’m his executive assistant.”
I yawned and got up to study a print on the wall across from the sofa. It was a Nast cartoon of the Oil Trust, and as nearly as my inexpert eye could tell, it seemed to be an original.
“If you aren’t willing to talk to me, you’re going to have to leave,” Redwick said sharply.
I didn’t turn around. “Why don’t you just check with the big guy—let him know I’m here and getting restless.”
“He knows you’re here and he asked me to meet with you.”
“How hard it is when strong-willed people disagree so vehemently,” I said mournfully, and left the room.
I walked fast, trying each of the doors I came to, surprising a succession of hardworking assistants. The door on the end opened to the great man’s cove. A secretary, presumably Ms. Hollingsworth, looked up in surprise at my entrance. Before she could utter a protest, I’d gone into the inner chamber. Redwick was on my heels, grabbing at my arms.
Behind the mahogany door, in the midst of a collection of antique office furnishings, sat Gustav Humboldt, a document unopened on his knees. He looked beyond me to his executive assistant.
“Redwick. I thought I made it clear this woman was not to disturb me. Have you come to think that my decisions no longer carry authority?”
With a considerable diminution in his cool poise, Redwick tried explaining what had happened.
“He really did do his best,” I chimed in helpfully. “But I knew that deep down you would be sorry forever if you didn’t talk to me. You see, I just came from the Ironworkers Savings and Loan, so I know you’re the person who pressured Caroline Djiak into firing me. And then there’s the matter of the life and health insurance that Art Jurshak’s been handling for you. Not my idea of a proper fiduciary, a man who pals around with guys like Steve Dresberg, and the state insurance commissioner would probably agree with me.”
I was on thin ice there, since I wasn’t sure what the report meant. Obviously it had rung a thousand bells with Nancy, but I could only guess at why. I danced my way through possibilities, throwing in references to Joey Pankowski and Steve Ferraro, but Humboldt refused to rise to the bait. He strode to his desk and picked up the phone.