Page 4 - Like No Business I Know
P. 4

Rejuvenol

          “In just a matter of minutes. A special courier is bringing the
        documents  here.  The  contract  was  signed  this  morning  at  ten
        o’clock. We put five million dollars into Frintzwilder’s Swiss bank
        account  upon  receiving  title  to  his  product  and  his  process;  his
        warehouse  was  rented,  and  his  employees  will  go  back  to  the
        street-corners they came from.”
          “And the formula?”
          “That’s what’s coming. He left it in escrow until the money and
        ownership  changed  hands.  As  I  said,  he  had  his  mind  fixed  on
        keeping  his  process  away  from  our  prying  eyes  until  he  had  his
        little  fortune  safely  squirreled  away.  Sell  out  in  haste,  repent  in
        leisure. Not a bad sort of leisure, actually, somewhere the dollar is
        still worth more than—”
          A chime  discreetly  sounded somewhere within the  bric-a-brac
        on her desk.
          “A messenger from the bank has an envelope for you, Madame
        Fishel,” came a voice of great culture and refinement. “Shall I sign
        for it?”
          She pressed a button cunningly wrought into the ormolu of a
        porcelain cherub’s navel. “Yes, Frankie. And bring it right in, will
        you, dear.”
          Myron Probst sat quietly while the dapper amanuensis advanced
        with  the  prize  and  retreated  with  a  reward:  “Thank  you,  dear,”
        cooed the Great Woman.
          She slit the manila envelope’s flap neatly with a platinum dirk,
        and deftly extracted the contents. “Myron, please have a look at
        this. You’ll be working with it, and I might not be up on the latest
        technical jargon, you know.”
          He took the papers, thinking her eyesight the primary dissuasive
        factor. The first page was a letter, signed by Frintzwilder. Behind it
        were several sheets of technical data. Probst put the letter down
        and quickly scanned the formulae. Gilda Fishel watched as his face
        slowly tightened into a mask of fear and repulsion.
          “What is it?” she demanded. “Can’t you understand it?”
          Probst looked up, blinking. “I—I don’t know how to tell you
        this, ma’am.”
          “Tell  me  what?  Out  with  it,  man!”  The  blood  suffusing  her
        cheeks threatened to exceed their rouge in ruddiness.

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