Page 75 - Labelle Gramercy, Detective

Cat’s Paw

up behind me and announced loudly that Mr. Mallard wanted to see
me right away. Evan’s main claim to fame was that he could look at a
perspective drawing and tell at an instant whether or not the
converging lines all wound up in the right vanishing point at infinity.
This talent had occasional application at Mallard Books, I must
admit, as many of our manuals included detailed illustrations of
things like birdhouses and bomb shelters. Nevertheless, his delight in
springing on me what appeared to be an ominous summons clearly
indicated his envy of my computer know-how.
We all worked in a large bullpen, the editors and bookkeepers and
clerks, and I marched off tall and straight to the boss’s office. I did
have my pride, and I wondered about the old saying about how it
‘goeth’ before a fall. Did that mean pride always preceded a fall, going
in a literal sense ahead of it to pave the way, like the road of good
intentions leading directly to hell? Or was it figurative, that ‘goeth,’
meaning that the disappearance of pride led to a downfall? Both
interpretations had some merit. Well, it was a good way to divert
myself for the ten seconds it took to get to Mr. Mallard’s door. It was
open, and he was, typically enough, seated behind his desk.
“O’Bleakley,” he said, “close the door and sit down. I have a job
for you.”
Boy, that was a relief—but I was cool, acted like it was no big deal.
Mallard was a tough guy to figure out. He never let you know if you
were doing a good job; maybe he was following the advice in
Managing through Intimidation, a title in our catalogue last year. Office
gossip had it that he had been married, and that it was his wife’s
money that kept the business from going under, but the turnover was
so high that no one had been around long enough to remember
when he had become a widower—or even if the rumor were true.
“Yes, sir,” I said, pushing my features into a professional face. “I
can put all my other projects on hold, and get right on it.”
He almost smiled. “Yes, of course. Now, this involves going
outside the office and dealing with the public, so I chose you for this
assignment instead one of the other editors.”
That surprised me a little, particularly because I wasn’t exactly
dressed for success. But I did have a presentable sports jacket in my
car, and an emergency necktie in one of its pockets. Mallard himself
was no specimen of sartorial splendor, and the rest of us followed his

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