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Based on what Rachel’s expert had told me, the snake had most likely been placed into Collingswood’s coat pocket while still in a deep-sleep, motionless state from being outside in winter. A warm room, particularly one as warm as my office that morning, had revived it. When and where that would happen would have been impossible to predict. That didn’t matter. Regardless of where it happened, Collingswood would have been scared within an inch of his life.
I got to C&S Signals ten minutes late. The red brick building was simple and modern. A strip of gravel in front and along one side provided parking. I pulled my DeSoto in and killed the engine.
“Mr. Collingswood’s expecting me. I’m Maggie Sullivan,” I told a white haired woman at the front desk. With her dash of bright pink lipstick and wavy hair she would have looked warm and motherly save for a pair of eyes worthy of a Doberman pincer assessing a threat.
“Oh, yes. The detective.”
A potted plant brightened one corner of her desk. Either she’d terrified it into being lush and green or she watered it.
“Don’t drag your toes finding Mr. Tremain, and don’t take too much of Mr. Collingswood’s time. He has a bad heart and he’s looking very peaked this morning.”
Rising magisterially, she marched through an archway in the wall behind her, leaving me to follow.
On the other side of the wall, four girls pounded typewriters. Two young men worked away at some sort of drawing tables next to metal boxes with knobs on the front and glass screens. We threaded our way around them and went down a hall with doors left and right. Collingswood had the last room on the end.
“How are you feeling?” I asked as soon as the two of us were alone. He had a good deal more color than when I’d last seen him.
“Much better, thanks.” He nodded toward a couch behind him. “I stretched out with my feet up for a while. Silly, but it’s what the doctor says I must do. Sit down.”
“It was harmless,” I said. “The snake. I had someone look at it.”
“But—”
“You said you stopped here before you came to see me. Where did you put your coat?”
“Where I always do.”
He pointed to a coat rack next to his door. One step in, drop it in, one step out. The snake could have been tucked into it here, or at his house. He was starting to frown.
“You think someone put it into my pocket?”
“Either that, or your roof has a very odd leak.”
“But that would mean...”
“That someone wanted to scare you. Yes. Let’s start with the premise Gil Tremain’s disappearance has nothing to do with that, though, or with the phone calls you got. I don’t think that’s true, but it makes sense to start there and see where it leads. Meanwhile, you need to take some precautions. Don’t go anywhere by yourself. Keep people around you. Take a taxi back and forth to work.”
“Yes, all right.”
“Tell me more about the project Tremain was working on.”
His desk was neat as a pin. Slide-rule, cup of sharpened pencils, everything aligned perfectly. He took time selecting his words.
“C&S Signals develops what you could think of as technological bits that are used as part of larger units,” he said at last. “We come up with improvements to existing technology in some cases, solutions to problems that are holding up advances in a particular industry, primarily radio signals and sound transmission.”
“You’re telling me you don’t actually make anything — invent some gadget. You make, so to speak, a piece. And what? Sell it to somebody else?”
“In a nutshell.” He smiled faintly. “The project we’ve been working on offers a significant improvement. In and of itself, it’s the most valuable thing we’ve ever developed. But if America joins the fight against Hitler—” He sighed deeply. “When we do, it-it might be of some use to our military defenses.”
“Are you suggesting the Bund might be behind Tremain’s disappearance?”
“No. I can’t—. It would be too farfetched. How would they even know about us?”
I had a hard enough time absorbing the reality of the war going on in Europe. The thought of cloak and dagger hijinks by America’s pro-Nazi group right here on my doorstep unsettled me enough to search for other explanations.
“What about competitors? Would another company try to hire him away from you?”
“No! Absolutely not! Gil isn’t the sort to be bought. He’s absolutely loyal.”
“But would anyone try?” And get rid of a man if he turned them down, I added silently.
“I suppose it’s in the realm of possibility. Gil presented a paper about the problem we were working on at a symposium four months back. Several men from the company we’re to meet with next week were there also, and his presentation made them suspect we were nearing a breakthrough. I suppose others might have done likewise.”
“How much of the project — the knowledge or calculations or whatever it is — could Tremain take with him if he did, to put it bluntly, take a bribe?”
“All of it. Frank and two other engineers worked on it with him, but it was Gil who had the breakthrough.”
“You must have copies. He’s not carrying the whole thing around in his head.”
“Even Gil wouldn’t be up to memorizing the entire thing. Yes, we have copies. In the safe. But... yesterday, when we took a close look because we were starting to worry about our meeting.... We think they may not be our latest calculations. There was a knot, you see. When we were almost there. It had us tearing our hair out for two weeks or better.”
“And Gil Tremain was the one who cut the knot,” I guessed.
He nodded.
“I thought — I know — he’d put in the change and the girls had typed a finished copy to take to Photostat. We’d passed it around to make sure nothing had gotten miscopied. We’d followed the calculations on it to make sure they worked.” He swallowed. “The ones in the safe don’t.”
To me, it looked more and more like Collingswood’s fair-haired boy had scampered off into the arms of a higher bidder. More than a few smart, efficient men had thrown away a prosperous future in their hunger for more money faster. Their shortcuts usually led to a jail cell.
“Did Gil know how to get into the safe?”
“No, but he most likely kept his worksheets. Gil was very orderly.”
“I’ll talk to your employees, and have a look around Gil’s office, if you don’t object.”
“I thought as much. It’s why I was so keen to have you come today. So you could get started. I’m sorry Frank isn’t here, but the headaches he gets are ghastly. Nausea. Can’t stand light. I don’t suppose worry over Gil helped it any.”
“I can stop back tomorrow to talk to your partner.”
“Yes, but you see, he knew Gil better than anyone else around here. They saw each other outside the office occasionally. Went to lunch so they could discuss whatever project they were on. I don’t want to give the impression Gil’s a cold fish. He’s cordial enough. But around here at least, he’s never been one for idle chatter. He keeps his mind on his work.”
Collingswood’s tone left no doubt he approved of that attitude. It also left me wondering who in C&S Signals did indulge in idle chatter. If I could tap into it, chatter might yield something useful.
“There’s an explanation for this, I know it,” he said. “Please. Just find him. It’s not merely the monetary loss we’ll face if we can’t find him. I also like the boy. Although I’m not sure he’d believe that right now,” he added softly.
“Had you two had a falling out?”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”
“Over what?”
“I’d asked him to stop seeing my daughter.”
Was that enough to turn a loyal employee into a thief?
“May I ask why?”
“He’s divorced.” He looked down uncomfortably. “Gil’s a fine man, but I didn’t want her subjected to that sort of social stigma.”
From what I’d seen, it was only the divorced woman who got snubbed. Ex-husbands went free under the ‘boys will be boys’ clause.
Prudence said it might be smart to look at Tremain’s office before my tongue got me in trouble. For once I listened to the old girl.
* * *
Tremain’s office didn’t accommodate me by offering signs of whether or not he’d disappeared voluntarily. No marks on the wall suggested a scuffle. No travel brochures or phone numbers scribbled on the office blotter hinted of departure for a happier clime. The only decoration on his desk was a picture frame containing the likeness of a girl who looked about eleven. His daughter, maybe?
I talked to the employees next: three other engineers, a technician, two draftsmen, two clerk-typists and three secretaries. Not to mention the guardian of the front desk. All gave the same story I’d heard already. Gil Tremain was pleasant but kept to himself. Finally I went back to my office, where even the stairwell now had a tropical feel, and called the number I had for Tremain’s apartment. Since nobody answered, I decided to have a look at the place.
The two-story building had a spare look suggesting it would appeal more to people busy with jobs than to retirees. Tremain’s apartment was upstairs at the rear, I’d learned from one of the secretaries who had dropped off papers there once. I carried a folder so I could claim the same mission if anyone stopped me. Nobody did.
Upstairs, the hall had carpet. It wasn’t thick, but it felt rugged and did a nice job of soaking up footsteps. There were four apartments, two on each side, before I reached Tremain’s. No sounds issued from any of them. No radio playing, no electric sweeper. No dishes rattling even though it was lunchtime by now. The silence supported my theory the place would appeal to people who were elsewhere during the day.
At Tremain’s door I raised my hand to tap, preparatory to taking out my Number Three Boye. Just before my knuckles connected with wood, I heard movement inside. The fact I had my ear pressed to the door helped. The sounds were muffled, but unmistakable. Scrape. Thump. Like drawers being opened and closed.
If it was Tremain and he was just now packing to take off somewhere, then he was an idiot.
The man who’d been described to me didn’t sound like an idiot.
I took out the crochet hook.
The shiny little shaft had never put its nose to any kind of fancywork, but it unlocked the door in about a minute. I slid through and stood stock still, wishing I’d brought the Smith & Wesson.
The room I’d stepped into had been torn apart by someone unconcerned about tidying up. A little modern kitchenette was to my right. Above the sink, weak November light made its way through an outside window whose sash was halfway up. At first I thought the noises had stopped, that the other intruder had somehow become aware of my presence. Then, from the room to my left, which I judged to be the bedroom, I heard what sounded like coins or pencils being dumped out on a hard surface.
Cautiously I crept forward, hugging the wall. A few feet short of the bedroom door, I nearly stepped on papers that had spilled from a small occasional table which stood in what seemed an odd place. Keeping one eye on the door, I stooped and gave them a fast once over. They were blank pages and sheets advertising music events, not scientific calculations.
Resuming my stealthy movements, I eased through the mostly closed bedroom door and found myself engulfed in thick darkness. Vision obscured by the sudden change in light, I ducked to avoid the blow which, if I’d been heard, would come from the side. Instead, a broad shape flew through the air toward me.
Instinctively I threw up my arm to block it. Even as I deflected whatever it was, a man’s shape charged and a fist slammed into my chin.