It was close to lunchtime and Broadway was thick with people, buses and parked cars. Margaret soon gave up the attempt to find a parking spot for her small red Morris Minor on the main drag, and instead turned off onto Fir, where, even though the traffic was lighter, she was still lucky to find a place just being vacated.
Most of the buildings in the 1600-block were two and three storeys high, with offices and garment factories on the upper floors and shops at street level. The business of selling spilled out onto the sidewalk: right next door to a second-hand shop where old books and magazines were displayed on a rickety table was a small Italian bakery, and next to that a Chinese grocery with pails of cut flowers, boxes of vegetables and potted plants. As Margaret joined the lunchtime strollers, the smell of freshly baked bread mingled with the rich aroma of ground coffee and made her realize that in her nervousness to be punctual, she’d forgotten to eat lunch.
Halfway down the block, she found number 1687 easily enough and saw that although the brick building was old, it was not quite as rundown as the neighbours that hemmed it in on either side. A photo shop occupied the ground floor, but next to it stood a glass door leading into a kind of small lobby area.
Resolutely, she pushed it open. Immediately in front of her was a narrow staircase, and beside it an old elevator waited for passengers, its sliding steel gate open, all lights off. One look at the elevator convinced her to choose the stairs, but by the time she had climbed the three flights, she wished that she had accepted the dingy elevator’s invitation. Puffing with exertion, she walked along the dimly lit corridor to number 301. “Southby’s Investigations,” she read on the grimy sign. “Please Walk In.”
The room she entered overlooked Broadway. She just had time to notice a wooden desk with a Remington typewriter on it, and next to it two battered green filing cabinets, their open drawers spilling out buff folders bulging with photographs and papers, before a man’s voice called, “Come in.”
Looking around, she realized that the voice was coming from a partly open connecting door. As she pushed gently on it, clouds of cigar smoke wafted out over her head, forming eddies and swirls before slipping through an air vent in the ceiling of the outer office.
Hesitantly poking her head around the door, she saw a rather untidy man sitting behind a desk piled high with more buff folders and papers. He stood up as she entered, immediately tried to hitch up his sagging pants, stubbed a half-smoked cigar into an overflowing ashtray and, with a nod, indicated a chair.
“Sit down, Mrs. . . . uh . . .” He rummaged through the mess on his desk and finally came up with a scrap of paper. “Ah, yes, Mrs. Spencer, isn’t it?”
Margaret nodded, at a loss for words.
He brushed cigar ash off his already stained jacket and sat down. For a moment, he just looked at her. The blue of her smart Chanel wool suit matched her eyes perfectly, and the March wind had given her cheeks a healthy glow.
“Have you done any office work at all?” he asked suddenly.
“A long time ago,” she answered, not so winded anymore. “I worked as a legal secretary in my husband’s office. I’m afraid my typing is very rusty.”
Nat’s face lit up. “A lawyer’s office. Hey, that’s great. That’s the kind of experience this job needs.”
“What do you mean?” Margaret said, startled. “What kind of agency are you? It doesn’t say on the door.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” He rummaged through the papers once again and came up with a grubby business card, which he thrust at her. “I thought you understood, I’m a detective. Nat Southby, Private Investigator,” he proclaimed proudly.
She read the card and then looked at him again. He certainly didn’t look like Humphrey Bogart in The Maltese Falcon or any of the other detectives she had seen in the movies, for that matter. He should have been leaning back in his swivel chair, his .38 revolver in a shoulder holster, and his feet on the desk, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, staring defiantly into her eyes. Instead, Nat was somewhat overweight, probably in his mid-fifties, dressed in baggy grey slacks and a blue-striped shirt—a nondescript blue-and-red tie lay on the desk—with an ash-spotted, brown tweed sports jacket completing his ensemble. There was no drink and no gun.
“Don’t look the part, eh?” he said with a smile, which lit up his plump face. His brown eyes twinkled out of the creases at their corners.
Margaret blushed, and to hide her confusion, asked, “What kind of investigative work do you do, Mr. Southby?”
“I take on anything. Business espionage, stolen goods, dead-beats, missing persons, fraud. You name it and I’ll have a stab at it. Don’t touch divorce, though.” He paused for breath. “I also do a lot of leg work for different law firms. That’s why I said your experience would come in useful.”
“But that was years ago,” she said in alarm, “before I had my two daughters. And they’re in their twenties now.”
“It’ll come back,” he said confidently. “It’s like riding a bicycle. Now, let’s have some particulars, such as . . . are you still married? I mean, divorced or anything?”
“I’m married.”
“What about your girls? Still live at home?”
“One’s married and the other’s a nurse at the Royal Columbian Hospital in New Westminster.”
“And your husband’s a lawyer, eh? Criminal, I suppose?”
“Corporate. He’s a partner in Snodgrass, Crumbie and Spencer.”
“Oh yes, I’ve heard of them, though they’re not one of the firms I work for.” Nat rose from his chair. “I really don’t know what else to ask you,” he said. “I started this agency five years ago, you see, but the office help I’ve had up to now’s been a disaster.”
“What would I have to do?” Margaret asked.
“Come into the outer office and I’ll show you,” he answered, leading the way. “It’ll be, you know—taking phone calls, typing up reports. Things like that.” He walked over to the two filing cabinets. “These contain all the files on my clients.”
Margaret sat down tentatively at the scratched wooden desk and took in the matching wooden filing trays, which were overflowing with letters and documents. “Is all this to go into those filing cabinets too?”
“Yeah,” he answered. “You can see things have sort of gotten out of hand. I’ve tried a series of girls, but since it’s just a part-time job, it attracts mostly young ones fresh out of school and on their way to something more permanent.”
“And the hours are from nine to one?”
“That’s right. Yeah. Will you give it a try?”
She got up from the desk and walked over to one of the windows to look down at the busy street, and then back at his earnest face. “Yes,” she said at last. “I can’t promise miracles. But I’ll give it a try.”
“Could you start right away—say, tomorrow?” he asked hopefully.
“Well . . . I don’t . . .” Then she nodded.
“Nine o’clock?”
“Well, yes. All right, I’ll be here.”
A half hour later, she sat sipping a cup of tea in the Aristocrat Restaurant on the corner of Broadway and Granville. Margaret, what have you done . . . ? How can I tell Harry about this? The waitress placed a sandwich in front of her, and Margaret absent-mindedly took a bite. I didn’t ask how much it paid. Harry will never approve . . . his wife working in a seedy office. And a detective’s office at that. She was still turning the problem over in her head as she slipped behind the wheel of her Morris to drive home.
The solution came to her as she was fumbling for her keys to the front door. Why tell him at all? Just keep the whole thing to myself. It’ll save all those I-told-you-sos if I should fall flat on my face.
• • •
HARRY AWOKE THE next morning to the smell of brewing coffee. He realized that Margaret must have risen early, and as he struggled out of bed and made his way to the bathroom, he peered over the banister and was surprised to see her fully dressed in a navy-blue skirt and a cashmere twin-set in a pretty shade of coral. Before going downstairs, he showered, shaved and dressed, and when he descended to the kitchen, he found her already sitting at the table, sipping a glass of orange juice.
“You’re up early,” he commented as he sat down and picked up his morning newspaper. “Off somewhere?”
“Thought I’d spend my birthday money.” She felt a telltale blush starting, but she had no need to worry, as Harry was already immersed in his paper and munching on a piece of toast. Quietly, she picked up her plate and cup, put them in the sink and started for the stairs.
Harry looked up. “Mmm . . . sorry, dear. Where did you say you were going?”
“Shopping,” she answered shortly.
“Have a nice morning, then,” he said, before sticking his nose back into his paper. “Going to spend my gift on something pretty?” But Margaret could see he didn’t really expect an answer, as he was totally engrossed in the financial section.
• • •
THIS TIME MARGARET was lucky and found a parking place quite close to the office; to her relief, she was five minutes early. She hesitated at the door before pushing it open.
“You’re here. Great!” her new boss greeted her with an affable smile. “I was afraid you’d have second thoughts.”
She shook her head, and slipping her coat off, looked for someplace to hang it.
“Here, give it to me,” Nat said, taking it from her. “You can use this little closet for your things.”
“You know,” Margaret said, “I almost did.”
“Almost did what?”
“Have second thoughts about coming this morning. I don’t know that I’ll be able to handle the job to your satisfaction.”
Nat laughed. “You’ll be fine, “he said. “In fact, you can get the hang of things right away. I have to go out.”
“Go out?” Margaret was horrified at the thought of being left in sole charge. “What will I do if the phone rings or if someone comes in?”
“Don’t worry,” he said as he struggled into his overcoat. “If the phone rings, just take a message. Putter around. You can get acquainted with the office this morning.” Nat opened the door.
“Find out where everything is. In fact, you might as well make a list of the things you’ll need to get us properly organized.”
“But Mr. Southby . . .”
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” he called out as he bounded down the hall to the stairs.
She walked slowly over to the desk and sat down. Then, pulling open the top drawer, she examined the sorry state of accumulated mess. Within minutes she had a pile of candy wrappers, broken pens, pencils and bent paper clips on the desk. Then, with a determined jerk, she yanked the drawer completely out and gave it a bang against the side of the wastepaper basket, making a clean sweep of it.
The telephone rang.
As she reached for the handset, she tried to manoeuvre the drawer back into its slot with the other hand. The drawer jammed. Another push and a sharp jerk sent the telephone flying onto the floor with a crash.
She walked around to the front of the desk and picked it up. “Southby’s Investigations,” she said, trying to sound as if nothing unusual had happened.
There was a slight pause. “Mr. Southby?” a man’s voice asked.
“He’s out. I mean, he’s just left.” Then she remembered. “Can I take a message?”
A scratching noise on the outer door distracted her from the call, and as she turned toward the sound, she watched in fascination as the handle slowly turned. “When will he be in?” the man on the phone persisted.
“I’m . . . uh . . . not sure,” Margaret answered. The door had inched open a little more, and she could now see four gnarled fingers slipping around the edge. “He said about a couple of hours.” The door suddenly flew fully open, and there, clinging to the frame and gasping for breath, was a wizened old man. “You’re sure I can’t take a message?” Margaret added, trying desperately to keep her mind on the man at the other end of the line.
“No. I’ll call back.”
She replaced the receiver and looked enquiringly at the old man.
“Elevator . . . not working,” he wheezed. He tottered over to a chair and sank into it.
“Are you all right?” she asked him. “Can I get you a drink of water?”
“You should get that elevator fixed,” he answered, slowly unwinding a red woollen scarf from his neck. “Those stairs are a killer.” He took off his glasses and wiped them with a grubby handkerchief. “She’s gone again,” he said dabbing his eyes.
“Who’s gone again?”
“My Emily, of course. She left two nights ago,” he answered, blowing his nose loudly into the handkerchief. He then gave his eyes another swipe and stuffed the offensive piece of rag into his overcoat pocket. “I’ve come to get Mr. Southby to find her. Like last time.”
Margaret rummaged through the pile on the desk, looking for a piece of paper and a useable stub of pencil.
“When did you see her last?” she asked, pencil poised over the paper.
“You don’t listen. I told you . . . night before last.”
“Can I have your name, Mr. . . . ?” she asked.
“What for? Southby knows me.”
“But I haven’t had that pleasure,” she answered through gritted teeth. “If you give me your name, I can then pass it on to Mr. Southby when he comes in.”
“Oh, all right. It’s Bradshaw. Ernie Bradshaw,” he answered. “But you’re just wasting time asking all these damn fool questions.”
“Perhaps you could give me a description,” she said as she wrote Missing Person at the top of the piece of paper. “Now, what’s the colour of her hair and eyes? And then perhaps you could tell me her size and anything else that would be helpful in finding her.” She sat back, feeling quite professional for asking such pertinent questions.
“I told you, Southby knows all about . . .” The look on Margaret’s face stopped him short. “Her hair’s white and she’s got sort of blue eyes.” He paused for breath. “And she’s a bit on the heavy side. Should cut her food down.”
“Perhaps she went to visit a friend,” Margaret said slowly. She was puzzling over the bit about cutting down the food.
“She went to the McCreedys’ place awhile ago, but they kicked her out. She wouldn’t go back there.”
“Kicked her out?” Margaret said in a shocked voice. “Why would they do that?”
“You don’t know the McCreedys.”
“Perhaps she’s not very happy?”
“Not happy? My Emily? Of course she’s happy.”
“But if she keeps leaving you . . .” Margaret was beginning to feel out of her depth.
“How can you say she’s not happy?” Mr. Bradshaw’s eyes began to water, and he added in a choked-up voice, “Don’t I give her everything she wants?”
Margaret quickly changed the subject. “Have you thought about giving her a night out?”
“A night out?” The old man looked at her incredulously. “Night out! What would I do that for?”
“Well, if your wife keeps . . .”
“My wife?” he butted in. “What do you mean, my wife?”
“Uh . . . your girlfriend, then?”
“Are you crazy?”
“Who in heaven’s name is Emily, then?” Margaret said in exasperation.
“My cat, of course,” he replied scornfully. “Don’t you know nothing?”
“Your cat!” She suppressed an overwhelming desire to laugh. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bradshaw, but you see, this is my first day, and I don’t know Mr. Southby’s clients yet. Give me your telephone number and I’ll make sure he calls you as soon as he comes in.”
“He’s already got it.” He stood up and rebuttoned his coat. “Just make sure you tell him.” And muttering to himself, he went out.
After the door closed, Margaret put her head down on the typewriter and laughed until tears ran down her face. “A cat!” she spluttered. “My heavens, a cat.”
The urgent ringing of the phone pulled her together.
“Southby’s Investigations.”
“You’re new. Who are you?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“You sure can. First of all, what’s your name?”
“Mrs. Spencer,” she answered stiffly. “And yours is Mr. . . .”
“Well, Mrs. Spencer,” he mimicked her, “give my pal Southby a message. Pink Lady, third, Saturday. Got that?”
“And your name?” she insisted.
“Just tell him Prout called. Prout the Tout—he’ll know.” And he burst into raucous laughter at his own joke.
“I’ll see he gets the message, Mr. Prout,” she said primly after the laughter had subsided.
“You wanna place a bet yourself?”
“No, thank you,” she answered and firmly replaced the receiver.
Margaret got through the rest of the morning with no further distractions. She cleaned out the desk, typed out a list of supplies she would need and made herself a cup of coffee, having found a fairly new and reasonably clean coffee pot and a hot plate under the debris on a small table beside the filing cabinets. Nat returned at twelve o’clock.
“How’s everything?” he asked cheerily. “No problems, I guess, eh?”
“Mr. Southby, do you happen to know a Mr. Bradshaw?”
“Old Ernie. Sure. What’s he want?”
“He’s under the impression that you’ll find a cat for him.”
“Not that blasted cat again!” Nat took his coat off. “This is supposed to be a detective agency, not a lost and found for cats. Anything else?”
“A man called just after you left this morning, but he wouldn’t leave his name. Said he’d call back.”
“Okay. Did you make a list of office supplies?” he asked.
Margaret handed him the list.
“I’m meeting a client for lunch in thirty minutes,” Nat said, looking at his watch. “Why don’t you leave at the same time and slip over to the office supply store across the street. Just bill it.” As Nat reached the doorway, he turned and threw a set of keys to her. “Here, these are for you,” he said.
At twelve-thirty, Margaret knocked on Southby’s office door. “I’m leaving now,” she said.
He opened the door, shrugging into his coat. “See you in the morning,” he said cheerfully.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. Another man called—Prout. Prout the Tout, he said. He told me to tell you Pink Lady, Saturday, third. Does that mean anything to you?”
Nat laughed. “He’s got to be kidding. I wouldn’t touch that nag for all the tea in China.”
• • •
THE NEXT MORNING, as Harry put down his newspaper to butter his toast, he glanced over at Margaret. “I don’t remember seeing that suit before.” Then he frowned. “Are you going out again?”
“I thought I’d go into town since it’s such nice weather,” Margaret answered as she stacked the breakfast dishes. How long will I be able to keep this up?
“It’s unusual for you to go out three days in a row,” he persisted.
“For God’s sake, Harry, what does it matter?” she snapped, but the look on his face made her feel guilty. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m just a bit jumpy lately.”
“What you need is a change,” he said, as he neatly folded his newspaper. “Perhaps I can manage to take a couple of days off when the next long weekend comes around.”
“That would be nice,” she said as she reached for a clean dish-towel and began to wipe the crockery. “We could both do with a change.”
“I’m going, Margaret.” She came out of her reverie to realize that Harry was waiting at the front door for his briefcase. “That’s the second time I’ve called you,” he said in an aggrieved voice, as she dutifully handed it to him.
“Sorry, Harry. My mind was on something else.”
He bent and kissed her proffered cheek. “Shouldn’t be too late tonight,” he said as she closed the door on him.
It only took a few minutes to fly upstairs and straighten the bed. She grabbed her purse and raincoat from where she’d left them on the hall chair, and then practically ran through the front door, slamming it behind her before jumping into her waiting Morris.
That was nice of Harry to leave the garage door open for me, she thought as she backed out of the garage.
• • •
THERE WAS A NEAT PILE of new stationery waiting on her desk, and she was happily putting it away in the clean drawers when Nat Southby came in. “Hope that’s everything you ordered,” he said as he made for his own office.
“Yes, thank you,” she answered, giving him a shy smile.
The phone rang shrilly, punctuating the moment.
“Southby’s Investigations.”
“Did you tell Southby about my Emily gone missing?” She immediately recognized the querulous voice of Ernie Bradshaw.
“Yes, Mr. Bradshaw.”
“You sure you told him? You didn’t forget?”
“No. I didn’t forget. He will call you as soon as he can,” she said firmly as she replaced the phone.
“Who was that on the phone?” Nat asked.
“Mr. Bradshaw. He wanted to make sure I’d told you about his cat.”
“Oh, hell, I guess I’ll have to call Violet.”
“Violet?”
“Violet Larkfield. Loves cats and thinks no one else can take care of them properly, especially Ernie Bradshaw. I expect she’s got Emily again.”
A short while later, Margaret heard Nat on the phone. “Mrs. Larkfield? Nat Southby here . . . Yes, fine, thank you . . . Have you seen old Ernie’s cat lately . . . ? You have, eh . . . ? Come on, Mrs. Larkfield, it could hardly be lost. It only lives a couple of blocks away . . . Yes, okay. Well, would you hang onto it until I can pick it up? Thanks.”
“Margaret,” he called out. “How’d you like to do me a favour and go and pick up that bloody cat from Violet Larkfield’s? Ernie only lives a couple of streets over, but he’s afraid of Violet and won’t go and get the damn thing. It won’t take you too far out of your way. You’ll find both the addresses on file.”
Margaret arose from her desk and walked into Southby’s office. “Mr. Southby,” she said icily, “I was employed to do office work. Do you usually ask your staff to pick up lost cats?”
He looked up at her in surprise and laughed. “Not usually. But this isn’t your usual type of office. Look, I’m sorry, I know it’s a pain, but you’d do me a great favour if you’d pick up the animal, then whip it over to Ernie and collect the usual ten-dollar fee.”
“A ten-dollar fee for returning a cat?” Margaret said indignantly. “Do you mean to say you actually charge the poor old man? That doesn’t seem very honest to me, Mr. Southby.”
“But that’s business, Maggie,” he answered with a grin. “My business, anyway. Hey! That’s it.”
“What’s it?” Margaret asked.
“Your name, of course. Maggie. Much better than Margaret.”
“But I like my name!”
“No. Too elegant for this place. Maggie it is.”
“But . . .”
“So that’s settled then,” Nat said, picking up a sheet of paper. “Call yourself a cab and then leave a bit early, okay?” He picked up some handwritten pages from his desk. “Here, these are some notes to type up on a new client. He phoned yesterday afternoon.”
“It must have been that rather rude man who wouldn’t leave his name,” she answered, taking the pages from him. “And Mr. Southby,” she added, turning to go out of his office, “I have my own car, thank you, and I still don’t think picking up cats should be part of my job.” She closed his door none too gently behind her.
Nat grinned as he made a grab for the pile of papers that tried to take off in the sudden draft. She’ll do, if she sticks around. . . she’ll do just fine.
What cheek! Margaret fumed as she rolled a piece of paper into her typewriter. Picking up stray cats. Who does he think I am? She smoothed out the piece of paper that Nat had given her. He ought to do his own dirty work.
Phillip Collins, she read. Twenty-five foot, four-seater Chris-Craft Sportsman. Name: Seagull, inboard engine, missing five days. Police not informed. WHY NOT? Nat had underlined these two words heavily.
She was inserting the newly typed paper into a buff folder when her boss came out of his office.
“What about a nice cup of coffee?” he asked.
Margaret pushed herself roughly away from her desk.
“No, no. Don’t get up,” he added hurriedly. “I was offering. I’ll get it.”
“Well, thanks,” she replied, relaxing a little. “I could do with one, actually.” She knew he was trying to make up for asking her to get Bradshaw’s cat, and she hid a smile as he busied himself with the coffee pot.
“It’s not that I don’t want to get the cat myself,” he explained as he handed the coffee to her. “It’s just that I’m pushed for time today. I have an appointment with Phillip Collins at eleven, and then I’m having lunch with George Sawasky, my old partner—a business lunch,” he intoned quickly.
“That’s all right, Mr. Southby, I’ll get the cat for you.” Margaret felt that she’d been neatly outmanoeuvred. “Just this once,” she added. She looked at the clock on the wall. “And if you’ve an appointment at eleven with this Mr. Collins, he’s ten minutes late.”
As if on cue, the door opened and a tall, lean and tanned man walked in. Margaret put him in his mid-forties.
“Mr. Collins?” Nat asked, extending his hand. “Won’t you come into my office?” He turned to his new secretary. “Will you please bring your notebook, Maggie.”
“So you’ve had a boat stolen?” Nat said after everyone was seated. “Why not call the police?”
“It’s a bit awkward, Mr. Southby. Not only is my boat missing, but my wife’s young brother has gone missing, too.”
“Do you think he’s taken the boat?”
“I’ve let him use it a couple of times. But he runs around with a rotten bunch.” Collins shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “My wife’s been after me not to bring the police in. At least, not unless we have to.”
“When did you realize the boat and your brother-in-law were missing?” Nat looked up from the piece of paper in front of him, where he’d been doodling kites and cubes.
“Five days ago. Larry had asked if he could borrow it, but I refused. Hed left it in such a mess the previous time, y’see.”
“Where do you keep the boat?”
“At the Osprey Harbour Yacht Club. You must know it, out in West Vancouver.”
“Sure, I’ve heard of it,” Nat replied dryly. “You asked around the club?”
“Naturally,” Collins answered stiffly. “I’m not stupid, Mr. Southby. That’s the first thing I did. No one remembers seeing Larry take off.” He reached inside his jacket and drew out a snapshot. “But you’d hardly expect them to notice, would you? With all the coming and going in a yacht club.” He extended the picture to the detective. “That’s what she looks like.”
The picture showed Collins with a small blond woman, much younger than himself, standing on a dock beside a sleek blue and white runabout. The name Seagull was lettered on her bow.
“She looks very new,” Nat commented.
“She’s a couple of years old, but I take good care of her,” Collins answered. “That’s my wife standing in front of her,” he added, holding out his hand for the picture.
“Could I keep this for awhile?” Nat asked.
Phillip Collins hesitated, and then nodded. “All right, if it will help get her back. That boat’s worth twenty grand.”
“I’d like some more details on your brother-in-law. Address, habits, friends. That kind of thing.”
Collins thought for a short while and then said, “He’s twenty-two, single, has an apartment over in Richmond, and works in a used car lot on No. 3 Road—it’s also in Richmond.”
“Does he live alone?”
“As far as I know,” Collins answered shortly. “I’ll kill that little bugger when I get my hands on him.” He stood up. “Anything else you want to know?”
“Well, give Mrs. Spencer Larry’s full address and place of work, where you work and a telephone number where we can reach you.” Nat stood up. “I’ll also need the boat’s registration number and berth number at the club. Then I’ll start making enquiries and get back to you as soon as possible.”
“Do you think it will be necessary to bring the police into this, Mr. Southby?” Collins asked.
“We’ll be as discreet as possible. I was on the force myself, and I know my way around without making too many waves.” Nat shook hands and nodded toward Margaret. “Now if you’d just be good enough to give my secretary here all the details, we’ll get on it.”
Collins followed her out of Southby’s office, and a short time later the outside door closed with a click. Nat opened his own door, and crossing Margaret’s office to look out of the window, he gave a low whistle.
“Wow,” he said softly. “Would you look at that baby.”
She joined him at the window and looked down to the street below. Collins was slipping behind the wheel of a silver-grey Jaguar. “All that on soap!” she said incredulously. “Imagine that.”
“Soap?” Nat asked, mystified. “What do you mean, soap?”
“Oh, didn’t you know?” she replied with an impudent grin. “The Sudsy Specialty Soaps Company. They sell all kinds of cleaning materials as well as soap.”
“Never heard of it,” her boss replied.
“I received a gift package of their products through the mail once. It’s surprising how very good it is.”
“See how useful you are already?” Nat said with a grin. “You got all that valuable information about a client without me having to say a word.”
“His father actually owns the company. Phillip Collins is the vice-president,” she added.
“And how did you deduce that piece of information?”
“He gave me this,” she answered with a laugh, and handed him a black-and-gold embossed business card.
Instead of being peeved at Margaret’s little joke, Nat seemed pleased by it. “I knew I was doing the right thing in hiring you,” he said, grinning.