8

“Mail call,” Kek said, and closed the apartment door behind him.

“Oh?” Lisa looked up. “From whom?”

“Waldeck, of course.” Kek slit open the envelope and dropped into a chair.

“For which company?”

“International Farm Equipment.” He glanced up at her. “Jack Gleba, secretary-treasurer.”

“I know. Pocatello, Idaho. Silos.” She wrinkled her nose. “Gleba. That’s an ugly name.”

“He’s an ugly fellow,” Kek said, and read into the letter. He finished it, folded it, and grinned. “Amazing. By pure coincidence, my letter offering our services for silos came just when he had an inquiry for a large number of the same. Interesting, eh?”

“Quite,” Lisa said, and swung her feet from the sofa. “Do we answer him at once?”

“Softly, my little one,” Kek said, and smiled. “Also, slowly. We shall answer him when we know what to answer him with. Tomorrow I shall discover what a silo is, after which we shall indeed answer him.”

Lisa frowned. “Why tomorrow? It’s early today.”

“Because I’m tired today.”

Lisa pointed to the door. “Today, darling. Time is passing.”

Kek looked her in the eye a moment and then sighed. “Today,” he said sadly, and marched out of the apartment again, picking his coat up on the way.

Kek Huuygens slowly climbed the steps of the New York Public Library, checked his hat and coat, and took the elevator to the reference room on the third floor. He was tired; he had had a busy day chasing between five different district post offices—for each company had its box in a different one, since Huuygens saw no purpose in taking on unnecessary risks of being seen removing mail from two boxes in the same post office.

He yawned and moved to the shelf containing the Encyclopaedia Britannica, bent over and selected Volume 20, SCHÜTZ to SPEKE, and carried it to one of the empty tables. Lisa, he thought, might know a lot about farming in general, but her specific knowledge of any particular piece of equipment was about on a par with his. She could tell a cow from a pig.

He seated himself and opened the thick book, riffling through it until he had his subject neatly bracketed somewhere between SHILOH and SIAM, after which he continued to whittle away at the difference until he finally located it between SILLAMITE and SILURIAN SYSTEM. It read (in its entirety) SILO: see Ensilage.

With a massive sigh at the work involved in making a million dollars, he replaced the tome and ran his eyes down the line, eventually selecting Volume 6, COCKER to DAIS, and carrying it back to the table. Unfortunately, Volume 6 ran out of words before coming to the letter E, and with clenched jaw and a dangerous look in his flinty gray eyes, he returned once again to the shelf. This time he was more careful and selected the proper Volume 8, EDWARD to EXTRACT, and managed at long last to locate ENSILAGE.

The information covered well over a page and he bent over it studiously, reading it carefully. When he had finished he had learned a great deal about the basic principles of the preservation of green fodder in a suitable container by the process of controlled fermentation, its history and its chemistry, but he hadn’t learned the first thing about silos. He was about to slam the book shut in frustration when he noticed the last line of the article. This read succinctly: See also Crop-Drying and Processing; Crop-Processing Machinery; Feeds; Animals.

Well, he thought, that sounds more like it. He rose wearily, almost like an automaton, and carried the book back, convinced that each volume weighed more than the last. He slipped it into place and extracted Volume 6 again, COCKER to DAIS. One more round of this, he swore to himself, and the International Farm Equipment Company is going to change its production line process from SILOS to CARBINES, something he knew quite a lot about. And the first one off the line goes for the idiot who cross-indexed the Encyclopaedia Britannica!

CROP-DRYING AND PROCESSING, and CROP-PROCESSING MACHINERY were, fortunately, separated only by CROP INSURANCE, and this only took a line (which said see Casualty Insurance). It was therefore only a matter of reading the section heads of the two articles to locate his subject. He went through the Crop-Drying in a hurry, jumped the Insurance, and started on Machinery. He passed the Threshers and suddenly found himself looking at Silo Fillers (Ensilage Cutters). He had a cold feeling he was wasting his time, but he plowed through it anyway, learning little new about ensilage, and not a thing about silos. Controlling himself, he continued, past Chaff-Cutters, Baling Presses, Husker-Shredders, Mills, Poultry Feeders, all the way to Root Pulpers. Nowhere were silos mentioned. If I throw the book across the room, he said to himself, I’ll be banished from the library, and that will either mean buying my own set of this jigsaw puzzle Britannica, or giving up the program altogether. Let’s go through this again and see if we missed something. And he found that he had, indeed. This was a small note implanted in the middle of nowhere that read: See also Farm Buildings; Farm Machinery; Rural Electrification.

There was, of course, a chance that a Silo could be considered a Farm Building, but if so, how had the indexers of the Encyclopaedia slipped up and allowed him to locate it? In any event, he thought, we’re in this far we might as well go on. By this time the idiocy of his quest had passed the point of irritation. He grinned and went back to fetch Volume 9, EXTRADITION to GARRICK.

The indexers had, indeed, badly erred, because here, at long last, he found what he was looking for under FARM BUILDINGS—Crop Storage. Putting the past aside at once, as was his ingrained habit, he dug a pad of paper from one pocket, a pencil from another, and started scribbling, copying the information he required …

“Take a letter, darling?”

Lisa pouted. “I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“You made me waste yesterday afternoon getting the information on the basis that time was vital. It’s no less vital now.” He smiled at her cheerfully. “A letter, please.”

“All right.” She moved to the desk and brought back her pad and pencil. “To Waldeck, of course, and from that ugly man Gleba, no doubt.”

“None. Say: dear sir, etcetera, yours of the such-and-such, and then get into the meat. We can make the delivery they want, and will send catalogs as soon as a new batch is ready. We can furnish silos in heights from thirty to fifty feet, in diameters from ten to eighteen feet …”

He kept speaking at an even keel, seldom having to refer to his notes, the facts engraven on his memory. He covered the means of calculating volume in tons of silage, mentioned the airtight features of the International silos, the power-operated bottom-unloaders, and the various types of metals in which they could be furnished. Lisa’s pencil kept up with him. When he had finished she got up without a word, marched to the typewriter, and inserting paper, began banging keys.

She ripped the final page from the machine some fifteen minutes later, reread it for accuracy, and then stared up at Kek.

“Is the slightest bit of this nonsense true?”

Kek looked at her in mock amazement. “This from you? The original farm girl from Maastricht? Who suggested silos—prefabricated—in the first place? My sweet Lisa, every word is the Gospel according to St. Britannica.” He paused a moment, thinking. “Do you know, when this is over, I think I’ll get five acres somewhere and we can make a fortune. Between what you think you know, and what I am quickly learning, there should be no stopping us.” He grinned down at her affectionately.

“You, my darling,” Lisa said calmly, “are an unspeakable cad, and deserve to be maritally punished.” She smiled. “However, I don’t think that would quite be the answer. I will say, though, that if I didn’t have a stake in this little affair, I’d let you do your own typing.”

“Rather than that, I’ll give up the idea of our farm,” Kek said magnanimously, and then frowned in thought. “I’ll still be far too young to retire, though …” He smiled. “I know. I’ll hire out as a guide in the reference room of the public library. I’ll charge people by the hour to lead them through the maze of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. There has to be money in an idea like that.”

He glanced at his watch. “Well, Mrs. Huuygens, it’s been a real pleasure, but I really must run.”

Lisa stared at him. “But what about lunch? For once I cooked something, and it won’t keep until dinner. And besides, I want to eat dinner out.”

Huuygens waved away lunch with a light, carefree gesture.

“Banks, you know, wait for no man, even as catalog printers seem only to wait. Remember, ‘Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of.’”

“Very good!” Lisa said, and clapped her hands.

“Next time I meet Benjamin Franklin, I shall pass along your compliments.” He walked over and picked up his hat and coat, and bent to kiss Lisa fondly. “Until later, sweet.”

“Wait.” Lisa put aside her mystification at the thought of someone being able to miss a meal. “If you have the time, stop in at the library, too. Will you?”

“Again?” Kek asked aggrievedly, and pulled on his coat.

“Well,” Lisa said with a certain amount of logic, “now that you’ve finally learned the secret of the Encyclopaedia Britannica code, it seems a shame not to take advantage of it. There’s still the matter of the combines, you know—”

“Which is pointless until I can get that blasted printer to finish those blasted catalogs!”

“And you will be seeing that blasted printer today, so you really should have your accompanying letter already written. We don’t want to squander time, do we, darling?”

Huuygens sighed, ran his hand through his unruly mop of hair in desperation, almost as if he would have liked to tear at it, and then managed to refrain by jamming his hat into place.

“My dear Lisa,” he said sincerely, “my considered advice to you is to drop your English lessons immediately. If I weren’t fluent in the damned language, I could forget the library today. I’m tired. I could finish my business at the banks and the printers in a relatively short time, and come home and spend the afternoon resting.” He winked at her. “Probably in bed.”

Lisa grinned at him wickedly and nodded agreement.

“You probably could at that,” she said, “but you do speak the language fluently, so today it will be the public library and combines. Good-bye, darling.” She turned back to the typewriter.

And that’s your opinion, Kek thought. He looked at the fullness of her bosom, profiled tightly in the sweater she was wearing, and smiled. The banks I’ll concede, and even the printers, but today, Josephine, the library waits …

From the inside of the heated lobby in the office building diagonally across Lexington Avenue from the Battery Bank Building, Huuygens was able to maintain a view of the interior of the bustling organization’s first floor through the wide glass windows, without either being conspicuous or freezing to death. The rank of elevators servicing the floor on which Mr. Fairbanks worked was clearly visible in one corner of the room, and he calculated that if Mr. Fairbanks kept to the same schedule as Mr. Foster of the Argonaut Bank, or even Mr. Zak of the North River Trust, he would be coming down for lunch at any minute.

There was always the possibility, he realized, that Mr. Fairbanks might be the type to bring a sandwich, an apple, and a thermos of skim milk from home each day in his attaché case, but Kek sincerely hoped not. In any event, he decided to give himself until one o’clock before leaving for the first printer, a man whose shop was relatively close by.

The light snow that had begun the dull morning was now coming down in huge, driving flakes from a sky weirdly darkened at that early hour; passers by in the street staggered against the growing wind, heads bent, buried in raised coat collars. Kek was afraid he might miss his man in the poor visibility; although he disliked doing it, it became apparent he would have to await Mr. Fairbanks in the Battery Bank itself. With a shake of his head at the weather, he left his refuge, crossed the street, and walked toward the bank. Even as he pushed through the glass doors he saw the elevator door slide back and Mr. Fairbanks emerge with several others, all garbed to face the cold weather outside. Kek turned in that direction, carelessly not watching where he was going, and happened by pure chance to allow himself to be rather rudely bumped into by Mr. Fairbanks as he turned from his companion.

“I beg your pardon,” Mr. Fairbanks said, startled, and then paused in surprise. “Mr. Vrebal! How have you been?”

“Mr. Fairbanks! Fine. And how have you been?” Kek smiled and held up a gloved finger in admonition. “But Mr. Vrebal was my father, remember? I was supposed to be Jan.”

“So it was. And so it is. Jan!” Mr. Fairbanks laughed and took Huuygens by the elbow. “I’m glad to see you. Are you finished with your business here at the bank?”

“As a matter of fact,” Kek said with a smile, “I was coming to visit you.”

“Well! In that case how about joining me for lunch? I usually eat at the Banker’s Club with a few friends.”

Kek laughed. “I’m afraid I’ve never gotten used to your New York hours. I had my lunch well over an hour ago. And I have an appointment in another half hour, so I’m afraid I’ll have to beg off.” An alternate possibility occurred to him. “But I do have time for a drink. There’s a restaurant just at the corner. We can have one at the bar—if bankers drink, that is.”

“Oh, we do on occasion,” Mr. Fairbanks said lightly, but there was such a fervent look on his face that Kek was suddenly convinced that if the drawers of the vice-president’s wide desk held nothing more liquid than mere assets, it was only due to stringent regulations.

The two men shoved their way into the street, fought against the wind to the corner, and gratefully found the shelter of the restaurant. They refused the checkroom’s request for their coats, and sat down at the bar, setting their hats on an empty stool to one side and unbuttoning their coats. Huuygens ordered a dry martini, while Mr. Fairbanks settled for a Scotch on the rocks with a lemon twist. They waited until their drinks came, at which time Mr. Fairbanks raised his with a hurried “Cheers,” and took half of it in a gulp. Banking, Kek imagined, probably could be a harrowing chore at times, although he suspected Mr. Fairbanks would respond much the same were he a librarian by profession.

Mr. Fairbanks set his glass down, sighed at the relief it had afforded him, and turned to his younger companion, smiling at him congenially.

“Well, now, Jan. What can I do for you?”

Kek sipped his drink and placed the glass back on the bar, staring into the almost-colorless liquid for several moments. His eyes came up to the kindly face of Mr. Fairbanks. “What do you hear from your friend John Leeds?”

Mr. Fairbanks’ face fell. “I guess I’m getting old. Johnny’s been dead six years, at least. I sort of forgot, I guess.” He drew what comfort he could by completing his drink with one swallow and tapping politely on the bar with his empty glass to attract the bartender’s attention. “Least we can do is drink to the old son-of-a-bitch.”

He took his renewed glass, raised it in memory to the departed Mr. Leeds, drank a goodly portion, and brought his eyes back to Kek.

“Well,” he said briskly, “that’s that! What else is new?”

Kek wondered if perhaps his selection of the bar as a place for discussion might not have been an error, but at least the worry about Mr. Leeds had been dissipated.

“Well,” he said at last, speaking slowly, “we’ve done a bit of business out of our New York office since I established it—which was about the first time I saw you. And the last time, too, now that I think about it. Some of it has been in the Virgin Islands—St. Croix, mainly—and a fair amount in Puerto Rico. But we haven’t done any real export in the sense that we’ve had to deal with licenses and things of that nature. For all intents and purposes, all of our business has been within United States territory.”

He paused to sip his drink. Mr. Fairbanks followed suit hastily, as if not wanting to be outmatched. He tapped the bar again, glancing at his companion questioningly. Kek smiled at him and shook his head politely.

“Now,” he said, “I’m in correspondence with a firm in Belgium—they’re called Waldeck Imports—and they are talking about a fairly large order by our standards.” He saw the sudden light in Mr. Fairbanks’ eyes, properly interpreted it, and raised a hand.

“No, no,” he went on with a smile. “We’re fully capable of financing the business; that’s not my problem. My problem is, frankly, that I don’t know the first thing about export regulations, licenses, or things of that nature. To be honest, I don’t even know anything about export packing. And I thought that possibly you, or someone at the bank, could enlighten me.”

Mr. Fairbanks’ third drink came. He tackled this one with a little less appearance of urgency—at least outwardly—and turned to face his young friend.

“My dear Jan,” he said in an almost fatherly tone, “I should be most happy to. As a matter of fact, we have an export department that deals with precisely these matters and nothing else. Any day you wish—or even later this afternoon, if you care to make it—I can take you up there and introduce you to the vice-president in charge of it. His name is Tim Brennan, and he’s a very close friend of mine. He can tell you anything you want to know.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“But actually,” Mr. Fairbanks continued, as if Kek had not spoken, “there really isn’t very much for you to know or to worry about. It’s the poor bastard importing the stuff who has to fill out all the millions of forms and satisfy the thousands of agencies and fight with the banks at his end. All you have to do is hope the son-of-a-bitch is successful.”

He smiled gently, burped politely, and finished his drink. Kek hurriedly completed his martini and climbed down from his stool. He had completed his mission and had no intention of having to chaperone a drunken banker to his club or anywhere else. He need not have worried. Years of practice had given Mr. Fairbanks an ultimate resistance to alcohol far in excess of what his language might have indicated.

“Well,” Kek said, “I really must go. Bartender, the check?”

“No, no!” Mr. Fairbanks insisted. “I have an account here; I’ll sign. And it’s on the bank, in any event. Expense account, you know. Client, and all of that.”

Kek smiled at him. “Our company has an expense account setup, too, you know. Also deductible for business purposes.”

“But they argue less with banks, my boy. Believe me. They examine us closer—and a lot more frequently—but they argue with us less. About expense accounts, that is.” Mr. Fairbanks smiled faintly. “It’s the least of their worries as far as we are concerned, I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“In that case, sir, thank you very much. And I’ll drop by, probably tomorrow morning if it’s convenient, and meet your Mr. Brennan.”

“Anytime, my boy; anytime. Always welcome.” Fairbanks looked about the small restaurant, got to his feet and began peeling off his coat. “Think I’ll eat right here. Nasty day out. Club’s dull anyway. Pity you can’t join me.” He handed his coat to the cloakroom attendant who had appeared at his elbow, and then handed her his hat. He smiled at Kek. “See you tomorrow, then, Jan.”

“Good-bye, then, sir,” Kek said, but the old gentleman was no longer paying attention. He was already tapping his glass on top of the bar, a bit less politely this time.

It may have been the healing effects of warm food, or possibly a constitution accustomed through the years to Mr. Fairbanks’ normal luncheon routine, but the fact remains that the old gentleman returned to his office an hour later with bright eye and firm step. He nodded politely to the other occupants of the elevator, got off at his proper floor, and walked steadily down the corridor to his office. He hung his outer garments in the usual closet and immediately rang for his secretary. She appeared even as he was seating himself.

“Yes, Mr. Fairbanks?”

“Two things, Gloria.” His voice was sharp, executive; normal for him. “First—and immediately—I want to see the records of one of our commercial accounts, the Washington Harvester Company. We carry their New York office; it’s a relatively new account. Have young Clark bring it up; it’s in his department.”

“Yes, sir.” The flying pencil stopped as soon as he did; he glanced at her approvingly.

“Then I shall need a report on a company called Waldeck Imports. They’re in Brussels. Check the Foreign Department, and if they don’t have anything, cable our corresponding bank there—no, on second thought, call them on the telephone.” He glanced at his watch. “There’s a five-hour difference but you can call them. Stupid bastards work half the night over there. It’s the Banque Laeken, and the Foreign Department can give you their number. The man you want to speak to is Dr. Grimm. That’s right, like the fairy tales. I want to know if this Waldeck Imports is solid, how their credit is, how long they’ve been in business, their financial position, etc., etc. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. Is that all?”

“That’s it. But I want an answer from Brussels this afternoon.”

“Yes, sir.” The door closed behind her.

He drummed his fingers impatiently as he waited for Clark to appear, and sat up quickly when, in a short while, there was a knock on the door. The door immediately opened and young Clark appeared, holding a folder. He walked over and placed it before his elderly superior.

“Washington Harvester, sir.”

“Ah! Stick around,” Mr. Fairbanks said, and opened the folder. He took out the summary sheet of the running account record and studied it intently for several minutes, his white bushy eyebrows going up and down. “Hmmm. Very active … remarkably active for so short a time …” He seemed to be speaking to himself in a low murmur. “Hmmm. Looks like young Jan is doing quite a job for himself … and for his family, of course … Which comes as no great surprise to me …”

“Sir?”

“Nothing.” Mr. Fairbanks looked up. “I merely said, it seems to be quite an active account.” The uncertain look on Clark’s face remained. “Many deposits and withdrawals, Clark, that is.” Mr. Fairbanks made no attempt to hide the sarcasm.

Clark moved around the desk, peering at the sheet over the other’s shoulder.

“But their account is very low now, sir,” he said, as if justifying his uncertainty. “Under thirty thousand.”

Mr. Fairbanks cast his eyes ceilingward and sighed, a gesture neither lost on the young Clark nor intended to be.

“Of course it’s low,” he said patiently. “But you’ll note it’s been as high as three hundred eighty thousand at one time. It fluctuates; it’s active. Which is what I said. Any sensible businessman uses his money; he doesn’t let it sit around in a checking account without interest for some bank to use and make money on.” He closed the folder and handed it over. “That’s all, Clark. Thank you.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door closed behind the dispirited young man and Mr. Fairbanks’ fingers resumed their drumming. Clark would learn nothing about banking if he remained in the field for years. A shame, too, Mr. Fairbanks thought. Mr. Clark’s father was one of Mr. Fairbanks’ closest friends. The door opened in the middle of his thoughts on the matter, revealing his secretary.

“Yes, Gloria?”

“It’s about this Waldeck Imports, sir. It won’t be necessary to telephone to Dr. Grimm at the Banque Laeken. Our Foreign Department has a very large file on the company, sir.”

“Ah?” Mr. Fairbanks sat more erect in his swivel chair, his eyes watching his secretary’s face sharply.

“Yes, sir.” She referred to her neat notes for accuracy. “It is one of the oldest active import companies in Belgium. It has an excellent reputation. Its financial position is unquestioned. It has done a lot of business with America in the past—before the war, that is—some of which (but not much) was handled through our bank. However, this has dropped off considerably of late. No false interpretation should be given this fact, though. It is considered to be the effects of the war, even three years afterward, and even more due to the recent death of the founder. The son, however, has taken over and is running the company now. There seems little doubt but that they will begin to increase their dealings with America soon.” She looked up. “That’s what Mr. Latham in Foreign said, sir. Verbatim.”

“Ah! Good!” Mr. Fairbanks beamed.

“Is that all, sir?”

“For now, Gloria. And thank you very much.”

He leaned back in his chair as the door closed behind his secretary. He tented his fingers, a smile of contentment on his face. He was happy that his young friend Jan was not dealing with some unknown, or fly-by-night import firm in Europe; he was sure many unscrupulous ones had sprung up following the holocaust of the war. Young Jan was certainly enthusiastic and a go-getter, but sometimes these young lads who were so full of piss and vinegar had a tendency to go off half-cocked, and he didn’t want to see it happen to his young friend Jan Vrebal. But it appeared that this time, at least, the lad had come down feet first; certainly Waldeck Imports had as good a recommendation as any he had heard in a long time. And Latham in Foreign didn’t strew roses as a general rule. He usually acted as if the money involved were his own.

Mr. Fairbanks’ smile deepened. When young Jan appeared the next day, and he took him up to meet Tim Brennan in Export, he would also be able to give him the good news on Waldeck Imports. And, if the lad showed up around twelve thirty or one, possibly they might even have lunch together. At the same restaurant on the corner; to hell with the Club. The bartender at the restaurant knew how to pour a decent-sized whiskey-on-the-rocks …

A pity old Johnny Leeds had died; it would have been interesting to get Johnny’s opinion of the Washington Harvester boys—he undoubtedly would have known them. Still, Johnny had had a son, hadn’t he? He might be able to remember the family. Might even have gone to school with Jan as a matter of fact. The boys would have been about the same age …