“And,” she said, catching on, “they’re dear girls, but they wouldn’t know a polymer chain from a chain reaction.”
“Exactly.”
And that should do it, he thought, putting the receiver down again. Just get the filing cabinet back to County Services, guys! It’s a myth that big men are slow, but here’s hoping I caught Mr. Ted Kelly on the wrong size-seventeen. By the time he remembers that he could snatch it en route, he’ll be too late. I hope the cabinet doesn’t do my Fairlane’s backseat much harm.
They looked like ordinary offices. Carmine walked from room to room noting the usual paraphernalia: desks, chairs, typewriters, telex and Xerox machines, calculators. Then, fascinated, he found two small rooms whose desks were filled by massive consoles he recognized only because sometimes he was called upon to visit Chubb’s computers, rented out to firms and institutions when Chubb didn’t need them. These were just such computer terminals, so somewhere in the bowels of the building there existed an arctically air-conditioned vault occupied by the computers themselves. It made sense that Cornucopia would have its own computer banks.
The police rope was confined to Desmond Skeps’s properly walled domain only, about half the space the floor offered. On the far side of his wall were more offices that continued to function, and in less salubrious surroundings. Grey panels fenced people off into cubicles about chest-high, obliging each denizen to stand up to see out and about. Today there was a lot of standing up; nerves, probably. In the far corner he found a larger office, fully enclosed, that bore a sign saying it was the lair of one M. D. Sykes. When he opened the door he discovered a small, middle-aged man behind a desk that dwarfed him.
“Captain Carmine Delmonico, Holloman Police. What does the M.D. stand for, sir, and what’s your function?”
Terrified, the little fellow rose to his feet, fell back again, gulped and swallowed. “Michael Donald Sykes,” he said, squeaking. “I’m the general manager of Cornucopia Central.”
“Which is?”
“The central firm, Captain. The one that oversees all the other Cornucopia firms. They are its subsidiaries,” said Mr. Sykes, finding courage.
“I see. Does that mean that, for example, Landmark Machines doesn’t own itself? That Cornucopia owns it?”
“Yes, it does. No Cornucopia firm has much autonomy.”
“So you’re in charge, now that Mr. Skeps is dead?”
The round face screwed up as if about to burst into tears. “Oh, no, Captain, no! I occupy a limbo somewhere between middle and top management. Mr. Philip Smith is senior vice-president and a nominal managing director. I imagine that he will assume command.”
“Then where do I find Mr. Philip Smith?”
“One floor down. His office is directly under Mr. Skeps’s—the view, you understand.”
“Plus the key to the executive washroom?”
“Mr. Smith has his own washroom.”
Wow! said Carmine, but silently. He took the elevator down a floor, followed the signs and was intercepted by an elderly, beautifully dressed woman who looked him up and down as if he’d come about the janitor’s job before she reluctantly agreed that he could see Mr. Smith.
His office had that same wonderful two-sided view, but no telescope. Philip Smith himself was tall and suave, immaculately tailored in grey silk, and sported a tie Carmine had heard about but never seen: the pure silk, handmade version of the Chubb produced by an Italian designer. His shirt was French cuffed, his links understated solid gold, and his shoes handmade in St. James’s, London. He was fair and handsome, spoke with a Philadelphia Main Line drawl, and had grey eyes that perpetually hunted for a mirror in which to see himself.
“Terrible, just awful!” he said to Carmine, offering him a cigar. When Carmine declined, he offered coffee and was accepted.
“How much of a real difference does the death of Mr. Skeps make to the operation of Cornucopia?” Carmine asked.
It wasn’t a question Smith had expected; he blinked, had to stop to formulate his answer. “Actually, not a lot,” he said finally. “The day-to-day functioning of the various Cornucopia companies is left to their own management teams. Cornucopia Central is a little like the father of a large brood of children—it does all the things kids can’t do for themselves.”
You condescending prick, thought Carmine, face politely interested. I should pay you back for that with a couple of hours in a County Services interrogation room, but you’re small potatoes in spite of the wardrobe, Mr. Smith.
The coffee arrived, and gave Smith a breathing space while the snooty secretary poured—heaven forbid he should pour a cup for himself!