Chapter 4 Chapter Four

"The drawings were not taken out of the corridor, but were hidden somewhere in the office." "How many offices can be used to hide blueprints?" She said: "I've been thinking about it. There's a chain of offices, each with interconnecting doors, and there's a corridor that runs through all the offices. But the thing is, Mr. Leith, no one walks down the corridor. , and no one came across the corridor. Paxon stood there with his gun. If he saw anything unusual, he would have shot at it—if anyone had run away." "So, does that mean the drawings must be hidden somewhere in that row of offices facing the street?" asked Leith.

"yes." Leith made a sweeping gesture across the photo and said, "Just within the area covered by this photo." "That's right." Leith tapped a point on the photo with the tip of his pencil: "Who is this?" Frowning, she said, "Let me take a look with a magnifying glass, it's kind of fuzzy." Leith handed her the magnifying glass. "Oh, yes. That's Tarver Slade. He came to look at our accounts four or five days ago." "Is it the auditor?" Leith asked. "Oh, no. He's just a tax collector from the state who comes in for regular audits. People don't pay much attention to these tax collectors, they're horribly cruel, and make you stop everything for a little thing to explain. If we took them seriously, we wouldn't be able to get anything done. Now we just give them an office and let them go."

Lester Leith said; "The man appears to be wearing a coat." "Yes, I've noticed if it's a little bit cold. He puts on a coat whenever he goes out. I guess he has rheumatism, sometimes he walks with a noticeable limp and then seems to be all right again." Lester Leith took out his notebook and made some simple records. "Just getting the names of these people down," he explained. "Hey, can you provide me with the names of some more people in the pictures?" With Leith's pencil in hand, Bernice Lamen checked and ticked off the faces that appeared in the window.There were only four or five people with their heads down, looking at the sidewalk below, she couldn't make out.

Lester Leith quickly put the enlarged photograph back in his suitcase. "Thank you very much, Miss Lamen. I think I've got a good creative angle for my article titled 'What it's like to throw a fur shawl through a window.'" "Mr. Leith," said Millicent Foster, "please stop running around with us. What are you doing?" "Hi, I'm writing a story with a human touch." "Who would believe that someone would spend so much money to gather material and not know whether the story will sell?" Leith smiled. Bernice Lamen said: "I will be very interested in this report, I think the photos are amazing."

"Really?" Leith said with interest. "It should. I paid $75 for it." Millicent said, "Goodbye—may I call you Santa Claus?" Leith's hand stopped on the doorknob. "You can check your socks," he said, quietly leaving the apartment. Lester Leith opened the door of the penthouse and said, "Move over here, guys." The surprised undercover looked up and saw many people, probably taxi drivers, carrying various things, including a desk, a swivel chair, a typewriter, a filing cabinet, a wastebasket, and a stationery box. cabinet. "Beaver," said Lester Leith, "move the chair out of that corner, please. All right, fellas, put these right there—the desk is in the corner, and the typewriter is on the table. , the wastebasket on one side of the table, and the swivel chair, of course, right next to the table."

The valet stared at the strange procession, which was marching across the thick carpet of the apartment like an army.When they were gone, he got to work around the house, dusting the furniture. "Are you going to hire a secretary?" he asked. Lester Leith eyed him reproachfully. "Beaver, I want to work." "Want to work?" "Yes, I'm going to write some stories to explain the hidden meaning of things. I'm going to fight to get ahead." "Yes, sir. Could it be a novel, sir?" "Not fiction, Beaver. I'm going to describe events vividly. Like, what was it like to throw $350 out a window?"

"I sure don't know, sir." "But you'd find it interesting to discover what it's like, wouldn't you?" "Oh, sir—ah, er—of course, if you say so, sir. Yes, sir." "Exactly," Leith said, "a woman threw a $350 fur shawl through a window today. What did it feel like? How did she feel? She's already confided in me , I will write them while the iron is hot. Beaver, the words will flow from my fingertips to the paper. This thing will be passed down for generations." Lester Leith took off his coat at once and handed it to the footman: "Hang it up, Beaver."

Leith jerked his chair out, sat down by the typewriter, and added a sheet of paper to the drum. "May I ask why a taxi was used to deliver these things?" asked the undercover agent, his last attempt at intelligence. Without looking up, Leith said, "Don't bother me, Beaver. I'm concentrating on--taxi delivery--oh, of course, I've got to go downtown and buy these cheap things , because the rest of the stores were closed. These small places don't do home delivery, so I called 6 taxis - mighty, Beaver. Well, let me think about it, how do I start? I want to use First person. Ah, there it is! I have a title: 'Toss the money,' from Winnie Gale, paraphrased by Lester Leith."

Lester Leith laboriously typed out a title and a byline on the typewriter, then pushed back his chair to stare at the blank sheet of paper: "Geez, I need a beginning. Let me see—'I never Fur stoles thrown in the window'. No, that doesn't sound right, I want to make it more dramatic. Now let me see--' I tried on the fur stole that the saleswoman handed me. It fit perfectly I love the soft, smooth fur. Then I throw it out the window'." Lester Leith tilted his head to the side, studying the expression of the footman: "How does that sound, Beaver?" "Very good, sir."

"That's not what your face says, Beaver. No enthusiasm at all." "Yes, sir. That sounds awful, if you will allow me, sir." "Yes," admitted Lester Leith, "it should have been better." He moved his chair back, put his thumbs in the cuffs of his vest, stared at the keys of the typewriter for a few minutes, then stood up and paced the floor: "Beaver, how on earth do writers get Inspired?" "I don't know, sir." "When I think about it in general terms, it seems so easy, but once it's concrete... I can't simply say, 'I'll throw it out the window.' But I don't know what else to say, Hey, Beaver, I'm going to start. I seem to have read somewhere that successful writers don't simply sit down and whip up a story. They work hard, constantly Revise, carefully word and sentence."

"Yes, sir." "Then," went on Lester Leith, "I'm going to try to find a new angle." Leith sat back at the typewriter and went to work again.The undercover waited obsequiously behind Leith. "You don't have to stay up all night, Beaver, I might have to keep working." "Shall I get you something, scotch and soda or—" "No, Beaver, I'm working." "All right, sir. If you don't mind, I'd like to go for a walk and get some fresh air." "No problem, Beaver, go." Leith said without looking up.