"020 (B026) - Death in Silver (1934-10) - Lester Dent" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

These signs should have told an experienced observer that the man was worried and scared. But there were no experienced observers among the stenographers and clerks in the office of Seven Seas, so the glances they gave the tall man were merely the boot-licking smiles of employees who had about as much spirit as rabbits.



A person with spunk did not work long with Seven Seas, because Paine L. Winthrop, the owner, was a cold-blooded driver of the old school, an industrial emperor who looked upon those under him as vassals. Had Paine L. Winthrop lived a hundred years earlier, he would have kept a retinue of slaves - and beaten them often.



Maybe Clarence Sparks had an inkling that something was awry. Clarence was a billing clerk for Seven Seas, which operated transatlantic freight boats and had no connection with Winthrop's Shipyards, which was also controlled by Paine L. Winthrop, and which built freight steamers. Clarence was a rabbit, like the rest of those who worked for Seven Seas. But Clarence also had sharp wits.



"Good afternoon, Commodore Winthrop," said Clarence.



Winthrop's only claim to the designation of commodore was that he held such an office in an exclusive yacht club, but he liked the title and the canny Clarence knew it.



Winthrop seemed not to hear. He walked stiffly, mechanically, from the corridor door to his private office, and his face was rigid, his eyes busy, his hands hard and gray.



"The old wolf!" grunted Clarence. "Some day somebody is going to give Winthrop what he has coming to him."



Clarence was a prophet, a great deal more of a prophet than he knew.



Paine L. Winthrop entered his office, turned the key in the door, then tried the knob to make sure it was locked. He stuffed a corner of a silk handkerchief into the keyhole, using a match for the purpose. He pulled off his topcoat and laid it along the bottom of the door. After these two precautions, he seemed to feel that no one would eavesdrop.



Striding stiffly to the window, he looked down at the street, forty floors below. Pedestrians there resembled ants. Paine L. Winthrop ordinarily got a thrill out of the view, because he liked to think of other people as ants. But now the view made him shiver.



One of New York's frequent fogs was mushroomed over the city, especially thick out over the near-by East River, but less dense here in the Wall Street sector. Winthrop shivered again and jerked a cord which closed the slats of the Venetian blind.



Seating himself at his desk, be hugged a telephone close and dialed with a trembling forefinger. He missed his number the first time, through nervousness, but got it on the second attempt.



Before speaking, he drew out a costly watch and noted that it lacked only a few minutes of being four in the afternoon. Evidently he recognized the voice which answered at the other end of the wire, for no names were exchanged.