Lively Game of Death (12 page)

Scott stared at his brother-in-law, and Harrison looked extremely unhappy. “You mean,” he almost whispered, “Tom stole the key off my desk?”

“Possibly. But the question is, would Lasker have held on to it? What if you’d given the alarm and the building was searched?”

“Which is what you should have done!” Scott snapped at Harrison.

“Instead,” continued Hilary, “Abel chose to borrow a key from somebody and hope his own would turn up eventually. Now note the time sequence ... remember how everything seems to have happened about six weeks ago, give or take a few days? Abel’s key was stolen. What else happened?”

I answered. “Lasker was promoted.”

“Right. That meant he suddenly was in possession of at least two keys to Scott’s desk—Abel’s, and the one he was given as a vice-president. But wait a minute—”

She turned to Harrison and asked him whether he’d made a copy of the key he borrowed from Lasker. He said he hadn’t. “I thought I told you—I wanted to make one, but I was afraid. It’s against company policy. In fact, if you’ll notice, there’s a little line of print on every key—”

“I know,” said Hilary, “it tells the locksmith not to make copies unless authorized by Trim-Tram. That wouldn’t stop a lot of key-makers. For that matter, you could have made a wax impression of—”

“I didn’t!” Harrison hotly protested. “It’s against company rules!”

“So is borrowing one another’s keys,” Scott said quietly. His brother-in-law clammed up.

Hilary asked to see Harrison’s key again, and without speaking, the nervous little man extracted it from his leatherette case.

Taking it, Hilary gave it to Scott without comment. He examined it, then passed it on to me ... although I already remembered the manner in which Hilary had run a tapered finger along the metal object earlier; I also recalled the uncharacteristic manner in which she’d later used her nail file along the tip of one finger.

There was a fine waxy sediment encrusted in the grooves of the key.

“Lasker probably intended to return your key to you, Abel, as soon as he could do so undetected. So he made a copy for himself by taking a wax impression of your key. Then, the unexpected happened: he was made a vice-president, and he ended up with
a third key!
So, first opportunity he could grab, he gave your key back to you; the irony was you came to him to borrow your own key! No wonder Lasker never asked you to give it back again.”

“So,” Scott drawled, “when Tom claimed this morning that he had no key to this desk because Abel had borrowed it—”

“He was only covering his tracks, in case Abel let slip the story as he understood it. But, in actual fact, Lasker must still possess two keys to your desk, the one he copied from Abel and the one he was given as vice-president.”

There was a brief silence while Scott digested the evidence. Then he asked Hilary to proceed to the second fact that was supposed to prove Lasker’s guilt.

Looking at Harrison, she said the little toyman had also supplied her with clue number two.

“Me?”
he yelped.
“Now what have I done?”

Ignoring the question, she continued: “It still isn’t enough to say Lasker had both means and method for smuggling data to Goetz. He
might
have used the key to gain access to the plans—but was he, in fact, ever in your office for that purpose, Scott?”

Scott shrugged.

“Well, fortunately,” Hilary said, “Abel provided me with an eyewitness report. He told me he saw Lasker in here looking at the plans.”

“I did no such thing!” Harrison started to squeal, but Scott told him to shut up.

“I’ll tell you exactly what you said, Abel. I asked you why you hadn’t returned Lasker’s key, and you told me you held onto it because—I think this is verbatim—‘He never comes into this office, anyway, except when he has to consult the plans for details.’”

“So what?” the VP queried, “What does that prove?”

“It proves Lasker is the person that asked
you
for the location of the Tricky Tires plans, because only you and Scott knew where they were kept, remember? By a slip of the tongue, you admitted you’d seen Lasker in here. Where else could he have learned where the plans were kept?”

Harrison looked more miserable than I’d ever seen him. “So how was I supposed to know?” he whined. “I didn’t know the plans were supposed to be in a secret hiding place. After all, they were sitting right out there in the drawer whenever I opened the desk to get something for Scott. I had no
idea
when Tom asked me about them—”

“So!” Hilary interrupted. “It
was
Lasker that you told about them!”

Harrison nodded. “But I promised I wouldn’t say anything about it.”

“Promised!” Scott yelled. “To whom?”

“To Tom.”

“For the love of God—
why?”

“Tom promised not to say anything about the stock I’d sold him, so I said I wouldn’t mention anything about seeing him in here. He seemed innocently afraid of getting involved. Anyhow, we made a bargain, the two of us, don’t you see?”

“But Hilary learned about the stock sale, anyway!” Scott reminded him.

“That wasn’t Lasker’s fault,” Harrison said, amazed. “He kept
his
word, so I was obliged to do the same.”

Scott sighed and sat back in his chair, eyes pointed heavenward. He gave up arguing with his brother-in-law.

“All right,” Hilary said briskly. “We’ve got just one more point to establish. We now have Lasker procuring a key to Scott’s desk and using it. Now ... did he take the final step and steal the plans?”

I was surprised, and said so. What else did we need to prove Lasker’s guilt?

“Well, brightness,” Hilary told me, “in case you forgot, we rushed back here so I could get a second look at the Tricky Tires prototype. ...” So saying, she picked up the toy racer, turning it so that one ear of the miniature driver was easily visible to the rest of us. “Do you see it now?” she asked.

I did. There was a spot of green paint on that ear. I remembered Hilary attempting to scratch it off earlier.

She looked at Scott quizzically, and he nodded. “You guessed it, Hilary. That paint dot indicates where the imperfection is.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about, and must have looked it, for he turned to me and explained.

“Imperfections,” he said, “are ways of protecting original designs from idea thieves. Several toy companies use them. Basically, what happens is we engineer a deliberate minimal mistake into the toy. Then, if we get knocked off, the copier probably follows our product right down to the last bump—including the imperfection. That way we have one hell of a handle to hold onto if the case comes up in court.”

He pointed to the green splash on the tiny ear of “Buzz” Armstrong-Stewart sitting in the model car. “If you look closely,” he continued, “you’ll be able to see an extruded bump underneath the coloration.”

I fingered the toy. Sure enough, there was a metal blister where a flat ear should have been. It was just barely noticeable to the eye. Hilary reached across the table and took the prototype from me, then swooped up the glossy prints of the Goetz knock-off. She peered at each picture, comparing the racer with every one, angle for angle.

“I’ve already gone over them,” Scott told her. “You can’t find a hint of our imperfection on the Goetz copy. He didn’t put it in!”

“Precisely,” Hilary said triumphantly, putting down the photos. “And who knew about the imperfection on Tricky Tires?”

“My God,” Scott breathed, shaking his head in sorry realization. “Not even Chuck Saxon! Only Lasker and myself!”

“Yes,” said Hilary, “I seemed to recall that, a long while ago, when you told me about imperfections, you also mentioned they were developed here in strict secrecy between you and the operations chief.”

“Therefore ...?” Harrison asked.

“Therefore,” she continued, “Scott and Lasker were the only ones aware of it, and that means only Lasker could have warned Goetz to avoid copying the bump on the ear of the model car driver.”

We sat for a long moment while Scott pondered the viper in his bosom. No victory showed in his face, and I guessed he’d put a lot of trust and hope in Tom Lasker as executive material.

Scott was the first to speak again. He asked Hilary what we ought to do next.

“Well,” she said, “I’d like to find out if I’m right about those two keys. I suggest we examine the contents of Lasker’s desk.”

Scott wasn’t too enthusiastic about that idea, but it was only what Lasker had done to him, so, in a few minutes, we found ourselves in the office of the operations chief. Scott pushed a key ring into my hands and showed me which one to use.

But as I bent over and steadied the center drawer—in which the keyhole had been placed—prior to unlocking it, my fingers felt something unexpected on the underside of the desk. I detached it and showed it to Scott.

He swore. “What in Christ’s name is happening to our security system? We have a sweep for bugs every quarter!”

“Obviously,” said Hilary, scornfully, “this device was put here since your last checkup.”

“But why?” Harrison wanted to know. “Why would Tom want to listen to himself?”

I yanked open the middle drawer. Nestling in a half-circular compartment, covered with paper clips, were two identical keys. One had the Trim-Tram authorization line on it; the other did not.

“That settles that,” Hilary said. “End of the espionage investigation.”

At that moment, Chuck Saxon, still dressed in a heavy charcoal-gray overcoat, appeared in the office doorway.

“What’s up?” he asked. “I understand you wanted me as soon as I got in, Scott.”

“Hilary wanted to see you.”

“What now?” he groaned. But the funny thing was that, though he addressed Hilary, he was staring at me. His voice, a little strained, sounded as if he couldn’t catch his breath too well. In all, he didn’t much resemble the bluff and burly executive I’d shaken hands with earlier.

The hell with it, I thought, and went back to checking Lasker’s desk.

“Never mind,” Hilary was telling him. “Originally, I wanted you on hand as another witness, while I discussed the Tricky Tires theft. But now it’s not important. Scott can fill you—
STOP HIM
!”

The last direction was flung at Scott, because I was suddenly too busy to comply. While rooting around the left bottom drawer of Lasker’s desk, I found a brown manila mailing envelope; before I could open it, Saxon, without warning, landed on me like a tank.

I shoved him off, but he grabbed me again, yanking my arm to one side. Scott latched onto Saxon’s shoulder, but the bulky coat Saxon was wearing gave Scott’s hand nothing solid to grip, and the VP pulled free, turning me partly around in the process.

I charged in, threw my arms around him in a wrestler’s clutch. Surprisingly enough, Saxon wasn’t throwing punches or even going out of his way to rough me up. But he clenched his arms tight against his body, then drove them out at me, the weight of his massive bulk behind the thrust. I fell back a few steps, pivoted slightly, lightly slapped an open-palm jab at the side of his face. Saxon, paying no attention, lunged forward, got the manila envelope in his hand, and whirled around, trying to get to the door.

But I blocked him on one side, and Scott barred the other. While Saxon glared at the two of us, trying to decide what to do, Hilary suddenly darted forward and simultaneously chopped at his wrist with the flat of one hand while snatching at the envelope with the other.

The blow was a savage one. Saxon yelped, releasing his hold on the envelope. It fell right into Hilary’s waiting hand. Before he could rally, she quickly withdrew behind Harrison, who’d been shifting nervously from one foot to the other in a neutral corner of the room.

As soon as Saxon saw her rip it open, he sagged, all the fight gone out of him.

“What the hell was that all about, Chuck?” Scott barked, still standing in a defensive crouch. Saxon, paying no further attention, sat down heavily. The mass of the man seemed to collapse in on himself, and he looked like a shapeless sack of flesh thrown on the chair in a heap.

I heard a slight intake of breath from Hilary. Joining Scott and Harrison, I walked over to her to see what the envelope contained. She pushed it at me and turned away, avoiding my stare.

“Oh, my God,” Harrison exclaimed softly, studying the contents of the envelope. “Oh, my God.”

Scott said nothing; his lips were compressed in a tight line.

“Do you know who she is?” I asked him. He nodded, but said nothing.

Nobody said a word for at least a minute.

At last, Hilary—still looking away from us—repeated my question. But still Scott said nothing.

“All right,” she snapped, turning around at last, “the initial shock is over. Now I take it both of you know who the girl is in the photos. Will you tell me, Scott? Abel?”

“They won’t,” Saxon said, his voice a harsh quaver. “They want to spare my feelings. But I’ll tell you ...” His voice broke, and though his mouth trembled, he was unable to speak.

“Who is she?” Hilary asked once more, this time very gently.

Swallowing hard, Saxon said, “My ... my daughter.”

“
I WANTED TO DESTROY THEM
,” Saxon told us, still sitting with his winter overcoat sagging over his lap and knees, “but if Lasker found out I’d rifled his desk, he might have gone ahead with his threats, just to be nasty. What I had really hoped to find were the negatives. ...”

“So,” said Hilary, “that’s what you were doing here that Sunday when everyone thought you were out of town.”

Saxon nodded slowly, then appealed to Scott. “I’m sorry about it, Scotty. You can see why I didn’t want to discuss it this morning, can’t you?”

Not trusting himself to speak, Scott nodded, putting a sympathetic hand on Saxon’s shoulders.

“I didn’t want my wife to know anything about it,” the VP explained. “That’s why I packed her off to Miami. I was afraid there’d be one hell of a scene, and I didn’t want her hearing any of it. Although, as it turned out, the blowup between my daughter Penny and me never took place. I haven’t had the stomach to face her with—”