Lively Game of Death (3 page)

Hilary nodded curtly, and Wallis, after a few moments of pontification not worth recording, withdrew from the room.

There was a moment of silence. Scott regarded Hilary with a trace of amusement in his eyes. At last, he spoke.

“Why can’t you stand Wallis, Hilary?”

She shrugged. “Two reasons, either one alone conclusive. He is a lamentable adman, like most in this business ...”

“And ...?”

“He picks his teeth at lunch.”

“Okay,” Scott replied, “but don’t let your personal feelings color your judgment. I know where you’re headed, and you can forget it.”

“Why?”

“Tricky Tires couldn’t have been copied just by the looks of the prototype, Hilary. That wouldn’t have been enough. Goetz must have had access to the master engineering plans.”

“Why do you think so?”

He lowered his voice. “There’s a new salesman working for Goetz, name of Harry Whelan. Used to be a demonstrator for Trim-Tram at a couple of previous Toy Fairs—”

“You
put a plant in Goetz’s showroom?” Hilary interrupted, surprised.

Scott shook his head, further disordering his already tousled hair. “I had nothing to do with Sid hiring Harry. I didn’t even know Harry was looking for work this year, or I would have taken him back myself. He’s an actor, and you never know where he’s going to be from one month to the next. But he’s a damn good demonstrator, and I imagine he’d be a good salesman, too. Anyway, I first found out he was working for Sid when I ran into him last month, accidentally, in the Fifth Avenue Club.”

“Get to the point,” Hilary snapped, still suffering the morning with a right bad will.

“The point is Harry is naïve enough businesswise to be pumped. When I heard about the knock-off last night, I called up Goetz’s showroom, just in case, and I was in luck, because I was able to talk to Harry. He was working late, setting up. He told me all about Goetz’s version of Tricky Tires. Not only is it identical in exterior design to our toy—which Harry didn’t know till I told him about the knock-off at the end of the talk—but Goetz is going to market it as Tricky Tyres, which only adds to the confusion on the retail shelves.” Scott took a deep breath, getting ready for the coda. “But the worst thing is that Sid’s knock-off can perform every racing maneuver ours can complete.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he had to have access to every single sheet of engineering plans. Anybody could take a picture of the Armstrong-Stewart car, though I don’t for a minute believe Sid has the skill to translate photos into a to-the-inch copy. But say he could; still, nobody but an engineering genius—like Chuck Saxon—could figure out all the modifications that enable Tricky Tires to outperform any other miniature racer on the market.”

“What exactly can it do?” I asked.

“Well, it’s faster, for starters. It’s highly responsive to all sorts of driving styles, it goes—and I mean
goes
—on any kind of ‘road’ surface.”

“So,” I said, “apparently Goetz’s car can do all of that?”

Scott nodded. “That’s what Harry Whelan told me, and he has no reason to lie. No, Goetz has knocked us off all right, and that means there has to be a spy working for us, somebody who managed to get at all of the plans.”

“Then what about the production people who use the plans?”

“Impossible. They only get to see portions of the project. Once in a while, if the masters have to be consulted by the operations chief, they’ll be taken out of here, but only in the continual presence of several other executives.”

“How long ago,” I asked, “would Goetz need to have gotten the smuggled-out plans to be able to go into manufacture?”

Waving his hand in negation, Scott explained that Goetz probably had only a handcrafted prototype ready to show, along with descriptive material on the item. “As long as the prototype and its packaging looks just like ours, there’s no absolute need for a working model at Toy Fair. It helps, but it’s not essential. He doesn’t have to make a single toy car until he sees how many orders he can get. That is, orders he can get away from
us!”

“In other words,” I replied, “Goetz could have gotten the plans up to the last minute, practically, am I right?”

Scott nodded, and began to elaborate further, but Hilary abruptly cut in.

“All of this is purely academic,” she said impatiently, idly plucking her nail against a stray dab of green paint on the model car. “You’ve already told us that the master specs were kept in your own desk, and they were usually locked up. So, if nobody but you has a key to—”

“That was for Wallis’s benefit,” Scott interrupted. “Actually, there are three full sets of keys to every lock in this building. I keep one, and there are two other men with sets. In addition, my brother-in-law, Abel Harrison, had a key to my desk.”

I wrote down Harrison’s name, then asked for the names of the other pair, as well as the titles of all three.

“Tom Lasker is one of them,” Scott answered, “but he only got his set of keys comparatively recently. Maybe six weeks ago.”

“Who had that set before then?” Hilary asked.

“Nobody. Tom, you see, was recently promoted to the vice-presidency in charge of operations. Before that, he was heading up operations pro tem, because his predecessor, Arnie Stafford, was out sick for a long time. Arnie finally died, and we moved Tom up to his job—”

“The keys?” she asked again, her teeth set in mild annoyance.

“I kept them locked up in my desk, too.” Scott turned to me. “So anyway, now Tom Lasker has that set. And Chauncy—better call him Chuck—Chuck Saxon has the third group of keys. He’s VP in charge of R&D.”

I transcribed the data, then asked Scott a second time for Abel Harrison’s official position with Trim-Tram.

He made a face, then shrugged. “Wish I could tell you,” he grumbled. “Right this minute, he’s nominally financial director, but for God’s sake, don’t take stock market tips off him.”

“If you don’t trust his judgment,” Hilary asked, “why put him in such a job?”

“Well, he won’t be there for long. It’s just a kind of way station, giving Abel the financial directorship. It was that department’s turn.”

The boss arched an eyebrow. “Its
turn?”

Scott nodded ruefully. “We have to keep switching the inept little jerk from one department to another, just so he can’t screw up any single operation too long. I have to tell my wife we keep changing his job around so that he can become acquainted with every phase of our business.”

“Well,” sighed Hilary, “let’s get him in here and find out whether he can at least answer some questions.”

But at that moment, we were somewhat violently interrupted.

T
HE DOOR BUST OPEN
and a pale-complexioned young man stormed into the room, despite Scott’s protestations that we were in private conference.

The newcomer must have been in his early thirties, but his thin yellow hair, frayed outward from the center of his scalp to the edges, showed a generous quantity of scalp and made him look older. He was dressed in plaid shirt and work pants and affected a rimless pair of glasses on a black cord, a peculiar accessory for a man whose greasy hands bespoke an affinity for machinery.

He strode up to Scott and practically shouted, “What the hell’s this rumor about Sid Goetz knocking off Tricky Tires?” His voice trembled with rage.

Scott ignored the question. “Sit down, Tom. As long as you’re here, we might as well talk to you.”

“What the hell’s this rumor—” the other persisted, but his principal cut him short, introducing the young man to us as Tom Lasker, Trim-Tram’s recently appointed head of operations.

Hilary spoke. “Mr. Lasker, how did you find out about this alleged knock-off?”

“Word gets round. But I wasn’t talking to you. Scott, let me run over to The Toy Center so I can murder that bastard Goetz!”

“Never mind, just answer Hilary’s questions.”

“Why should I?” Lasker asked, still standing. “I don’t even know the broad.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from the broad. She glared at me, so I gave Lasker the particulars on her name and position, but that only made him more intractable. Still refusing to take a seat, he asked Scott why in hell he had to waste time talking to a flack in skirts (his words, not mine) when he ought to be choking the life out of Sid Goetz.

Scott attempted to defend Hilary, launching into a lecture on her less apparent assets, but mercifully she cut him short.

“Forget it, Scott,” she said. “Mr. Lasker can’t help it if he doesn’t know me. I don’t suppose he’s worked here very long.”

“What do you mean? I’ve been with Trim-Tram for years!”

“Yes,” she purred, “but I only deal with
top
management.”

The venom didn’t penetrate his cortex. In fact, it worked out just the opposite, because he finally started to cooperate. “It’s true,” he stated. “I only got promoted to vice-president recently.”

Hilary was fast to move in on the opportunity. “And what did you used to do?”

Lasker sat. “Well, I started out chained to a puzzle-feed machine—”

“Hold it a second,” I interrupted. “What do you mean, chained to the machine?”

“There’s a gigantic stamper, see? And you have to get the boards right under it while the machine is coming up from the last cut. In case you don’t get your hands out fast enough before the stamper cuts down, the chain automatically yanks them free.”

Hilary was glaring at me. I asked her what was wrong.

“The question was immaterial.”

I flushed. “Sorry. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“That,” she said sweetly, “is one of the things I pay you for.” She turned to Lasker. “Go on.”

“Well, like I said ... I started on puzzles. Then they stuck me in doll production, and I worked up to foreman of blow-molding. Then I was shifted around after that, too. I got to know every damned manufacturing process in the whole Trim-Tram plant!”

“That’s no exaggeration, Hilary,” Scott interjected. “Tom is our most valuable operations employee. He doesn’t know it, but we had our eye on him for a long time, just waiting for a chance to bump him up to executive level.”

“What about Tricky Tires?” Hilary asked, pronouncing the name of the product with slight distaste.

“Well,” Lasker said, “That’s been Chuck Saxon’s baby, but I saw all of the specs, of course, and I helped to tool it up.”

Hilary paused briefly, then resumed. “Mr. Lasker, when did you receive your promotion?”

“About a month and a half ago.”

“And what does your new job entail?”

“All in-plant production, plus executive duties. I coordinate runs, schedule work timetables, maintain quality control, supervise storage, distribution ... everything a plant manager does, and then some. Officially, I’m VP, operations, and that takes in plenty.”

“Including money?” she asked abruptly.

Lasker looked a little annoyed, but Scott waved him to answer. The VP shrugged. “Well, what the hell? Why shouldn’t I be proud to tell you? I went from four to five figures. Five
big
figures! And I’m damned happy about it, too!”

“Tom even owns a little Trim-Tram stock,” Scott said, an almost paternal smile on his face.

“Just a few shares,” Lasker added. “Only a couple of shares to celebrate my promotion, impress some people, that’s all.”

Hilary eyed him quizzically. “Since when does owning a few shares of stock impress people?”

Scott interrupted, explaining that Lasker was involved in a trite little poor-boy/rich-girl entanglement. “It’s not worth talking about, is it, Tom?”

“I’d rather not,” the young man blushed. “It’s silly.”

Hilary sometimes likes to change gears without warning, and she did so smoothly then by suddenly asking to see Lasker’s keys. At least,
I
thought she’d shifted without grinding, but apparently Lasker felt differently.

“What in Christ’s name do my keys have to do with anything?” he shouted.

“According to Mr. Miranda, you own a full set of keys to the factory, correct?”

“Certainly! I have to, I’m plant manager. Scott gave me the keys when I was promoted.”

Hilary paused, watched Lasker carefully for his next reaction. “Tell me, is there any chance whatsoever of someone entering the building without being seen?”

“Impossible!” he answered, shaking his head vigorously. “Visitors must undergo a complicated sign-in and badging procedure. The place is patrolled and monitored. Anyone unauthorized would be discovered in a matter of seconds, not minutes—
you
must know that! Visitors can’t wander around unescorted, not even to the rest rooms.”

“And after hours?”

“Even tighter security. Only company personnel allowed in or out. And they have to show contents of pockets and briefcases.”

Hilary nodded. “Precisely, Mr. Lasker. The only person who could have gotten at the master plans had to be an employee with all the necessary keys.”

“And what would they do once they got hold of the plans? They couldn’t smuggle them out, I just told you that!” Lasker retorted.

A sharp noise splintered our concentration momentarily, but, turning, we saw it was only Scott who’d accidentally broken a pencil between his tensely clenched fists.

“Why pick on me?” Lasker persisted. “There are other execs with keys to the desk.”

“Yes, of course, and I’ll see them each in turn. But right now, it’s your keys I’m interested in. May I see them?”

There was a silence. She repeated the question.

“I don’t have them right this minute,” he mumbled, barely audible. His hand fumbled nervously with the cord of his glasses.

“I just want to see the key to Mr. Miranda’s desk drawer.”

“I don’t have it right this second.”

“Well, where do you normally keep the keys?”

“Sometimes I carry them. Sometimes I keep them in my desk.”

“Get them,” Hilary ordered.

“I can’t.”

“Just the one key. Where is it?”

Lasker stared at Hilary, then at me. He rose, then sat down. After a long moment, he spoke. “I ... I might as well stop pretending. I don’t have that key.”

“What?” Scott started. “Where is it?”