Parnell Hall: The Naked Typist

Kelly Blaine drew herself up, stuck out her chin. “That’s not it. You’re who I want. You fight for the little guy. The rest doesn’t matter. I couldn’t go to another law office anyway. They’d laugh me out of there.”

“Why?”

She ran her hand over her face. “Because it’s bizarre. The whole situation’s bizarre.”

Steve shifted impatiently in his chair.

She held up her hand. “Okay, okay. But first off, you don’t know who Milton Castleton is. Well, he’s rich. Stinking rich. He’s a wealthy industrialist. Castleton Industries. That’s how you would have heard of him. Anyway, he’s retired now-he’s close to eighty-and his son runs the business.”

“Who’s his son?”

She waved it away. “Stanley Castleton. But that’s not important. Anyway, Milton’s an old man. He’s retired and he’s writing his memoirs.”

“His memoirs?”

“Yeah. Apparently in his day he was quite a character. Aside from being a cutthroat businessman-and he was certainly that- he was something of a rake hell. Women, booze, gambling. Lots of messy affairs involving court actions-paternity suits, breach of promise, named correspondent in half a dozen divorces.”

“And you worked for him,” Steve said, gently urging her to the point.

“That’s right. As I said, he was writing his memoirs. I was hired as a secretary to type them.”

“Oh, so you were working with him on the memoirs?”

“No. Actually, I never met the man.”

Steve frowned. “What?”

“I never met him. I was hired by his business associate. Or business manager, or personal manager, or whatever. That was never quite clear.”

“You’re saying you transcribed his notes but you never actually met him?”

“Not his notes. His dictation. He dictated onto microcassettes. I typed them up.”

“Where? At your apartment?”

“No. At his.”

Steve took a breath. “I’m sorry, but this is really not making any sense.”

“I know, I know,” she said. “That’s ’cause it is so bizarre. That’s why I couldn’t go to another lawyer. I worked in his apartment. That was the arrangement. But I never met the man. I had my own office. His business associate let me in and let me out. I never even knew if Milton Castleton was actually there.”

“And you were fired,” Steve prompted.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Today. This afternoon. Just now.”

“And you came straight here.”

“Yes. Well, I have to explain the situation. And it’s not easy. As I said, I never met Castleton, never knew when he was there. But I assume he was, because that was the whole idea.” She took a breath. “I had my own office. There, in his apartment. It was right next door to his office. But there was no connecting door. There were separate entrances-which is why I never saw him. His business associate, Phil Danby his name is, let me in in the morning. I’d go into my office. I’d close and lock the door. I’d be alone. The notes to be transcribed would already be on my desk. I’d take them and type them up. All straightforward and professional.”

She bit her lip, lowered her eyes. “Except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I typed them nude.”

Steve blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I was nude. When I came in to work, I’d take off my clothes, hang them in the closet, sit down and start typing.”

Steve found himself at a loss as to what to say next. He took a breath. “I see,” he said. Which was hopelessly inadequate on the one hand and not true on the other. “No, actually I don’t. What was the point? I mean, if you were alone, locked in this room … why were you supposed to do that?”

“There was a window. Between the two offices. You know, one-way glass. On my side it was a mirror. The other side, from his office, you could see through.”

“You mean-”

“Yes. He could sit at his desk and watch me type.”

“As well as anyone else who was in his office.”

“No. That was specified. There would not be business meetings with him saying, ‘Oh, have you seen my secretary,’ if that’s what you’re thinking. That was made very clear. It would be just him.”

“And you agreed to this arrangement?”

“Yes.”

“Had you done anything of the kind before? Posed as a nude model, for instance?”

“No.”

“Then why did you agree to this?”

“I resent the question.”

“What?”

Kelly Blaine stuck out her chin. “I resent that. You sit there taking a high moral tone. What do you make-two, three hundred bucks an hour? You know what I make as a typist? Ten to fifteen. For this job I got paid a hundred bucks an hour. It was work and I took it. If you want to sit there being high and mighty, making moral judgments, well, I know whose side you’re on, I might as well leave. The fact is, I took the job. You really want me to justify why?”

Steve held up his hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. But you must admit, this whole thing is very unusual. I’m a human being. I’m naturally curious and I’m trying to understand the situation. Which, frankly, isn’t easy.” Steve smiled. “We have a peculiar situation here. You’re touchy, embarrassed and defensive on the one hand. I’m intrigued, embarrassed and tentative on the other. We’re both of us walking on eggshells. As a result, we’re getting absolutely nowhere. So, let’s try to set that aside and discuss this as if it were a normal, ordinary business deal, okay?”

“Fine.”

“At any rate, you agreed to this employment?”

“Yes.”

“When did you start work?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“You’ve been working there for two weeks?”

“Yes.”

“Same routine every day?”

“Yes.”

“And you never saw your boss, this Castleton fellow?”

“No.”

“How did you get the job?”

“I answered an ad.”

“What ad?”

“In the New York Times.”

“They advertised this in the Times?”

“Yes.”

“As what?”

“Under ‘Help wanted, female.’”

It was with an effort that Steve suppressed a grin. “Did the ad specify the requirements of the job?”

“No.”

“Or the rate of pay?”

“No. It just said, ‘salary negotiable.’”

“So you answered the ad and what happened?”

“I went for an interview.”

“Who was the interview with?”

“Phil Danby.”

“Where was it?”

“There. At the apartment.”

“You didn’t see Castleton then?”

“No. As I said, I’ve never seen him.”

“So what happened?”

“Danby explained the requirements of the job.”

“And you took it?”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” Steve said. “That was two weeks ago?”

“Yes.”

“You started work immediately?”

“The next day.”

“Did you have a contract?”

“Contract?”

“Yes. A written contract. With the terms of your employment.”

“No.”

“How were you paid?”

“In cash.”

“You trusted him to pay cash?”

She shook her head. “No. It was in advance.”

“Paid how?”

“On a daily basis. When I’d get to work in the morning there’d be an envelope on my desk with my name on it. In it would be my wages for the day.”

“Which was?”

“Eight hundred dollars. A hundred bucks an hour for eight hours.”

“Then you were fired?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“I told you. Today. Just before I came here.”

“Were you paid for today?”

“Yes, of course. Or I wouldn’t have started typing. I came in this morning as usual. The envelope was on my desk. I took the money, put it in my purse. Then I went to work.”