Ed McBain - Shotgun

“What’s your position with American Tractor and—”

“Call it AT&M, not such a mouthful,” Witters said.

“AT&M,” Carella said.

“I’m executive vice president in charge of sales,” Witters said.

“And were you Leyden’s immediate superior?”

“Well, we have a sales manager, but he’s on the road right now, up in Canada.”

“Any rivalry between him and Leyden?”

“None that I was aware of.”

“Between Leyden and any of the other salesmen?”

“Always rivalry between salesmen,” Witters said. “That’s what makes for good sales. Don’t know any of them who’d want to kill each other, though. That’d be carrying rivalry a bit far, wouldn’t it?” He smiled abruptly. The smile vanished so quickly that neither Kling nor Carella was sure it had been there at all. Witters immediately passed his hand downward over his mouth and chin, as though anxious to wipe away any remnants of it.

“Leyden wasn’t up for another man’s job—”

“No.”

“... or after another man’s territory—”

“No.”

“... or edging anyone out of a promotion he—”

“No.”

“Nothing like that,” Carella said.

“Nothing like that,” Witters said.

“Would you say he got along well with his fellow workers?” Kling asked.

“I would say so, yes.”

“Any tension between him and any of the other men?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Was he fooling around with any of the girls in the office?”

“How do you mean?”

“You know.” Kling shrugged. “Fooling around.”

“No more than usual. They’re all nymphomaniacs anyway,” Witters said.

“By ‘no more than usual,’ Mr. Witters, exactly what—?”

“Oh, you know. A feel here and there. I don’t think he was having an affair with anybody, if that’s what you mean.”

“Nothing like that,” Kling said.

“Nothing like that,” Witters said.

“By ‘nymphomaniacs,’ Mr. Witters, exactly what—?”

“All of them,” Witters said.

“Nymphomaniacs?” Carella said.

“Yes.”

“You mean—”

“Oh, these short skirts and tight blouses. All nymphomaniacs.”

“I see,” Carella said.

“I wonder if we could see Mr. Leyden’s office,” Kling said. “Go through his desk, look at his papers. There may be something there we can—”

“Well, I don’t know as you’ll find anything. He’s been on the road, you know, and it’s our policy to forward all of a salesman’s mail to wherever he may be.”

“What was his territory, Mr. Witters?”

“California, Oregon, Washington. State of.”

“When did he get back from his last trip?” Carella asked.

“Not supposed to be back,” Witters said.

“I beg your pardon, what—?”

“I said he wasn’t supposed to be back. Last we got from him was a wire from San Francisco saying he was moving on up to Portland on Monday. That’s today. So next thing is he gets killed in his own apartment on Saturday night, when he’s still supposed to be in Frisco.”

“When did he send this wire?”

“We got it before close of business last Friday.”

“And he said he was remaining in San Francisco for the weekend?”

“I can get you the wire, if you’d like to see it.”

“Yes, we’d like to see it,” Kling said.

Witters sighed and pressed a button on his intercom. “Gerry,” he said, “will you dig out the wire Andy Leyden sent us last week? Bring it right in when you’ve got it.” He clicked off, abruptly muttered, “Nymphomaniac,” and then wiped his hand over his mouth and chin again.

“Why do you suppose he came back so suddenly?” Carella asked.

“Beats me. He’d only been gone a month, still had Oregon and Washington to cover, don’t ask me why he hurried on back.” A knock sounded on the door. “Come in, come in,” Witters called, and the door opened. A mousy-looking woman of about forty, bespectacled, wearing a gray tweed suit, came into the room, walked awkwardly and self-consciously to the desk, handed the wire to Witters, smiled in embarrassment at both detectives, and hastily walked out again. The door whispered shut behind her.

“Nymphomaniac,” Witters said, and glanced cursorily at the wire. “Here,” he said. “This is it.”

Carella took the extended telegram:

“Is this usual?” Carella asked.

“Is what usual?”

“Do your salesmen usually keep you informed of their whereabouts?”

“Yes, of course.”

“By telegram?”

“Most of the men phone us every Friday afternoon. Andy generally sent telegrams.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Guess he didn’t like talking on the telephone.”

“Is this also usual? Asking the office to phone his wife and—”

“Oh, sure, they all do that.”

“Have any idea why he might have needed his checkbook?”

“Probably ran out of checks,” Witters said, and shrugged.

“I thought he had an expense account.”

“He did. Lots of places won’t take credit cards, though. In which case our men on the road are instructed to keep a record of what they spend. The firm, of course, makes good later. Checks are a handy way of keeping a record.”

“Mmm,” Carella said. He handed the telegram back to Witters. “And this was the last you heard from him, is that right?”

“That’s right,” Witters said.

“So you thought he was still in San Francisco.”

“Says right in the wire he’ll be holding there for the weekend.”

“And his wife thought he was in San Francisco, too, is that right?”

“Well, sure, I guess so. Asked us to call her, so I guess we took care of it, and I guess she assumed he was still out there. As I told you, he’d only been gone a month or so. Swing through California takes at least a month all by itself.”

“Do you suppose he called to let her know he was heading back?”

“Knowing Andy, he probably sent her a telegram,” Witters said, and smiled again, and again wiped the smile away with his hand.

“Mmm,” Carella said. “Well, could we look at his office now?”

“Sure, but you’re not likely to find much on his desk.”

“Perhaps in it.”

“Nor in it, neither. Andy Leyden’s office was pretty much his hat. He was a traveling man.”

As Witters had promised, there was nothing they could use in Andrew Leyden’s desk. His office was at the far end of the corridor, a tiny cubicle painted beige and set between the Mailing Room and the Records Office. A large window faced the street, an air conditioner in its lower half. A brown-chalk drawing of a woman’s head, a Picasso print, was framed and hanging on the wall opposite the desk. A cartoon clipped from a magazine was pinned to a bulletin board near the light switch. It showed a woman talking to a salesman on her doorstep, and the caption was, “Don’t you dare try to sell brushes to me, Harry. I’m your wife!” The word “brushes” had a line drawn through it, and over it someone had lettered in the word “tractors.” In the same handwriting, lettered in over the name “Harry,” someone had written “Andrew.”

Leyden’s desk was made of metal, painted green, completely utilitarian and hardly aesthetic. A picture of his wife was on the left-hand corner of the desk, alongside the telephone. It had been taken prior to a wedding or a ball, and Rose Leyden was wearing a low-cut evening gown. A beauty spot clearly showed just above her left breast, an inch or so higher than the top of her gown. She was smiling stiffly at the photographer. A blotter was the only other thing on the desk. Carella automatically checked it for any mirror writing that might have been left on it, but the blotter seemed new, with only a single inkstain in one corner. The top drawer of the desk contained paper clips and a memo pad and several pencils and an eraser. An AT&M order form was at the back of the drawer. The three side drawers of the desk contained, in sequence: telephone directories for Isola, Calm’s Point, and Riverhead; four lined yellow composition pads; a pair of scuffed loafers; a paperback copy of Hawaii; a calendar, the top leaf of which still read September 3; and a half-full box of chocolates. That was it. They thanked Mr. Witters for his time and his courtesy and went down the corridor again toward the elevators. Anne Gilroy looked up as they approached her desk.