Джон Макдональд - The Tempestuous Career of Molly Murdock

Yes, John Quinn was a more than conventionally attractive young man. But such a dangerous impulse must be attributed to the adventure of being summoned to Houston and the exhaustion of too little sleep. And, she told herself, it wasn’t a sexy feeling, for goodness’ sake. I just feel a little bit sorry for him, and people look so sweet and defenseless when they are asleep, and I am — so darn restless lately.

She smiled to herself. It certainly would have wakened Johnny Quinn with a start. And it would have given his Cathy something to be apprehensive about.

She closed her eyes and told herself to think of other things; but as she drifted toward the edge of sleep, she was abruptly wakened by a sensory awareness of the pressure of his lips against hers. As soon as her eyes were open, she knew it was an illusion, but a curiously persistent one. She began to have the feeling he was smiling at her and perfectly aware of what she was thinking. She gave him a furtive, sidelong, guilty glance and saw that he was still asleep. This, she decided firmly, is a very poor time for me to be losing my mind. Or my morals. I have a husband, and I love him dearly, and I am a faithful, unadventurous wife. I have two lovely little girls. I shall soon join my family in Vermont.

But she could not doze off again.

When the seat-belt light went on, she nudged John Quinn. “Houston. Right down there.”

He rubbed his eyes and gave a great bone-creaking stretch and yawn.

“Feel better?” she asked.

“Frankly, I feel horrible, thank you. Did you sleep?”

“Hardly at all,” she said, and was annoyed to feel her face becoming hot. She turned and looked out the window so he would not notice.

They were met at the Houston terminal by two brisk, impersonal young men. They said Mr. Hamilton was sorry he couldn’t meet them in person. They said Mr. Hamilton had arranged to see them at two-fifteen, after lunch. One of them went after the baggage, and the other walked them to a limousine. They were driven to the Allison Hotel. One of the men confirmed the reservations at the desk, and the other rode up to the eleventh floor with them.

“You have this suite, Mrs. Murdock. Mr. Hamilton thought it might be convenient if he should ask for any additional work. Secretarial help can be sent over from the offices. Is it satisfactory?”

“It’s lovely,” Molly said.

“You’re farther down the hall, Mr. Quinn. If you and Mrs. Murdock could have lunch here, we shall meet you in the lobby at two o’clock. And please sign for anything you want.”

Ten minutes later, Quinn tapped at her door. “Livin’ high,” he said. “Maybe not for you, but for the lower echelons of agency servitude, it is way up on the hawg, missy. I got the bowl-of-fruit treatment, too, and the glad delight of the management at having me here — but no flowers, like you have.”

“Jealous? Have a vaseful. I have two.”

“No, thanks.” He looked at his watch. “Twenty after twelve. Let’s see if his lunch is as nice as his rooms.”

They went down and found a paneled grill. After they had ordered, John went to phone Cathy. When he came back, he was smiling in a somewhat apologetic way. “I hardly ever fly to Texas before lunch. She had to know if they got me back onto the ground the way they had it planned.”

“Wives like to know little things like that.”

“Don’t husbands?”

She felt slightly uneasy. “I’ll phone Tom this evening.”

“After the rates change?”

“Don’t needle me, Johnny. Please.”

“I’m sorry, honey. I’m nervous. When I’m nervous, I bite. Cathy asked to be remembered to you.”

“That’s very nice of her.”

“She’s a nice girl. She tries hard.”

“Johnny, that sounds condescending.”

“I didn’t mean it to. Maybe I meant it to sound a little impatient. I get a little impatient. Good lord, she’s secure enough. She should know I want to stay married to her, but she keeps acting as if I can’t be trusted around the comer. It gets wearing. And all the late hours haven’t reassured her. I’m boring you. Let me make a correction. I’m not nervous. Not at all. I’m terrified.”

She touched his hand. “Don’t be, Johnny. He’s just a rich Texan.”

They grinned at each other. “Murdock and Quinn against the world,” he said.

Ross Hamilton’s office was on the penthouse floor of the Commerce Bank Building. It was as big as a tennis court, and it had the look and flavor of a reading room in an old and exclusive men’s club, with paneled walls, deep leather chairs, bookshelves, fireplace, trophies, framed photographs, massive tables, a drift of cigar smoke and murmur of conversation. Ross Hamilton was there, with a thin, quiet man named Hooper and a younger, red-haired man named Hale. The five of them sat at a round table. John Quinn passed out copies of the special report, and in those surroundings, the pink plastic covers looked frivolous and contrived.

Hooper went through the report page by page. Hamilton turned at once to the conclusions and recommendations and read them with care. Hale riffled the pages once and pushed the report aside.

At first, the questions were mild, undemanding, and Molly felt the answers they were giving were inept. But as the questions became more searching, more demanding, both she and John Quinn lost their traces of stage fright and answered with the certainty that can come only from a complete knowledge of the subject.

At four o’clock, there were no more questions. The conference was over. As Quinn beamed, the three Texas money men looked at Molly in delighted wonder; they would have agreed with Max that this delicious blonde had the brain of an IBM machine. They excused themselves, and Molly and John Quinn were alone.

“Wow!” he said softly.

“There’s good research behind those questions, Johnny, and some good minds at work. I feel pommeled.”

“How did we do?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. You sounded wonderful, Johnny.”

“Thanks. I didn’t feel so wonderful.”

Ross Hamilton came back, sat down, smiling at them. “The times I don’t listen to Hooper and Hale. I lose money. And that pleases them, of course. This time, I’m listening to them.”

“Do they approve?” John Quinn asked, a little too eagerly.

“Sometimes I wonder what my grandfather would think if I could take him on a tour of the top floors of this building. He was a wildcatter. He had no patience with what he called the paper peddlers. All we do here is the legal work and accounting for seventeen separate corporations. My grandfather found the oil, and this is what it has grown into. He would have plugged every hole if he’d known this was going to happen. Every decision we make here is based on how it will affect our tax picture.”

“It must lead to some curious decisions,” Molly said.

“Indeed it does. And we have an investment problem, too. Two years ago, we made some studies that convinced us we would be wise to get into what Mr. Hooper calls ‘buttons, bows, and nonsense.’ In other words, style and fashion items for the female market, where we have a volume production, high markup, and the accent on merchandising. And so we’ve picked up Andro Cosmetics, Davisson Products, Kempler Shoes, and Betty Marie Fabrics.”

“You don’t fool around,” Molly said.

Ross Hamilton smiled at her. “We expect to do very well. Mrs. Murdock, what do you suppose will be our problem area, common to the companies I’ve named?”

She frowned. “The sales and advertising, coordinated with design. You’re in a style area. Competition is rough.”

“And what is the biggest special problem within that area?”

Molly shrugged. “Finding the right people. That’s always been our problem at Andro.”