Arthur Hailey - Overload

"Listen," Nancy said. "I'll make a deal. If you'll agree to meet me again, I won't say or do anything in the meantime."

The girl hesitated. "When?"

"Three days from now. Right here."

"Not three days." Again the mix of doubt and fear. "Maybe a week."

It would have to do. "All right. A week from today, next Wednesday -same time, same place."

With a nod of agreement, Yvette left.

Driving away, Nancy was unsure whether she had handled the situation well or badly. And what the hell was it all about? Where did Davey Birdsong and Yvette fit in? Nancy's reference to the police during her conversation with Yvette had been an offhand, impulsive remark. Yet the girl's near-hysterical reaction suggested that something illegal was going on. If so, what kind of illegality? It was all frustrating, with too many questions, too few answers-like trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle without the slightest notion of what the end result might be.

For Nancy Molineaux, another piece of the jigsaw fell into place next day. It concerned the vague, overheard rumor-which Nancy hadn't believed-that Birdsong's p&lfp was seeking financial help from the Sequoia Club.

Despite her skepticism, she had put out feelers. One produced results.

A mailroom employee of the Sequoia Club, an elderly black woman named Grace, had once asked Nancy Molineaux's help in obtaining city-subsidized housing. At the time, all it had taken was a single telephone call and use of the California Examiner's influence to get her near the top of an official waiting list. But Grace had been grateful and insisted that if she could ever return the favor, she would.

Several weeks ago Nancy called her at home and mentioned the p & lfp-Sequoia Club rumor. Would she try to discover, Nancy asked, whether there was any substance to it and, if so, whether anything had come of p & lfp's request?

A few days later she received a report: As far as Grace could learn, the rumor was untrue. She added, though, "Something like that could be secret, with not more than two or three at the top, like Prissy Pritchy (which was what the Sequoia Club staff called Roderick Pritchett) knowing about it."

Today, Grace had used her lunch hour to go to the Examiner Building and make her way to the newsroom. Nancy happened to be in. They went into a soundproof glass cubicle where they could talk. Grace, who was heavily built, overflowed a tight, brightly colored print dress and wore a floppy hat. She was carrying a string bag and reached into it.

"Found out something, Miss Molineaux. Don't know if it has to do with what you wanted, but here it is."

"It" was a copy of a Sequoia Club memo.

Grace explained: Three outward-bound envelopes, all marked Private and Confidential, had come through the mailroom. That was not unusual. What was unusual was that one of the envelopes had arrived unsealed, probably through a secretary's carelessness. Grace slipped it aside and later, when she was unobserved, read the contents. Nancy smiled, wondering bow much other mail got perused the same way.

Grace had used one of the Sequoia Club's Xerox machines to make the copy.

Nancy read the confidential memo carefully.

From: Executive Director

To: Members of Special Executive Committee

For your information, the, second donation to B's organization from the contingency fund, and agreed to at our August 22nd meeting, has now been paid.

It was initialed "R.P."

Nancy asked, "Who was the envelope addressed to?"

"Mr. Saunders. He's a board member and . . ."

"Yes, I know." Irwin Saunders, the well-known lawyer-about-town, was a Sequoia Club wheel. "How about the other two envelopes?"

"One was to Mrs. Carmichael, our chairman. The other was addressed to Mrs. Quinn."

That would be Priscilla Quinn. Nancy knew her slightly. A snob and socialite, Grace asked anxiously, "Is it what you wanted?"

"I'm not sure." Nancy read the memo again. Of course, "B" could mean Birdsong, but it might also mean other things. For example, the mayor, whose last name began with "B," beaded an organization called "Save Old Buildings," which the Sequoia Club supported actively. But in that case would a memo be "private and confidential?" Perhaps. The Sequoia Club had always been closemouthed about its money.

"Whatever you do," Grace said, "you won't let on where that came from?"

"I don't even know you," Nancy assured her. "And you've never been here."

The older woman smiled and nodded. "I need that job. Even though it don't pay much." She stood up. "Well, I'll be getting back."

"Thanks," Nancy said. "I appreciate what you did. Let me know when you need anything."

Favors for favors, she had discovered early, were part of journalism's commerce.

Returning to her desk, still wondering if the memo referred to Birdsong and p & lfp, or not, she met the city editor.

"Who was the old lady, Nancy?"

"A friend."

"You hatching a story?"

'Maybe."

"Tell me about it."

She shook her head. "Not yet."

The city editor regarded her quizzically. He was a graying veteran of newspaperdom, good at his job but, like many of his kind, he had reached the outer limits of promotion. "You're supposed to be part of a team, Nancy, and I'm the coach. I know you prefer being a loner, and you've gotten away with it because you get results. But you can push that game too far."

She shrugged. "So fire me."

He wouldn't, of course, and they both knew it. Leaving him frustrated, as she did so many men, she returned to her desk and began telephoning.

She tried Irwin Saunders first.

A secretary declared he was not available, but when Nancy mentioned the Examiner, he came cheerfully on the line.

"What can I do for you, Miss Molineaux?"

'I'd like to discuss the Sequoia Club's donation to Mr. Birdsong's power & light for people."

There was a second's silence. "What donation?"

"It's our understanding . . ."

Saunders laughed aloud. "Bullshit! Nancy, may I call you that?"

"Sure."

"Nancy, that kind of I-already-know-but-would like-some-confirmation statement is the oldest reporter's ploy in the book. You're talking to a wily old fish who doesn't take those baits."

She laughed with him. "I'd always heard you were sharp, Mr. Saunders."

"Damn right, kiddo."

She persisted, "But bow about a linkup between the Sequoia Club and p & lfp?"

"That's a subject, Nancy, about which I'm unlikely to know anything."

Score one for me, she thought. He had not said I don't know. Only I'm unlikely to know. Later, if he had to, he could claim he hadn't lied. He probably had a recorder going at this moment.

"My information," she said, "is that a Sequoia Club committee decided . .."

"Tell me about that alleged committee, Nancy. Who was on it? Name names."

She thought quickly. If she mentioned the other names she knew Carmichael, Quinn-he would be on the phone immediately to caution them. Nancy wanted to get there first. She lied, "I don't have any names."

"In other words, you don't have a damn thing." His voice was suddenly less friendly. "I'm a busy lawyer, Miss Molineaux, with a heavy case load. Clients pay me for my time and you're wasting it."

“Then I won't waste anymore."

Without replying, he hung up.

Even while talking, Nancy had been leafing through a phone directory in search of "Quinn." Now she found it: Quinn, Dempster W. R. Trust Priscilla Quinn's old man to have one more name than most other people. Nancy dialed and after the second ring was informed by a male voice, "This is the Dempster Quinn residence." It sounded like the sound track of Upstairs, Downstairs.

"Mrs. Quinn, please."

"I'm sorry. Madam is at lunch and may not be disturbed."

"Disturb her," Nancy said, "by telling her the California Examiner intends to mention her name, and does she want to help us get the facts straight?"