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door at the end of the hall. It had
President
painted on it in gold leaf. I wondered if Toby resented the difference.
    I stopped in her doorway and rapped on the wall lightly. She turned away from the plump man and saw me.
    She was a fair actress. She didn’t flicker an eyebrow. She said, “Yes?” in that cool tone she handled so well.
    I said, “I’m Brogan from West Coast Industrial Advisors.”
    She said, “Oh, yes.” She nodded at the plump man. “Señor Lerdo, our Lozano representative. He arranges our produce pickups with the Mexican farmers.” He bowed and looked me over with interest. She frowned slightly. “But we weren’t expecting you so soon, Mr. Brogan.”
    I said in a brisk, salesman’s voice, “I had time on my hands. That is an inefficient condition. West Coast is the foe of inefficiency.”
    She said to Lerdo, “We can finish these invoices later.”
    He bowed again. His dark eyes continued to show interest in me. Then he picked up the invoices reluctantly and went out. I followed Toby Jessup into her office. She sat behind her desk. She looked angry.
    “Why didn’t you call before you came?” she demanded.
    I said, “I meant what I said. I had time on my hands. Jessup Trucking seems to be operating under a full head of steam. Why should I wait until tomorrow?”
    I wondered if I had upset some plan of hers. She picked up a pencil and rapped the rubber tip on her desk blotter. She said with annoyance, “I haven’t had time to prepare anyone for your visit.”
    I said, “Isn’t that better—for what you want me to do here?”
    She thought that over. She said reluctantly, “I suppose so.”
    She continued to rap the pencil. She seemed to be trying to make up her mind about something. She said suddenly, “I have to see you after I’m through here. It’s very important that we talk alone. I …”
    She didn’t get the rest of her remark said. Her voice dried up. She was staring at the door. I turned. A man’s figure was silhouetted on the other side of the glass panel. The man lifted his hand and rapped.
    She said, “Come in.”
    The door opened. A man looked in at us. He was somewhere in his thirties, heavy-shouldered, narrow-waisted, shorter than I but tall enough to carry his big shoulders easily. He was blunt featured with a little too much jaw. His eyes were a pale blue and without much warmth in them. He had a blond butch haircut that barely hid a thin line of scar running up his left temple and over his skull.
    He looked right through me. He said, “Did you locate Turk yet?”
    Toby Jessup said stiffly, “If I had, I’d have told you. The switchboard girl has tried all the usual places he goes. He’s probably found a new hole to crawl into.”
    Her voice said that she had no time for Turk. The expression of the blond man said that he had no time for Toby Jessup. He said roughly, “Turk hasn’t touched anything for six months and you know it.”
    There was something between them. Something neither one was putting into words. It showed in their eyes very briefly. And then, as if they suddenly remembered I was in the room, their expressions blanked out.
    Toby Jessup said, “Mr. Brogan, this is Rod Gorman, our traffic manager. Mr. Brogan is from West Coast Industrial Advisors, Rod. He’s here to see if we can’t increase the efficiency of our office operations.”
    She did it as slickly as if I were the genuine article. And Gorman seemed to buy what she had to say. He gave me a quick rundown with his hard blue eyes and then put out a hand. I took it. His grip was good. His hands were rough inside. Apparently he could take a turn at pitching crates when he had to.
    He said, “West Coast—that’s in San Francisco, isn’t it?”
    “That’s right.”
    “That’s quite a tan you’ve got,” he said. “I didn’t know San Francisco had that much sunshine.”
    It took me long seconds to realize that he wasn’t tossing pleasantries. His eyes were still taking me in. And