Chapter 1 #2
The man pressed his lips into a severe straight line.
“The problem is that he’s not here at present …
Let me call up.” He quickly scribbled something on a piece of paper, put it into a glass and metal cylinder, and placed it in a strange pipe-like contraption.
With a whoosh, the whole thing was sucked up the tube.
Warren and Michael waited, not knowing what to do as the receptionist continued to smile at them.
A little while later, another one of those glass and metal capsules came sliding down the tube. The receptionist took it out and opened it. It contained a little piece of paper. He read it and looked up at them.
“Please go up; you may use the stairs or the elevators,” he said, indicating behind him.
“What floor?” Warren asked.
“The seventh,” the receptionist said. “You will be seeing Mr. Harding and Mr. Devlin.”
“Great, thanks,” Michael said. “Come on, Warren.”
There were few things that Warren disliked more than using an elevator. He hadn’t known this until he stepped into the glass and metal box. There was a man who operated a lever, and with a chugging noise, the box began to move.
It moved very slowly upward, ticking and clacking the whole way. It sounded as though it was on its last legs and about to break, and that made Warren very nervous. But it did beat climbing seven flights of stairs.
After an age, the elevator finally reached its floor, and the man opened the door.
“Ah, Mr. Wellan and Mr. Alexander,” a man said, approaching them from down a corridor. He held his hand out as he walked. “I’m Peter Harding. Welcome to the firm.” He smiled broadly, but Warren saw that the smile didn’t reach his blue eyes.
Mr. Harding was a tall, older man with a thick head of salt and pepper hair, a full and neatly trimmed beard, and slightly stooped shoulders.
Michael shook the man’s hand enthusiastically. “We’re so glad to finally be here.”
When it was Warren’s turn, his handshake was a little more reserved. “But we’re a little disappointed to have missed Mr. McGregor.”
“Of course,” Mr. Harding said. “Come through to my office. Jude will meet us there and we can talk.”
They walked down the passage that Mr. Harding had come up and soon came to some double doors. There were three sets of them. One at the end of the hallway, one in front of them, and one behind.
Mr. Harding opened the doors, and they stepped into another reception area. There was a young man behind a desk who looked up and smiled. Behind him was another set of double doors. Mr. Harding led them through to the other doors, opened them, and went in.
The office was furnished with oak bookshelves lining two of the walls. There was a large, highly polished desk and several filing cabinets. Art hung on the walls, statues adorned many of the flat surfaces, and the whole place looked and smelled of wealth.
The show did little to impress Warren. As an accountant, he’d seen money all his life. Michael also looked less impressed than perhaps Mr. Harding was used to. He was watching their reactions and clearly didn’t get the usual awe from them that he was expecting.
“Please, have a seat,” he said, smiling. Once again, it never reached his eyes.
They sat.
“I’m sorry you missed Douglas,” Mr. Harding said, “but he had to go to Pine Hill. There’s been some sort of problem with his resort.”
“Oh?” Warren asked.
“Is there something that I and Jude might be able to help with?” Mr. Harding inquired, not elaborating on whatever the problem was that Mr. McGregor had gone to attend.
Just then the doors opened and a woman stepped into the room.
“Mr. Harding, are these the men from Texas?” she asked.
“They are. What are you doing in my office?” Mr. Harding asked, his voice less than friendly all of a sudden.
“Mr. McGregor left instruct—” she began, but was cut off when another man stepped into the room.
He was smaller than Mr. Harding, with a receding hairline of sandy-colored hair that matched the brush mustache that hid his upper lip. Warren gave him a cursory once-over but found his attention drawn back to the woman.
She was slim, with flaming red hair tied back in a bun. She wore thin-rimmed spectacles that slightly magnified her large green eyes. They were very bright and drew Warren’s gaze to them like a moth to a candle flame until he realized he’d been staring into them and had missed the introductions.
Warren found the shorter man holding out his hand to him. He frowned and then took it and shook it spasmodically. This was obviously Jude Devlin, but who was she?
“Sir, Mr. McGregor was most specific,” the woman was saying. “He instructed me to?—”
“Did he now?” Mr. Devlin sneered. “Let us have a word with these gentlemen and then we’ll be happy to pass them on to you.”
She bristled visibly. Clearly, carrying out her duties was important to her and this obstruction was not something she would be happy with. “Please see that you do send them to me when you’re done.” Turning on her heel, she left the room, closing the doors behind her with a loud boom.
“Please forgive Miss Davis,” Mr. Harding said, still managing to sound condescending despite her no longer being in the room. “She is Mr. McGregor’s personal secretary, and she takes her job a little too seriously.”
“She’s a charity appointment,” Mr. Devlin said, in what was probably supposed to be a caring tone. “She’s one of his childhood friends’ daughters. He married her aunt at some point and divorced her too. It’s a mess, really. Old Mac likes to do things like that.”
None of what either man said after that made an impression on Warren whatsoever.
His mind was in turmoil. Davis. Mr. McGregor, who signed letters as D.
Davis, wasn’t a man, as Warren had thought all this time they’d been corresponding.
He was a she, and she was a miss. Miss D. Davis. This changed everything.