He opened the door of the washroom and gave Randall a gentle shove. He found himself in a room that was obviously a board room — with a meeting in session, for the long table was surrounded by about a dozen men. They all had their eyes on him.
“Up you go, Mr. Randall.”
Another shove, not quite so gentle and he was sitting in the middle of the polished table. Its hard top felt cold through the thin cotton of his pajama trousers.
He drew the jacket around him tightly and shivered. “Cut it out,” he said. “Let me down from here. I’m not dressed.” He tried to get up, but he seemed unable to accomplish that simple movement.
Somebody behind him chuckled. A voice said, “He’s not very fat.” Someone answered, “That doesn’t matter, for this job.”
He was beginning to recognize the situation — the last time it had been Michigan Boulevard without his trousers. More than once it had found him back in school again, not only undressed, but lessons unprepared, and late in the bargain. Well, he knew how to beat it — close your eyes and reach down for the covers, then wake up safe in bed.
He closed his eyes.
“No use to hide, Mr. Randall. We can see you and you are simply wasting time.”
He opened his eyes. “What’s the idea?” he said savagely. “Where am I? Why’dju bring me here? What’s going on?”
Facing him at the head of the table was a large man. Standing, he must have measured six feet two at least, and he was broad-shouldered and heavy-boned in proportion. Fat was laid over his huge frame liberally. But his hands were slender and well shaped and beautifully manicured; his features were not large and seemed smaller, being framed in fat jowls and extra chins. His eyes were small and merry; his mouth smiled a good deal and he had a trick of compressing his lips and shoving them out.
“One thing at a time, Mr. Randall,” he answered jovially. “As to where you are, this is the thirteenth floor of the Acme Building — you remember.” He chuckled, as if they shared a private joke. “As to what goes on, this is a meeting of the board of Detheridge & Co. I” — he managed to bow sitting down, over the broad expanse of his belly — “am R. Jefferson Stoles, chairman of the board, at your service, sir.”
“But — ”
“Please, Mr. Randall — introductions first. On my right. Mr. Townsend.”
“How do you do, Mr. Randall.”
“How do you do,” Randall answered mechanically. “Look here, this has gone far — ”
“Then Mr. Gravesby, Mr. Wells, Mr. Yoakum, Mr. Printemps, Mr. Jones. Mr. Phipps you have met. He is our secretary. Beyond him is seated Mr. Reifsnider and Mr. Snyder — no relation. And finally Mr. Parker and Mr. Crewes. Mr. Potiphar, I am sorry to say, could not attend, but we have a quorum.”
Randall tried to get up again, but the table top seemed unbelievably slippery. “I don’t care,” he said bitterly, “whether you have a quorum or a gang fight. Let me out of here.”
“Tut, Mr. Randall. Tut. Don’t you want your questions answered?”
“Not that bad. Damn it, let me — ”
“But they really must be answered. This is a business session and you are the business at hand.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You are, shall we say, a minor item on the agenda, but one which must be cleared up. We do not like your activity, Mr. Randall. You really must cease it.”
Before Randall could answer, Stoles shoved a palm in his direction. “Don’t be hasty, Mr. Randall. Let me explain. Not all of your activities. We do not care how many blondes you plant in hotel rooms to act as complacent correspondents in divorce cases, nor how many wires you tap, nor letters you open. There is only one activity of yours we are concerned with. I refer to Mr. Hoag.” He spat out the last word.
Randall could feel a stir of uneasiness run through the room.
“What about Mr. Hoag?” he demanded. There was the stir again. Stoles’ face no longer even pretended to smile.