Part 7 (1/2)

In his office, he switched on the visiphone and made contact with a square-faced man who frowned mightily when he recognized his caller.

”What do you want?” Stinson said.

”I have to see you,” Tom told him. ”I learned something this afternoon, about Walt Spencer. I don't know whether you'll believe it or not, but I have to take that chance. Will you talk to me?”

”All right. But we'll have to make it down here.”

”I'll be there in an hour. I want to organize a few things first. Then we can talk.”

Tom switched off, and began to empty his desk. He found nothing in the official communications of the Homelovers that would substantiate his story, but he continued to gather what information he could about the PR program.

He was just clicking the locks on his brief case, when a gray-haired woman with a pencil thrust into her curls popped her head in the doorway.

”Mr. Blacker?” she smiled. ”I'm Dora, Mr. Wright's secretary. Mr. Wright wants to know if you'll stop in to see him.”

”Wright?” Tom said blankly.

”The treasurer. His office is just down the hall. He's very anxious to see you, something about the expense sheets you turned in last week.”

Tom frowned. ”Why don't I see him in the morning?”

”It won't take but a minute.”

”All right.”

He sighed, picked up the brief case, and followed Dora outside. She showed him the door of an office some thirty paces from his own, and he entered without knocking.

A frail man, with a bald head and a squiggly moustache, stood up behind his desk.

”Oh, dear,” he said nervously. ”I'm terribly sorry to do this, Mr.

Blacker. But I have my instructions.”

”Do what?”

”Oh, dear,” Mr. Wright said again.

He took the gun that was lying in his out-box, and fired it. His trembling hand sent the bullet spanging into the wooden frame of the door. Tom dropped to the thick carpet, and then scrambled to the tall credenza set against the right wall of the office. He shoved it aside with his left hand and ducked behind it. The treasurer came out from behind his desk, still muttering to himself.

”Please,” he said in anguish, ”this is very painful for me!”

He fired the gun again, and the bullet tore a white hole in the wall above Tom's head.

”Don't be so difficult,” the little man pleaded. ”Sooner or later--”

But Tom insisted upon being difficult. His fingers closed around a loose volume of New York State Tax Laws, and jiggled it in readiness. When the little treasurer came closer, he sprung from hiding and hurled the book.

It slammed against Wright's side, and surprised him enough to send the arm holding the weapon into the air. That was the advantage Tom wanted.

He leaped in a low-flying tackle, and brought Wright to the carpet. Then he was on top of the little man, grappling for the gun. Tom fought hard to get the gun.