Free Executive Suite by Cameron Hawley Page B

Tredway’s first half.
    Pilcher sipped his drink now. His hand was steady again. The smart-money boys wouldn’t seem so smart when the Times and the Herald Tribune came out tomorrow morning with Avery Bullard’s obituary. The Times might even use a picture. He smiled, remembering what Liebermann had said after the Congressional investigation. “About the only reward there’s left for an industrialist in this country is a nice obituary in the New York Times.”
    The smart-money boys would have Avery Bullard’s obituary served up to them with their breakfast. Then the fun would start. The sell orders would pile up before the opening. The first sale would probably be off a point or a point and a half. Then it would really start sliding. By the end of the first hour …
    His mind braked to a dead stop. Tomorrow was Saturday … the market would be closed! He stood up, waiting for the pounding of his heart to subside, telling himself that he must hold his balance, keep his brain sharp and clear, stay cold and smart. Did it really matter? No. What didn’t happen tomorrow would happen Monday morning. Monday would be even better. There would be the whole weekend of rumor and gossip about what the loss of Avery Bullard would mean to Tredway.
    He marshaled more arguments but none was strong enough to counter the disconcerting knowledge that he had been guilty of an error of omission—there was a fact he had missed. The fact itself wasn’t important but the missing was! What else had he overlooked?
    Bruce Pilcher gulped the last of the cocktail and the glass chattered with his trembling hand as it touched the table. Where else had he slipped?
    The sharp point of his mind reached back like an auditor’s pencil, checkmarking the facts. Could he have been wrong about the man in the ambulance? No, it was unquestionably Avery Bullard. Was he dead? Yes, because the interne had covered his face. Wait! Did that mean for certain that he was dead? The checkmark hung suspended. The answer was vital. It was a key point. If Bullard weren’t actually dead, the whole situation changed.
    His eyes darted nervously about the room. The sight of a telephone instrument flashed a thought. He would call the hospital. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Roosevelt. He remembered the name on the ambulance. His hand touched the phone and then drew away. This line went through the switchboard. It would be safer to use a private booth.
    Impulse urged him to run but he forced himself to walk with a carefully measured stride, out through the lobby, speaking casually to three entering members in a voice that betrayed nothing, on to the telephone booth. His fingertips left damp brands on the thin paper as he turned the pages, searching for the number. He found it and dialed.
    â€œPlease connect me with someone who can tell me about the condition of a patient.”
    â€œWhat is the name of the patient about whom you wish to inquire, sir?”
    â€œAvery Bullard—Mr. Avery Bullard.”
    â€œOne moment, please.”
    He waited, his lungs straining as if they had used up the last breath of air in the tiny cubicle.
    â€œB as in Benjamin?” the voice finally came back.
    â€œYes,” and he spelled Avery Bullard’s full name.
    â€œI’m sorry, sir, but we have no patient under that name.”
    â€œBut you must. I saw—he was taken to the hospital in an ambulance this afternoon.”
    â€œThere has been no one by that name admitted during the last twenty-four hours. Perhaps it was one of the other hospitals.”
    â€œNo, it was Roosevelt! I’m sure that—”
    There was a distant click and then silence.
    5.15 P.M. EDT
    â€œMiss Finnick,” the girl at the desk in the waiting room said. “Down the hall. Second door on your right.”
    The doctor was looking at a card when she opened the door, the card that the girl at the desk had made