Free Clarkton by Howard Fast Page B

high windows, ancient green lamps, and musty mahogany furniture, deciding that Gelb, with his iron-gray hair, his faultless brown worsted, handkerchief in pocket, his square shoulders and neatly trimmed mustache, looked far more the executive than either Wilson or himself; and he reflected that Wilson was not far from wrong when he had predicted the confidence that Gelb could inspire.
    Both Gelb and Frank Norman had been pleasantly different from what he had expected. Norman looked like a clean-cut undergraduate, short haircut, good posture, intelligent speech, the sort of person he would have accepted without question if Fern had brought him home. His specialty was maintenance, and now they had left him at the plant, to watch the operation of the maintenance crew, to acquaint himself with the various guards, and to get the general feel of the place. Lowell had liked the genuine humility with which he asked questions and accepted information.
    Now, as they seated themselves in Jack Curzon‛s office, Wilson asked the police chief, “Is Freddy Butler here?”
    â€œI didn’t know you wanted him here.”
    â€œYou didn’t know I wanted him,” Wilson said. “We only got the whole damned plant tied up, but we want to spend the morning talking with you. We can talk about what a nice sunny day it is for this time of winter.”
    Curzon had been talked to by Wilson before, but he didn’t like it in front of Gelb and Lowell, and he had a feeling that Wilson was putting on a performance for the benefit of Gelb. His lips tightened, but while he was trying to think of just the right thing to say to Wilson, something subtle enough to reestablish himself with the other and yet not make for open defiance of the plant manager, Gelb stepped into the gap and said:
    â€œNo reason why Jack can’t get Butler over here now, while we wait, is there? I’m sure we have enough to talk about.” He was better at first names than Wilson; and Curzon, who had been prepared to admire him, found himself liking him.
    â€œIt’s not good for him to come here,” Curzon said apologetically. “If someone sees him come in, he’s got to have an excuse.”
    â€œThen suppose you give him an excuse,” Wilson said.
    Curzon picked up the phone. “Okay. If that’s the way you want it, okay.”
    They’only had to wait a few minutes before Butler appeared, for it turned out that the man Curzon sent after him ran into him on the street, only three blocks away. Lowell said almost nothing during that time, sitting there and listening to Gelb and Wilson and Curzon talk. The idea of Butler’s working for Wilson in the fashion he did was not one that Lowell found palatable, but he accepted it in the same way he had accepted Wilson’s insistence that he take measures to protect his property through Leopold and James. The very fact that no one involved in these matters, except for himself, had any notion or feeling that they were more or less than routine, assured him that his own sensitivity was ridiculous; and the headache he was beginning to develop was only added proof that he would have been content enough to let things take their course, provided only that he did not have to participate. Such headaches were familiar signatures of a situation, and he answered by telling himself that from here until it was over, he would know what Wilson was doing, whether it was pleasant or not.
    Gelb was commenting on the fact that it was a very nice town. “A satisfying town to live in,” he said. “I like a town this size. It has a healthy atmosphere.”
    â€œIt’s a good place to raise a family,” Curzon said. He told Gelb about something his little girl had done that morning, and Gelb laughed with just the right degree of appreciation, enough to satisfy Curzon yet restrained sufficiently to assure both Wilson and Lowell that he, Gelb, had measured the man. In all