Death Wish by Brian Garfield Page B

The old man’s office was a repository for oddments of decor from each of the firm’s stopping places. An antique stock-ticker, a pair of grandmother clocks and four hideous gilt cherubs as wall decorations. The furnishings were pleasantly mismatched, the products of several different decades and levels of company prosperity: in one corner sat a modern Danish chair, a mock-Victorian step-end table, and a brass floorlamp from the ‘Twenties with a plain, cheap shade.
    It was a huge office, plushly carpeted, occupying five hundred square feet of corner space with enormous windows on both exterior walls—a good view of the U.N. Building and the East River.
    Paul pulled a chair forward and sat. Ives said, “How’s your daughter getting along?”
    â€œNot much change from last week, I’m afraid.”
    â€œA crying shame,” the old man said. “I certainly hope she pulls out of it.”
    â€œThe doctors have every confidence she will.”
    â€œYes. Well. Still I expect you’re very worried and anxious about her.”
    â€œYes, naturally.”
    â€œThere is something I can do to help—or to be exact, to help you to help yourself. That’s why I asked you to come by. It’s a job for you, and there ought to be a sizable bonus in it if everything works out as it should. I’m sure the hospital expenses are quite heavy for you—I realize you’ve got that major-medical policy, but all the same there are always considerable expenses the insurance won’t cover.”
    â€œYes sir, that’s quite true. I’ve had to dip into our little securities portfolio.”
    â€œThen this ought to help handily.”
    â€œI appreciate your consideration, Mr. Ives, but I’d prefer not to accept charity.”
    â€œNothing of the kind, Paul. You’ll earn it.” Ives had his elbows on the leather arms of his high-backed swivel chair. He steepled his fingers and squinted, making it clear he was going to be strictly business about it. “Of course it’s this Amercon situation. I had a call from George Eng this morning. Their board of directors wants to proceed in the direction he outlined to you a few weeks ago.”
    â€œA merger with Jainchill Industries, you mean.”
    â€œYes. Howard Jainchill was here in the city last week and George Eng had several meetings with him. Everything seemed to go reasonably well, but of course they can’t sit down to do any serious dickering until the two companies have examined each other’s books. Naturally that’s where we come in, as Amercon’s accountants.”
    â€œWe’re to go over the Jainchill figures.”
    â€œYes, quite. Of course the Jainchill home-office is out in Arizona.”
    Paul got a very straight look; Ives went on: “I thought, frankly, a trip away from the city might be good for you at this juncture.”
    â€œWell, I hadn’t thought about it but it might be a good idea,” Paul said uncertainly.
    Ives seemed to be waiting for a rider to the statement. When Paul added nothing the old man said, “Well then, that’s settled, you’ll fly out with George Eng the end of next week.”
    â€œIt’s very kind of you, Mr. Ives, but on a matter this big, shouldn’t one of the senior members handle it?”
    â€œNot necessarily. It’s your kind of job.”
    â€œWell, I’d like to be sure it’s not going to—cause friction.”
    â€œPaul, I’m not concerned with doing a favor for you, except tangentially. You have a keen eye for other bookkeepers’ elastic accounting methods, you’ve always been willing to call a spade a spade. You handled the Masting case last year, so you’re a bit more up-to-date on this particular variety of merger than most of the rest of the members. And you——”
    â€œExcuse me, Mr. Ives, but in the Masting case we knew they were cooking the books