Detective

Mildred delivered the file in ten seconds flat. After she’d scooted out again, Murphy crossed his legs, opened the file and said, “Now then, you asked what is your standard order?”
    “That’s right.”
    “That would be 25 thousand units.”
    “How often?”
    “Once a month.”
    “At what terms?”
    “For 25 thousand units we allow you the 50 thousand bracket price less 2 percent discount for net cash.”
    Among the numerous jobs I have had throughout my less than distinguished writing career, was teaching algebra for one term at a private boarding school. I was 28 at the time, and the only algebra I knew was what I remembered vaguely from my junior year at high school. To make matters worse, I was pressed into service because the real algebra teacher died halfway through the school year, so the class was a whole term ahead of me when I began. Not having the faintest idea what I was doing, and not wanting to let it show, I soon developed my own method of teaching. Every time I hit a problem I didn’t understand, which was often, I would send the class genius to the board and have him do it, which he always could. I would learn the procedure by watching him, and then when he was done I could sharpshoot, offering criticism such as, “Yes, that’s very good, but in step #3 you could have combined terms before you multiplied instead of after,” which, of course, while true, had no effect on the actual answer, which was invariably right. By that device, my own version of the Socratic method, I was able to get through to the end of the term without ever having to actually admit to the students that I hadn’t the faintest idea what I was talking about.
    I was using this old teaching method now. Murphy, my class genius, had been called upon to recite, and I was preparing to sit back and sharpshoot.
    “The 50 thousand bracket less 2?” I said.
    He checked the ledger sheet again. “That’s right.”
    “Well, now—” I began.
    My beeper went off. Its high pitched “Beep, beep, beep” filled the room. Christ! I’d forgotten I had the damn thing on. Now Richard’s office was beeping me. I reached quickly into my jacket and shut it off.
    “What the hell was that?” Murphy said.
    Before I could answer, the beeper went off again. It always went off twice when they beeped me. The second beep was supposed to be a safety check, which seemed pretty stupid to me. If the first beep didn’t work, the second one wouldn’t either, and if you heard the first beep, you didn’t need the second one.
    The system of double beeping had never irritated me more than it did now.
    “What is that?” Murphy said as I shut off the second beep.
    “Just my office beeping me.”
    Murphy stared at me. “From Miami?” he asked, incredulously.
    “No, no,” I told him. “The branch office here in Manhattan. I have to call in. Could I use your phone?”
    “Certainly,” he said, pointing to the desk. “Dial nine for an outside line.”
    I dialed 9, got an outside line, and called Richard’s office.
    Kathy answered the phone with her dulcet snarl.
    “Hi,” I said. “You beeped.”
    “You’re damn right, I beeped,” she said. “Mrs. Rabinowitz just called. She said you never called her.”
    “I called twice and the line was busy. After that I got no answer.”
    “Oh yeah? Well, she’s been there the whole time. Waiting for you.”
    “Maybe you gave me the wrong number.”
    Kathy was incensed. “I didn’t give you the number. Susan gave you the number.”
    “Well, maybe it’s wrong. Let’s double check. What number do you have?”
    Reluctantly, she read me the number.
    “Ah, that’s it,” I told her. “You had the last digit wrong.”
    “ We had it right, damn it!” Kathy shrieked. “You wrote it down wrong.”
    She hung up on me. I hung up too, and turned to Murphy. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I have to make a private business call. Is there a pay phone I could use?”
    I wasn’t sure if making private business calls was standard procedure in the textile industry, but if it wasn’t, Murphy never blinked an eye, just directed me to a pay phone in the lobby, which indicated either my request wasn’t that unusual, or else Whitney Corporation was one hell of a good account.
    I went down to the lobby, called Mrs. Rabinowitz, apologized, told her I was tied up at the moment, and made an appointment for four in the afternoon. In the elevator on the way back up, I went over the information I’d