Scam

“When’s the meeting?”
    “Next week.”
    “Then the proxies must already be in.”
    “True, but if my client’s doing what I think he’s doing, then his next move would be to call the larger stockholders and get them to come to the meeting in person. A proxy is superseded when the stockholder’s actually there. So, he’d get enough stockholders at the meeting to gain a controlling interest, and then have me do my stuff.”
    “How do you know all that—about proxies, I mean?”
    “Actually, I read it in a book.”
    “A detective novel?”
    “That doesn’t make it wrong.”
    “It doesn’t make it right, either.”
    “No, but it’s logical. Everything points to it. I locate this talent agent and my client tells me not to interview her. I can’t understand why, but the answer is simple. He’s the one who hired her, and he doesn’t want me to uncover that.”
    “I got all that,” MacAullif said. “You don’t have to spell it out. Listen, all ethical considerations aside, why should it ever come to that? Why don’t you just confront your client with this?”
    “Can’t reach him. I called him at home, his wife said he was working late. I called him at work, and the office is closed.”
    “So you decided to lay it on me.”
    “I thought you’d get a kick out of it.”
    “Actually, I did,” MacAullif said. “You made a total fool of yourself. But you didn’t do anything illegal. You didn’t make me an accessory to a crime. And you didn’t present me with anything I have to act on. All you did was expose yourself to humiliation and ridicule.” He shrugged, shook his head. “Hell, it’s the best of all possible worlds.”
    “Yeah, fine,” I said. “Suppose I talk to my client, and he denies being the guy who hired the girl, claims he was set up and demands I go to the stockholders meeting and tell what I know—what the hell do I do then?”
    MacAullif grinned, nodded in agreement with himself.
    “The best of all possible worlds.”

20.
    I CAME OUT OF ONE Police Plaza, walked down to City Hall, and caught the Lexington Avenue Express uptown. I had my car, but I’d left it uptown in the municipal lot. You can’t fight City Hall, and you can’t park near it either. When visiting MacAullif, I often took the subway. Just another glamorous, strap-hanging New York PI.
    I came up for air at Lexington Avenue and 59th Street, and walked uptown to 66th. There was a pay phone on the corner that appeared to be both unoccupied and working, a long-shot parlay in New York City. I considered investing a quarter to see if Cranston Pritchert was there. I decided against it. I didn’t really want to warn him I was coming. No, I’d only call upstairs if I couldn’t get in.
    Turned out I could. The lobby was wide open. Which was a bit unusual. Manhattan office buildings often lock the doors at night, have security guards, make visitors sign a register to get in, or some combination of the three. Cranston Pritchert’s building had none of them. The employees of Philip Greenberg Investments could come and go as they pleased.
    Of course, so could various assorted derelicts, winos, muggers, rapists, and murderers, but hey, it wasn’t my building.
    I went in, rang for the elevator, took it up to the eighth floor.
    As I came out of the elevator and walked down the hall, it occurred to me I’d done exactly the same thing the day before, when I’d barged in to confront Cranston Pritchert with faking the extortion letter. And here I was, not much more than twenty-four hours later, confronting him with yet another perfidious act. It occurred to me my client and I did not have the best possible working relationship.
    The massive oak door guarding the offices of Philip Greenberg Investments looked formidable, but proved to be unlocked. I slipped in, closing it gently behind me—no need to warn my prey. Lights were on, but there was no one there. I cocked my head, listened, couldn’t hear a sound. If Pritchert was there, he must be in his office.
    He wasn’t, though. When I walked down the hall and poked my head in, there was no one there. Then it occurred to me, was this really his office? I mean, how much attention had I been paying yesterday? He’d led me in here, talking all the time. My only real concern had been the wastebasket. Yes, there was one there, but it was standard office furniture, and who was to say every office didn’t have one just like it? I mean, was that really his desk?
    I