on a deme unless you had a high percentage of occupancy. And if nobody else would move into your building, you had to take such off-beats as weirds and escapists.
He proceeded to the elevator banks and headed down for the building’s Administration offices.
As Vice-Demecrat of Shyler-deme, Bat Hardin was supposedly capable of taking over the management of any Division in the building and hence, at the present, found himself in charge of Security. Evidently, Barry Ten Eyck, knowing Bat had in the past been a police officer, was in no hurry to find a new Chief of Security. He was saving budget by doubling up officers.
He entered the outer offices and nodded to the single Security officer who handled the six hour night shift. Bat said, “Morning, Jeffers.”
Jeffers said, “The Head Chef has been trying to get you, Mr. Hardin.”
“Pete Daunou? Oh? What’s up?”
The other looked at him strangely. “You better talk to him. It doesn’t make much sense to me.”
Bat Hardin went into his inner office and sat down at his desk. His secretary, Ruth Wheeler, wasn’t on the scene as yet. He activated one of his phone screens and said into it, “Restaurant Division, please. Pierre Daunou.”
The chef’s rounded face, with its ridiculous little French mustache, faded in. He puffed his rosy cheeks out and popped his eyes.
“What’s the crisis, Pierre?” Bat said. The kitchen division wasn’t exactly from whence you expected to be called on in Security.
“Monsieur Hardin. It is fantastic!” He popped his eyes some more and reared back slightly and held his breath, as though expecting the other immediately to be astounded.
“Okay,” Bat said. “What?”
“Twenty-five barrels of olive oil, they have been stolen.”
Bat Hardin stared at him. “Twenty-five barrels.”
“Twenty-five barrels,” the chef said dramatically. “My own special Montenegrin olive oil.”
“How in the hell can you steal twenty-five barrels of olive oil?”
“Listen, how in the hell can you steal twenty-five barrels of olive oil?” Bat Hardin said, looking around the storage room.
Pierre Daunou made a Gallic gesture of despair. “One does not know. It is impossible. It is ridiculous. What would one even do with it if one was not a chef for twenty thousand people?”
His assistant, who was standing next to him, grunted. “It is more than five thousand liters of the best oil. If I had five thousand liters of Montenegrin olive oil and couldn’t sell it for a small fortune I would go out of business. I would soon find out where.”
Bat Hardin didn’t know the man, which mildly surprised him. He was reasonably well acquainted with the staff of Shyler-deme.
Pierre Daunou looked at the other in contempt. “Best of oil, ha! One knows little of olive oil if one makes such sweeping statements. For salads, yes!” He made a gesture of sweeping approval. But then his face turned indignant. “For cooking, but no. For the flavoring of, say, gazpacho, no. But, no. For such, Spanish olive oil.”
His assistant was no brown-noser. He snapped, “I prefer the Italian.”
“No.”
“Or even the more delicate oils of Provence.”
“Then you are an idiot.”
They glared at each other.
Bat said, “Listen …”
Pierre Daunou turned his glare at him. “You too perhaps prefer the olive oil of Italy to that of Spain for cooking gazpacho?”
Bat said, “I think the Greek is best.”
They both glowered their indignation.
“Holy Smokes,” Bat rasped. “Let’s get off this. I don’t even really know if they make olive oil in Greece and I haven’t the vaguest idea of what gazpacho is. Let’s get to the facts. You call me and say twenty-five barrels of olive oil have been swiped out of your storerooms. It doesn’t make sense. Pilferage, yes. It always happens. Pilferage we will always have with us. But you don’t pilfer twenty-five barrels of anything. What does twenty-five barrels of olive oil, Montenegrin, Spanish, or any other kind, come to? I mean in pseudo-dollars.”
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