home tonight?” Brenda teased with a smile as she stopped in the doorway on her way out.
Madeline shrugged her shoulders and gave her friend an easy smile, her dark eyes quiet. “Two more letters to go. Mr. Richards said he was to have them out today—McCallum’s orders,” she added with mock solemnity, and brushed away a strand of auburn hair that curled rebelliously at her eye.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Mystery.” Brenda laughed. “You’d think he’d drop in on his own company once in a while, wouldn’t you? Have you ever seen him at all?”
Madeline shook her head. “Not even once. Of course,” she added mischievously, “I was just across the way with the peons until that promotion two months ago. This building is strictly for the company brass, so it isn’t likely that I’d have seen E.F. McCallum in person.” She frowned. “I wonder what the E.F. stands for? Ever Faithful? Evenly Fried?”
“How about Eccentric Fiend?” Brenda suggested. “After all, they say he’s relentless when it comes to business. You wouldn’t know about that, of course; you only know about the big boss through Mr. Richards.” She sighed. “Dear old Mr. Richards.”
Madeline eyed her. “He’s a very nice man until something goes wrong.”
“Something always goes wrong,” her friend countered.
“He never yells when one of us is out sick,” she returned doggedly.
Brenda shook her head. “You’ll find at least one nice thing to say about the devil, wouldn’t you, dear? Don’t you ever wonder what McCallum looks like?” she asked suddenly.
“Yes. But I think I know why nobody ever sees him,” she said with a taciturn expression.
“Why?”
“I’ll bet he’s got terminal acne,” Madeline said, “and only goes out with his head in the hood. Or maybe he’s so short and wizened that. . . .”
“I’ve heard all this before. Have a nice weekend, bye!” And Brenda was gone like a small whirlwind.
With a sigh, Madeline finished her letters and signed them with McCallum’s name and her initials. They’d still have to be okayed through Mr. Richards, in spite of the fact that she was technically answerable to McCallum only. But, she reasoned, how could she be answerable to a phantom?
She held out a letter and studied the name with a slight frown. What, she wondered, was E.F. McCallum like? Was he tall, short, old, young? He might have walked through her former office a dozen times, and she’d never known who he was. She’d never even seen a picture of him, because rumor had it that he’d been known to break cameras that were poked in his face. Another argument, she thought wickedly, in favor of the terminal acne theory. . . .
Of course, she reminded herself, McCallum was the head of a dozen corporations just like this one, and probably in each of the international offices he had a man just like Mr. Richards who held the reins of control. But why couldn’t he, just once a year or so, stop in to review the troops and let himself be seen? There were always rumors, of course. This month’s favorite was that he had a mistress in France and spent the majority of his time in the Paris office for that reason. But there were just as many counter rumors linking him with women all over the world. Nobody really knew McCallum.
Of course, there was the usual bonus every Christmas with his personally signed and much duplicated note of thanks. There was a Christmas card, a very fancy one, with his signature engraved in gold leaf. There was a small gift for each of his personal staff, but no personal contact. Ever.
Perhaps it was just as well, Madeline thought as she finished stuffing the envelopes and stamped them. The mystery had its own delight, and if she wanted to pretend that her never-seen boss was the image of Clark Gable, that was nobody’s business. Anyway, a man in a dream was ever so much safer than a real one. After Phillip
She gathered her sweater and purse and went home.
* * *
As she pulled into the long driveway of the suburban house her aunt had willed her, she glanced next door and saw that the workmen were still busy on the patio and swimming pool which were being added to it. The familiar red Jaguar and the familiar blonde, however, were missing. There was a very sedate black Mercedes in the driveway.
The blonde had been a landmark to the neighbors for two years or more. Why a woman of such obvious wealth chose to make her home in this middle-class neighborhood was the subject of much speculation. She never mixed with the neighbors or had anything at all to do with them. Probably, Madeline thought, she was simply too busy for it—which was a kinder sentiment than most of the other residents aired. The majority’s opinion was that she was some rich man’s mistress. Of course, there were rarely any visitors who stayed overnight; and even then, the cars were always different, and, Madeline told herself, nobody, not even the super rich came in a new and different luxury car every time.
Dismissing the puzzle, she parked her small economy car under the carport, locked it, and went into the comfortable split-level house that had been the last home of her aunt and uncle. It was really a bigger house than she needed, but it had been home for a number of years now, and she liked the seclusion of the nearby woods, the little stream that ran through the property, and the garden spot to grow things in. Besides, it was a pleasant neighborhood with pleasant people who, thank God, minded their own business and left each other alone. Madeline liked the privacy of it. The tall hedge between her and the blonde was as good as a stone wall, and there was nothing but a small forest of fruit trees on the other side of the house. Trees in the yard sheltered her from the road. It was like a country home although it was just minutes from the sprawling office complex where she worked. And she loved it.
As she walked into the living room, with its clutter of patchwork cushions and earth colors in the furnishings, she saw Sultana stretched lazily on the brown upholstery of the couch, where she had no business being. With a laugh, Madeline swept the lean, long Siamese cat up in her arms.
“You bad cat,” she chided, watching the crossed blue eyes stare unblinkingly back at her from the smoky gray face in startling contrast to the snowy white that surrounded her points. “You know you don’t belong on the couch. Come here and I’ll feed you.”
She put the young feline on the floor, and Sultana followed her into the kitchen chattering noisily in a voice that sounded like a cross between a squalling baby and a Model-T Ford that couldn’t quite start.
“Noisy, aren’t you?” Madeline laughed. “I don’t know why I bother talking to you, Cabbage, when I don’t speak Siamese any better than you understand English.”
Sultana was the name on the cat’s papers, but Cabbage she had become when she ate a chunk of it that Madeline was shredding for slaw. She’d read somewhere about cats having three names—one for special occasions, one for everyday, and; one that was secret. It seemed to be true. The secret one was probably only to Sultana, too.
Sultana Cabbage made a loud remark as she settled down in front of her bowl. Madeline left her there and went to change clothes, still vaguely curious about that third name.
Minutes later, in a pair of beige slacks with a beige and white cotton knit blouse, she started a fire in the charcoal grill in the back yard. It was early summer, and the afternoons were warm and pleasant. Madeline loved to eat out on the picnic table and listen to the crickets and June bugs harmonizing in the woods. Especially after a day like today.
She
