Alcatrante, pressing in against Orme, did not reply.
The starter jerked the door open, and glared at Alcatrante. The steady and undisturbed eye of the minister had its effect, and after a moment of hesitation the starter banged the door shut and gave the signal and the car leaped upward.
Tom Wallingham’s office was on the eighth floor. Though he knew that Alcatrante would cling to him, Orme could think of nothing better to do than to go straight to the office and count on the assistance of Bixby, who would certainly remember him. Accordingly he called out “Eight!” and, ignoring Alcatrante, left the elevator and walked down the hall, the South American at his elbow.
They passed a long series of doors, the glass panels of which were inscribed, “The Wallingham Company—Private,” with index-fingers pointing the direction of the main entrance. This was the Chicago branch of the great New York Corporation, and Thomas Wallingham, senior, had placed his son in charge of it two years before. The business was the manufacturing of refrigerators. One side of the reception-room which Orme entered hurriedly, Alcatrante still beside him, was given over to a large specimen refrigerator chamber, built in with glistening white tiles. The massive door, three feet thick, was wide open, showing the spotless inner chamber. In the outer wall was a thermometer dial fully a foot in diameter.
Once inside the reception-room, Orme stopped and looked again at Alcatrante. There was menace in the look, but the South American did not flinch. Indeed, the glance which met his own seemed to Orme to be disarmingly good-natured. Its essence was a humorous recognition that the situation had its ridiculous side.
But Orme, knowing that much was at stake, did not for an instant trust his unwelcome companion. Alcatrante would cling to him like an Old Man of the Sea, awaiting the opportunity to get the better of him. Every wile would be employed; but publicity was no part of the game—Orme began really to believe that.
To shake off Alcatrante, perhaps there was no better way than to lure him to some deserted place and overpower him. But would not Alcatrante be likely to have anticipated such a move? And would he not resort to desperate measures of his own before Orme could put his own plans into practice? Bixby might help.
Orme walked over to the inquiry-window. “I want to see Mr. Bixby,” he said, offering his card.
The young woman behind the window took the card, but at the same time she said: “Mr. Bixby left a few minutes ago. He won’t be back to-day. Shall I keep the card for him?”
“It doesn’t matter, thank you,” he said, turning away. Luck was against him. Besides Bixby no one in that office knew him.