Hardin stood in his characteristic attitude, legs outstretched, his hands in his pockets. “Rickard?”
“Coming back, Ogilvie says. He went out a few minutes ago.”
“Just like Marshall, that.” Hardin moved over to the leather lounge where MacLean was sitting. Neither man answered him. It was Hardin’s method of acknowledging the situation.
Rickard entered a few minutes later, Estrada behind him. Ogilvie followed Rickard to his desk.
“Well?” inquired the new manager.
Ogilvie explained lengthily that he had the minutes of the last meeting.
“Leave them here.” Rickard waved him toward Estrada, who held out his hand for the papers.
Ogilvie’s grasp did not relax. He stammered: “There is no secretary. I’ve been taking the minutes—”
“Thank you. Mr. Estrada will read them. We do not need you, Mr. Ogilvie.”
Ogilvie stood, turning his expressionless eyes from one director to the other as if expecting that order to be countermanded. Babcock and MacLean appeared to be looking at something outside through the vine-framed windows. An ugly smile disfigured Hardin’s mouth.