I glanced quickly at Bertha to see if Whitewell’s habit of carrying stamped air-mail envelopes had registered. Apparently it hadn’t.
Whitewell sealed the envelope, handed it to Endicott. “Rush this into the mail, Paul.”
Endicott took the envelope, said, “I’m not certain of airmail connections out of here, but even if it has to go to San Francisco and back, it’ll be there by tomorrow morning at the latest — which will protect you.”
Kleinsmidt watched him, his eyebrows ominously level.
Abruptly he turned and smiled at Bertha. “So sorry, Mrs. Cool, I interfered with you so early in the morning. Try and overlook it. If you people can learn to accept these interruptions philosophically, it’s going to be a lot easier on you.”
He walked quickly to the door, turned on the threshold, and went out.
I looked over at Arthur Whitewell. He was no longer the flatterer, the somewhat muddled and very much worried father. He showed instead as a man with a quick, keenly incisive mind and the ability to reach snap decisions.
“All right, Endicott,” he said, “you’re going to be running the business. I’ll stay here until this thing is straightened up. You get started for Los Angeles.”
Endicott nodded.
“I’ll be willing to bid up to eighty-five dollars a share to get that block of stock we were talking about last night. You understand?”