Derrence said, "Not exactly," and regretted having given into his impulse to act important. "Well, work's awaitin', as they say in the Ozarks." He chuckled. "Though for future reference, Ed, you needn't come in until nine-fifteen. The hours at Chester Chemical...."
"Yes, I know, but I am an early riser. I will be here each morning at eight-thirty, perhaps earlier."
Derrence decided he didn't like Tzadi. There was something vaguely foreign in the way the man spoke. Not that he had an accent. It was more a matter of off-beat timing. And that name—Central European in origin. Personnel was getting sloppy.
"I'm afraid that's not feasible, Ed. At eight, the cleaning people leave, locking the hall doors. Miss McCarty and I have keys, but we couldn't allow them out of our possessions. (He'd waited three years before borrowing Miss McCarty's and having a copy made.)
"I too have a key." The fat man beamed. "That solves our little problem, doesn't it?"
"How'd you get...." He stopped short. Time to leave. Should never have come in here in the first place. This man isn't an ordinary writer!
"Is there anything wrong, Der?"
Derrence smiled. "Wrong? Of course not. Just thought of an urgent bit of business. Again, welcome aboard, Ed."
"And again, thank you, Der." Tzadi smiled, somewhat apologetically. "And again, that question."
"What question?"