“I’m trying to convince myself that those figures on the pay roll, which the inspector accepted as O.K., are mistakes—unintentional mistakes.”
“Are you serious?” demanded Hooker.
“I certainly am.”
“Do you mean to tell me that my books are—are off color?”
“I’d hate to believe it, Hooker,” Nash answered.
The foreman appeared to be dumfounded. “What—what sort of a memorandum have you been keeping?” he asked.
“A personal one,” said Nash. “I always believed in a system. I want to know what each of my men is accomplishing. I want to know just how much money I am spending for the city of Los Angeles, and what I am giving in return. One thing is absolutely certain: My salary list has never reached half the sum that you have me credited for.”
Hooker calmly folded his arms and stared at the speaker. “Nash,” he said, “do you remember what I said to you the first day we met?”
“I believe it was something about knowing when to shut my mouth, wasn’t it?”
“Exactly. I said I admired you because you seemed to be sensible, because you possessed a valuable asset in your silence. It seems my ideals are shattered.”