“Yes, Mr. Jimm.” Blake sat up stiffly in his swivel chair. Gladstone was the oldest of the Sons.
“Blake, what’s is this about your refusing to rent space?”
“My what? I beg your pardon, Mr. Jimm, but I—”
“Blake, two gentlemen just walked into the home office. Their names are Tooley and Booley. They tell me they tried unsuccessfully to rent the thirteenth floor of the McGowan Building from you. They tell me that you admitted the space was vacant, but that you consistently refused to let them have it. What’s this all about, Blake? Why do you think the firm appointed you resident agent, Blake, to turn away prospective tenants? I might as well let you know that none of us up here in the home office like this one little bit, Blake.”
“I’d have been very happy to rent the thirteenth floor to them,” Blake wailed. “Only trouble, sir, you see, there’s—”
“What trouble are you referring to, Blake? Spit it out, man, spit it out.”
“There is no thirteenth floor, Mr. Jimm.”
“What?”
“The McGowan Building is one of those buildings that has no thirteenth floor.” Laboriously, carefully, he went through the whole thing again. He even drew an outline picture of the building on his desk pad as he spoke.
“Hum,” said Gladstone Jimm when he’d finished. “Well, I’ll say this, Blake. The explanation, at least, is in your favor.” And he hung up.