"Yes, Mr. Lippincott," said Rawlings as the cherrywood door with the brass nameplate slammed shut in his face.
"Carry on," he told his staff in a voice as weak as his knocking knees.
JEREMY LIPPINCOTT crossed his cherrywood-paneled office in a blind tizzy. The nerve of that man, Rawlings. Trying to foist his personal failings on a Lippincott. Why, the Lippincotts had landed on Plymouth Rock in the first ship. The Rawlings were easily three sails back, yet he had dared stand up to his betters and speak as if an equal. After this ugliness was done with, he would suffer summary dismissal if Lippincott Savings had to replace him with an Italian-or worse, a damn Irishman!
By the time Jeremy Lippincott had doffed his slate gray Brooks Brothers suit and climbed into his habitual workaday attire, he had revised his thinking. It might be better if Rawlings only went to jail for his failings. That way it might be possible to hold his post open for him and avoid hiring a common type for the long term. Certainly the barbarous equal-hiring laws allowed an employer to hold a spot in reserve for a convicted felon like Rawlings. It only made sense. Rehabilitation and all that nonsense.
Jeremy Lippincott idled the difficult first hour of the working day before lunch by indulging in some witty repartee with one Mistress Fury on the Leather Line 900 number and had nearly recovered his good humor when the sounds of commotion came from the other side of his closed office door.
"You can't go in there!" Rawlings was protesting.
"No, you can't," Miss Chalmers chimed in. "That happens to be Mr. Lippincott's office. And we have express instructions to admit no one when the door is locked."
"So open the door," an unfamiliar voice said. It sounded rather lower-class. Rough would not be too strong a descriptive.
"Only Mr. Lippincott can open that door."
"Then I'll open the door."
"Are you with the IRS?" Rawlings demanded with positively nervous solicitude. The utter coward!
"Worse," returned the impatient voice.
"What is worse than the IRS?"
"The people who sent me. Now, get out of my way."
"I must see proper identification," Rawlings insisted. Good man, that Rawlings. His job was secure once the unfortunate prison interlude was out of the way.
"I left it in the car."
"I will not see anyone without proper identification," Jeremy shouted through the door. For good measure, he repeated it into his intercom, where it was certain to be heard by the intruder. He used his most stentorian voice-the one he employed to berate young Timothy-for additional intimidating power.
"Proper identification coming right up," the voice called back.
Jeremy did not like the way that sounded.
A moment later Rawlings began entering the room, yet the door remained firmly shut. Jeremy would have thought there was no way anyone could enter his office with the door locked.
But there was Rawlings's hand. He recognized it at once, despite its distressingly flattened condition. The man's plain wedding band was unmistakable, as was the inferior fabric of his coat sleeve.
The flattish hand was followed by a very flat arm, and the screams Rawlings emitted were quite shocking to the refined ear.
"Is this ID enough?" the crude voice demanded. "Or do I send the rest of him in?"
"I believe I accept your credentials," Jeremy Lippincott admitted in a gulping voice. He unlocked the door, retreating to the stolid safety of his desk.
The door pushed open and the man stepped in.
"Please shut the door," Jeremy said quickly. "I do not like the help overhearing what is not their business."
The man obliged. That was a good sign. He shut the door, kicking Rawlings's flapping arm out just ahead of the closing panel. He was possessed of a wiry musculature that made the freakish thickness of his wrists all the more arresting, yet had the deadest-looking eyes Jeremy had ever seen. They held a positively merciless light.
Jeremy Lippincott drew himself up to his full imposing height as the man crossed the room. A pinklined ear drooped, slapping his nose lightly. He flung it back with a jaunty toss of his fuzzy head, and squared his lantern jaw.
"I am Jeremy Lippincott, president of Lippincott Savings Bank. How many I help you?"
"You can start by telling me why you're wearing a pink bunny suit."
"Because they do not come in blue. And I consider that an extremely impertinent question, coming as it does from a man in a T-shirt and jeans."
"These are chinos."
"I stand corrected. Will you sit?"
"I'm just here for some answers."
"Then I will sit as I entertain your questions."
"A week back twelve million bucks was wire transferred into the Folcroft Sanitarium account. Who did it?"
"I have no idea. The funds simply appeared in the computers one morning."
"You tell the IRS that?"
"Of course not."
"Why not?"
"They would not believe so unlikely a tale, however true."
"How do you know till you try?"
"Because to admit to these facts is to incur the wrath of various meddlesome governmental agencies.
"As opposed to whose wrath?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"I told you I was worse than the IRS."
"I do not believe that is possible."
"All the IRS come after is your money and property. I usually don't stop at anything. Ask Rawlings."
Jeremy swallowed hard, absently wiping his moist brow with a convenient ear.