"Hmmmmm," said Teri Corbish.
"Open your eyes. I have fantastic news. Good news."
Teri Corbish turned over in bed to face her husband. She felt chilly shakes in her arms and she noticed she had once again succumbed to her habit of sleeping in her clothes.
"You know I waited so long for you to come up that I must have fallen asleep in my clothes again."
"Darling," said Corbish. "T. L. Broon is dead. Just found out. Say hello to the new president of IDC."
"That's fantastic, dear."
"Home free," said Corbish.
"Home free," said his wife. "Let's drink to that. I don't ordinarily drink in the morning but for this, I'm going to."
"President and maybe chairman of the board."
"A double," said Teri.
She stumbled out of bed, then she realized it was not that her feet were unsteady but that a briefcase was in her way on the floor.
"You left your briefcase right in my way."
"It's the martinis, Teri."
"It's the briefcase. Look."
Corbish blinked. Teri was holding T.L.'s briefcase. Was it possible? Yes, it was possible. Williams just might be a fantastic corporate resource. Yet now that he had done his job, he represented a link to tie Corbish to murder.
Corbish steadied himself as he had every morning since taking over the Folcroft operation. Wait. You must have more sock with the courts than the supreme court has, he told himself. You're outside the law. The whole system at Folcroft was set up that way.
Every morning he had constantly had to remind himself of that. In his office at Folcroft, he found himself insulated, strangely free from those worries and this made him wonder why old Dr. Smith had failed to make himself a very, very rich man.
"How did this get in here?" asked Teri.
"Oh, uh, nothing. Just a night delivery, dear."
"The deliveryman could have seen something."
"Between us, Teri?"
"We didn't do it last night?"
"Look at your clothes."
"People do it with their clothes on," she said, then added glumly, "but not us. We don't even do it with our clothes off."
"You've been a fine corporate wife."
"I mean, I'd settle for you right now, instead of the martini."
"Have your martini, dear," said Corbish.
Meanwhile, in a Minneapolis bank, a man who walked with a cane and had portions of his face bandaged, asked to see one of the vice presidents, anyone.
He waited patiently. His clothes hung loosely, like throwaways. His blue shirt had a frayed collar; his shoes, while they had soles and were free of holes, were cracked to submission at the instep. Dr. Harold Smith had picked them up at a Salvation Army chapel on Mission Street in San Francisco. He had hitchhiked across the Rockies, across the Plains states and then north to Minneapolis, where he walked from the small suburb where his ride had let him off to this small bank. Now his right leg throbbed in agony.
"May I ask what your business is about," said the secretary.
"Yes," said Dr. Smith. "A special account."
"You wish to open one?" asked the secretary, trying to hide the suspicion in her voice.
"I have one. Under Densen. William Cudahy Densen. A special account. A savings account."
"If you want to make a deposit or a withdrawal, the tellers will be glad to help you."
"I want to talk to one of the vice presidents."
"Certainly, sir," said the secretary, in the tone of voice one used to humor infants. She excused herself and went into the most junior vice president's office. She told him about the derelict outside.
"What name did you say?"
"William something Densen."
The secretary watched in amazement as the vice president buzzed the president on an intercom.
"Do you remember that funny account you were telling me about, well, someone is here to claim it."
"I'm busy right now," the president said. "Hold him up for a few minutes. I'd like to see him." The vice president nodded and hung up.
"If I may ask, sir, is Mr. Densen someone important?" the secretary asked.
"Oh, no," said the vice president. 'It's just that we've had this peculiar account here for the last, oh, eight to ten years. I heard about it when I first came to work here. Somebody deposited some money. I think it was no more than $5,000. He sent it in by mail on American Express travelers' checks. Now you know the law says a person has to show up to open an account. But Densen sent the money with instructions that we should pay anyone with the correct signature. He said it would be all right with the authorities, and no passbook was needed. Well, we naturally reported it to the banking commission, and the commission did say it would be all right."
"And then what?"
"Then nothing. The account just stayed here."
"Drawing interest?"
"No. That's another peculiarity. No interest was asked for. No passbook. No interest. No one showed up. The money just sat."
"Densen certainly does look strange," said the secretary. "Like a bum."
Strange, too, was Densen's request when he received the money. He wanted two hundred dollars in quarters, one hundred dollars in dimes, twenty dollars in nickels and the rest in twenties and fifties. He carried his money out in a little box. The bank officers watched as he crossed the street to an Army and Navy store. Out of curiosity, the youngest V.P. went to the store to browse. He saw the strange Mr. William Cudahy Densen whose signature had proven valid, buy a bus driver change dispenser, and put it in the box. He saw the strange Mr. Densen go across the street to a clothing store and reemerge in a dull gray suit more than conservative enough for a banker.