"I'll hold my breath," Orison promised. "The elevator is just behind
you. Push a button, will you? And _bon voyage_."
Kraft Gerding called the elevator, marched aboard, favored Orison with
a cold, quick bow, then disappeared into the mysterious heights above
fifth floor.
First the unspeakable Auga Vingt, then the obnoxious Kraft Gerding.
Surely, Orison thought, recovering the _Wall Street Journal_ from her
wastebasket and smoothing it, no one would convert a major Midwestern
bank into a lunatic asylum. How else, though, could the behavior
of the Earmuffs be explained? Could madmen run a bank? Why not, she
thought. History is rich in examples of madmen running nations, banks
and all. She began again to read the paper into the microphone. If she
finished early enough, she might get a chance to prowl those Off-Limits
upper floors.
Half an hour further into the paper, Orison jumped, startled by the
sudden buzz of her telephone. She picked it up. "_Wanji e-Kal, Datto.
Dink ger-Dink d'summa._"
Orison scribbled down this intelligence in bemused Gregg before
replying, "I'm a local girl. Try me in English."
"Oh. Hi, Miss McCall," the voice said. "Guess I goofed. I'm in kinda
clutch. This is Wanji. I got a kite for Mr. Dink Gerding. If you see
him, tell him the escudo green is pale. Got that, doll?"
"Yes, Mr. Wanji. I'll tell Mr. Gerding." Orison clicked the phone down.
What now, Mata Hari? she asked herself. What was the curious language
Mr. Wanji had used? She'd have to report the message to Washington by
tonight's pillow, and let the polyglots of Treasury Intelligence puzzle
it out. Meanwhile, she thought, scooting her chair back from her desk,
she had a vague excuse to prowl the upper floors. The Earmuffs could
only fire her.
Orison folded the paper and put it in the "Out" basket. Someone would
be here in a moment with something new to read. She'd best get going.
The elevator? No. The operators had surely been instructed to keep her
off the upstairs floors.
But the building had a stairway.