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The outer door to my office was ajar when I arrived and a dim light showed within. Mindful of what I had discovered last time there was someone waiting for me, I pushed the door open gingerly, my revolver once again in my hand. It was Busby Logan, Merton Vale's partner, sitting in one of my more comfortable armchairs, calmly smoking a cigarette and looking very much alive. "Good morning," he said calmly. He looked like he had slept well, arisen thoroughly rested without the aid of a clamorous alarm, then enjoyed a stimulating cup of fresh coffee before bathing and dressing. I felt grubby, tired and care-worn by comparison. I put the revolver back in the pocket of my coat, threw my hat on my desk and slumped in the squeaky swivel chair behind it. The reason I had taken up residence in my swivel chair was to check that my desk drawers had not been tampered with - at least, not obviously - and that the briefcase had been removed. The glamour that would have given the impression to an observer that I was still in my office had evidently evaporated hours ago - it was all I could expect from such a cheap magic - and it might even have collapsed before Clunie had got here to collect the bag. "You look like you've been up all night," Logan added with sincere and deeply irritating cheeriness. "I have, but that's none of your business," I growled, "So what exactly is your business here?" "Ah, well," Logan said conversationally, stubbing out his cigarette in the battered glass ashtray I had slung on the occasional table, "Actually, I'm here to help you, I think. There's something I've discovered which might have a bearing on the death of Vale." He looked at me placidly, as if the matter was of supreme unimportance. "I can just go away, if you'd prefer," he added without rancour. "No, no," I replied, trying to reign in my bad attitude, currently fuelled by a combination of distrust and tiredness, "What is it that you want to tell me?" "It's like this," he said, settling back in his chair as if he owned the place, "I'm the junior partner at Vale, Madderfy and Logan, and it falls to me to produce the monthly accounts for our own practice - our own business accounts, if you will. It's something I've been doing for two or three years now." "Uh-huh." My reaction was rigidly controlled and non-committal in the extreme. "So what of it?" "It was boring work. And I didn't pay much attention. I rushed it." I find it difficult to imagine what accountants would find exciting, although inspecting columns of numbers all day certainly hits my personal definition of extreme boredom. "I thought I was only asked to undertake this work snce I was the junior partner," Logan went on, "And I was certainly kept busy enough with client work that I could give only the most cursory of attention to our own accounts. Then I started wondering about some of the transactions I was being asked to record and cross-reference. They looked odd." "Odd?" I echoed, "How so?" Logan frowned suddenly, the lines on his forehead and around his eyes standing out. "Sums of money being paid out, for what appear to be entirely unspecified services," he said carefully, "And, a few days later, the same sums appearing as income for another service, equally vaguely defined." It was my turn to frown. "So what?" "So we're not making any money." "Huh?" "In short, the partnership of Vale, Madderfy and Logan is not doing very much business," Logan explained patiently, "And the only real clients that we had, it turns out that I was running their books. There were just enough transactions to give the appearance that money was coming in and bills were being paid, but it was just the same funds going around and around." "So the partnership is broke?" I demanded. Logan laughed aloud, an uninhibited reaction at odds with his controlled manner. "Accountancy practices don't go broke," he said patronisingly, "Demand for accountants is so high that there's always work to do, fees to earn, even if it sort-of slides into a different business arrangement. Besides, the partnership costs really aren't that high." While the fees for professional services, I added silently, are inevitably astronomical. "There's always some way of making a few dollars," Logan went on, "But neither Merton nor Creagan had been bothering to earn any fees in recent years." "So what have they been doing?" I wondered aloud. "I don't know," Logan answered, "Or at least I didn't, until yesterday. It looks like Vale had been distracting himself with that floozy, whatever her name is." "Maybe," I grunted. Attractive though Clunie's assets most certainly were, I doubted Vale would have found them so alluring that he would have had no time for money-making activities. "And Madderfy?" I added. "No idea." Logan stood up suddenly. I stood too, the swivel chair leaping backwards with a noisier example of its characteristic squeak. "Anyway, that's it," Logan pronounced, "Now I have to get to my office. Somebody's got to do some work around there." "Well, thank you, Mister Logan," I said, stepping around the desk with my hand outstretched. "I hope you can make something of it," he replied, shaking my hand and moving to the door, "It sure beats me." No doubt it would indeed beat him. I wondered whether it was Vale or Madderfy - it could be either of them - who had taken on Logan. The perfect partner: dim, unimaginative and plodding. Perfect if you wanted to do something else, something secret and perhaps illegal, without anyone noticing.
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Part 58