Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 7, No. 9, September 1962

“Oh, I don’t know. Married men are just men who happen to be married. Don’t be so naive, Julie. All these vice-presidents with their private telephone lines... I’ll bet it isn’t all business they talk about behind those closed doors. And I’ll bet if your Mr. Turner gave you a tumble, you wouldn’t exactly fight him off. I can tell when a girl has a crush... Oops, get to work, here’s your boss now...”

Mr. Turner was as unlike Mr. Cassidy as a man could be. In his middle thirties, the company’s youngest vice-president, he was clean cut, methodical and one hundred percent business. He walked by the girls’ desks quickly, offered a brusque good morning, then disappeared into his office.

“Well, I have to admit he’s good looking,” Mary sighed. “But did you ever see his wife? Ten years older if she’s a day. And she looks like something the cat dragged in.”

“No, she doesn’t...” Julie objected.

“Yes, she does. And everyone here knows he married her strictly for her money. I remember when she was just another rich client... only six months ago... a born old maid if ever I saw one.”

“I remember her very well,” said Julie. “She was just an unhappy, lonely woman...”

“Sure. But then handsome boy took over the account and... wham!... they get married. One of these days, you’ll see, he’ll quit working, retire for life... on her money, of course.”

Julie’s telephone rang. Saved by the bell, she thought, reaching for it. But it was quite a shock... speak of the devil... to learn who was calling.

“Julie, this is Mrs. Turner.”

“Oh, good morning. Just one moment, I’ll tell Mr. Turner you’re calling...”

“No, no, no, Julie. I don’t even want him to know I’ve called. I want to speak to you. Can we meet for lunch? I must have a talk with you...”

“With me?” There was no mistaking the urgency in the woman’s voice, Julie reflected. “Well, yes, of course, Mrs. Turner. What is it you want to speak to me a—?”

A burst of static interrupted the girl as the intercom box on her desk came to life. The signal light was on.

“Julie...” Mr. Turner’s voice crackled.

For one eerie moment, Julie experienced an inexplicable panic. She stared at the intercom box and then at the telephone receiver in her hand, realizing that if Mrs. Turner spoke again, her husband would hear. Quickly, Julie clamped her hand over the telephone mouthpiece. Then just as quickly she realized she had covered the wrong end to shut off Mrs. Turner’s voice, and switched to cover the ear-piece.

“Julie, will you bring me the file on Sloban Company...” Richard Turner’s voice directed.

“Yes, right away,” said the girl. She waited until he turned off the intercom, then spoke hurriedly into the telephone. “I have to go now...”

“Yes, I heard,” said the woman.

“I’ll call you back in a few minutes,” Julie promised. “I’d better use a telephone outside. Are you home, Mrs. Turner?”

“Yes. Please don’t forget. I’ll be waiting...”

Mary’s eyebrows were two question marks, but Julie had no time to explain. She moved to the filing cabinets behind the long line of typists’ desks and quickly located the Sloban file. Feelings strangely conspiratorial, she pictured Mrs. Turner in her Washington Square apartment, an overweight, somehow pitiful woman, waiting for the return call. Her expression revealing none of these thoughts, Julie knocked on Mr. Turner’s door.

As she came into his room, Richard Turner was speaking on his private telephone. His grey eyes barely flicked in his secretary’s direction while he continued to charm his widowed client, Mrs. Sloban.

“...Yes, Vera... I realize you don’t want to take risks with the principal. Empire Investment wouldn’t allow such recklessness. I mean, we’d certainly advise against it...”

Julie gazed at the sharp, handsome profile. As always, it did something to her equilibrium she preferred not to acknowledge. There were two telephones on his desk, one an extension of the phone on her desk, the other for “confidential” contact with clients. Julie could remember when Mrs. Turner was one of those clients, a lonely heiress, who rated long conversations as he was now indulging Mrs. Sloban. Marriage, thought Julie, as she placed the Sloban folder on his desk, can certainly cool a man’s ardor... if there had been any ardor in the first place...

“Are you waiting for something?” He had broken off his conversation and was frowning at her irritably. “Well, as long as you’re here—” He fingered the folder. “Are the reports in here up to date? I’m speaking to Mrs. Sloban now and I may have to prepare a detailed report tomorrow—”

Julie explained that there was some tallying of latest dividends to complete but she could bring the folder up to date by tomorrow morning. He interrupted with a weary gesture.

“Instead of daydreaming at my desk, Julie, if you paid more attention to your work...”

He tossed the folder on his desk, dismissing her.