Prisoner's Base

The headquarters of Softdown, Incorporated, at 192 Collins Street, in the middle of the ancient jungle between City Hall Park and Greenwich Village, was not an office or a floor, it was a building. Its four-storied front may once have been cream-colored brick, but you would have had to use a chisel or a sand-blaster to find out. However, the two enormous street-floor windows, one on either side of the entrance, were so bright and clean they sparkled. Behind one was a vast geometrical array of bath towels, in a dozen colors and twice that many sizes, and behind the other was a crazy old contraption with a placard resting on one of its crosspieces which said:

HARGREAVE'S SPINNING JENNY

1768

Both sides of the double door were standing open, and I entered. The left half of the wide and deep room was partitioned off all the way back, with a string of doors, but the right half was open, with an army of tables, piled with merchandise. Only four or five people were in sight, scattered around. An opening in the first eight feet of partition had the word information above it, but the old war mare inside, seated at a switchboard, looked too damn skeptical, and I went on by, to the right, to where a rotund and ruddy type stood scratching the top of his ear. I showed him my case, open to display my license card with its photograph, and snapped, "Goodwin. Detective. Where's the boss?"

He barely glanced at it. "Which boss?" he squeaked. "What do you want?"

Another skeptic. "Relax," I told him in an official tone. "I'm on an errand connected with the death of Priscilla Eads. I want to talk with everyone here who will own part of this business because she died, preferably starting at the top. Would it be better to start with you? Your name, please?"

He didn't bat an eye. "You want to see Mr. Brucker," he squeaked.

"I agree. Where is he?"

"His office is down at the end, but right now he's upstairs in the conference room."

"And the stairs?"

He jerked a thumb. "Over there."