Spot on five o'clock I awoke to the call of nature, and peered cautiously around for Lori.  Finding no-one in the bathroom, I tip-toed to her bedroom door, which was wide open.  Lori was evidently not on the premises.

      With time pressing and a long journey ahead of me, I washed, dressed, and folded the sofa-bed.  A pack of fresh eggs lay on the counter-top stood beside the cooker - an invitation to fix my own breakfast?  I toasted some bread, and set about preparing scrambled eggs.  Everything was nearing completion when the front door burst open, and Lori came bounding in looking brisk and cheerful.

      "Hi!" she said.  "You found the eggs?  Good man!  Sleep okay?"

      I told her I'd had a lovely dream about a fascinating girl who lived somewhere in Maryland.

      "And I dreamt about some rogue Englishman," she replied, "who did his best to make me reveal all my personal secrets."

      "And did you?"

      "No way.  Look, I hope you didn't think I'd abandoned you?  I just took the car along to top up with gas.  I also bought you a road atlas in case you get lost.  Hey, you're quite a cook!"

      I told her, living on my own I had to be.  The scrambled eggs had just reached perfection - that vital moment when everything begins to coagulate while still remaining smooth and creamy - so I quickly served two portions onto buttered toast, and we sat facing each other at the kitchen table.

      "Mm!" she said in glowing appreciation.  "How do you get it to taste so good?  I know.  You added one of Slaggs's secret ingredients."

      Her light-hearted manner couldn't conceal the underlying sadness we both felt.  I would have been content to prolong breakfast all day, but Lori recommended an early departure to avoid the inevitable morning traffic.  She handed me concise, neatly-written directions which she must have prepared while I was asleep, and advised me I was booked into John's favourite Hilton.

      "When you check in," she warned, "you may be asked for your credit card, but I promise you won't be charged.  John will be joining you before you leave, so he can see to that.  Won't that be fun, getting to know John as well as you got to know me?"

      Our intimate goodbye was all too brief, a kiss and a cuddle in the elevator.  Outside in the crisp morning air, Lori unlocked the car and handed me the keys.

      "I don't know how John will react when he knows about us," she advised, straightening my tie, "so in case you get asked, you stayed last night at the Quality Inn."

      "Which I heartily recommend."

      "At least you found it warm and homey, and breakfast was the best in town.  Oh, one  important thing - if you're about to pass a school bus that's flashing its red lights," she added, "don't, or your flight home may have to be delayed.  Hey, why am I giving you bum advice?  Get yourself arrested!  I'll rent a pad overlooking the State Penitentiary.  Anything.  I'll miss you."

      I gripped her hand.  "Hang in there!  I'll see you again before I fly home even if I have to grow a moustache and hide in your Dad's basement.  I love you."

      One final kiss through the car window, and I was on my own.

      "Remember to drive on the right," an unsteady voice yelled after me.

      For the first two minutes I felt as if I'd been thrown into hell at the deep end, with every demon bent on giving me a hard time.  But once I reached the Interstate, everything soon fell into place.  All I had to do was to sit back and enjoy the ride.  Lori had equipped me with a handful of dollar bills and quarters for use at the various tolls and turnpikes, and as for keeping to the right - almost the entire route was dual carriageway.

      In the course of my four-hour journey I had plenty of time to consider my tactics.  Much depended on whether Quinn or Armitage were on site.  Even if Quinn didn't recognise me, Armitage would - though hopefully not as Alf Porilo.  Ideally I would simply be able to wander around as before, trying to keep out of everyone's way.  Or I could say I turned up for my new job ahead of time - an honest mistake for a pen-pushing dim-wit who hadn't received anything in writing.  Didn't I need also to be interviewed by Fowler, whom I'd missed on Tuesday?  Whatever my ploy, I would behave very casually as though I truly belonged among headless chickens.

      The security guard made no attempt to challenge my right of entry as I drove in through the gates shortly after nine.  I stood for a moment in the parking lot, humble in the knowledge that my legacy was grossly unattractive.  The buildings all needed redecorating, and the abundance of weeds in what had once been flower beds told that no gardener had tended them for months.

      With no sign of Quinn's prestigious car, I decided my first task was to retrieve the tape from his office.  There were few people about and I found Quinn's office unoccupied, but as I spotted Pixie Oliver decorating herself in the adjoining room I postponed the idea.  Besides, Lori hadn't told me precisely where the recorder was hidden - a legitimate reason for phoning her at work.

      Pixie glanced up and piped a cute: "Hi!"

      "Jonathan not in today?"

      "No," she replied sweetly and continued her preening.  Normally, if a boss and his secretary were enjoying informal arrangements of their own I wouldn't have cared, any more than John Flannery need concern himself over my attachment to Lori.  But Pixie's wages were coming out of my profits, and that bugged me.  Surely she could have made some contribution, such as manning the front desk, which I found deserted.  The unattended switchboard buzzed repeatedly and I recalled Hank Murray's frustrations.  I even considered answering the damned thing myself, but decided it was best not to attract attention by showing the slightest spark of initiative.

      Beyond the glass partitions of the Accounts Department upstairs, everyone looked well occupied, doubtless engaged in falsifying records.   And there, standing guard in the doorway and smoking an evil pipe, was the untidiest specimen of manhood I had ever seen.  If I'd had my way, this person would not have gained a job unblocking drains, let alone working in an office.  His suit bore the sartorial charm of a tarpaulin - discoloured, shapeless, and pitted with tiny holes where sparks of glowing tobacco had fallen from his pipe.  From a distance the man looked as if he smelt, and I didn't feel inclined to come any closer.

      "Good morning," I greeted him warily.  "I'm looking for Mr. Fowler."

      "Yup?  What for?"

      "To let him know I'm here.  I've been offered a job in Accounts."

      "I suppose that means you want a desk?"  The scruff glanced towards the inner workers, then eyed me with an empty stare of disdain.  I couldn't resist a sarcastic response.

      "Why not?" I smiled.  "Unless it's company policy for new recruits to spend their first day jumping on the stairs to test for woodworm?"

      He looked me up and down.  "They're very busy in Accounts.   We've already taken on extra staff, so I doubt if they have a spare desk."   I guess this was meant to discourage me from pursuing the matter or making a further nuisance of myself.

      "Fine!" I said graciously.  "Then perhaps the conference room's free?  I could go and give Pixie Oliver rudimentary lessons in Morris-dancing, thus putting her time to more profitable use."

      "No-one's allowed in the conference room," he mumbled.  "There's a private meeting going on."

      I had no trouble guessing what that was all about.   Down below, I could hear the telephone switchboard still pleading for attention.

      "Alternatively," I suggested, "I might stave off Slaggs' resolute decline towards insolvency by manning the telephone in reception?"

      "Nah!  Wouldn't bother," he mumbled, shrugging his shoulders.  "That's Maisie's job.  I expect she's late again!"

      As he shuffled away, tapping his pipe against the cream-coloured wall, my initial feelings of annoyance gave way to incredulity.   Just who was this revolting turkey?  Did no-one care that vital incoming calls were being ignored?

      Nearby stood a cross-eyed girl with unnaturally fair hair, singing happily to herself as she refilled one of the coffee vending machines.

      "Hi!" she smiled pleasantly.  "You new?"

      "Yes," I replied.  "I'm supposed to be helping in accounts but it seems there isn't a spare desk."

      "There'll be plenty of unoccupied desks in Sales."

      The girl jerked a thumb towards the sounds of wild frivolity, a continuation of the party I'd gate-crashed on Tuesday, the focus this time being on a bride who'd just returned from her honeymoon.  No-one took the slightest notice as I wandered towards an oak-panelled inner office, similar to the one David Slagg had commandeered.  The sign on its door proclaimed: "Art Serraski, Eastern States Marketing Coordinator."

      I entered this well-feathered nest, carpeted throughout in powder-blue and furnished with a large circular coffee table, several luxury armchairs, and a glass-fronted bookcase.  Expensive prints adorned the walls, while in the centre stood a heavy walnut desk with a high-backed swivel chair upholstered in deep blue velvet.

      The desktop was strewn with incoming mail already opened, now lying abandoned with scant concern for confidentiality.  The first letter I read was from a customer complaining that unless he received an immediate reply he would be taking his business elsewhere.  Attached to it was a copy of an earlier letter detailing six invoices all wrongly priced, and a plea for the correct figures.

      I was half way through another letter about mislaid shipments when the door behind me swung open and a self-satisfied man sailed into the room.  It struck me at once that he looked obscenely prosperous, a veritable fat-cat.

      "How did you get in here?" he asked with pompous disapproval.

      I declared in all innocence that I was looking for his secretary.

      "The damned girl doesn't get here till ten," he complained, taking off his jacket and folding it inside-out to hang neatly in an adjacent closet.  "You want to see me?"

      "If you're Mr. Art Serraski," I replied with glowing respect, "then I most certainly do.  I'm relatively new here, and someone suggested I should come and pick your brains.  They said: if you want to know anything about this industry, Art Serraski's the man to see."

      The eulogy clearly gratified him.

      "Fine!" he exclaimed.  "Sit down.  I'd offer you coffee, but it'll have to wait till ten.  What do you want to know exactly?"

      "Could you explain first what it is you do?" I asked in my most disarming manner.

      "Ah!  Well, I'm responsible for the entire East Coast, from Maine down to Florida."

      He rounded off this revelation with a benevolent nod.   Clearly, he wasn't intending to expand on it without further prompting.

      "And what percentage of the total turnover does that represent?" I asked.

      "No idea," he smiled.  "They didn't produce figures yet for the first quarter.  Short-staffed, they claim, but I don't trust accountants.  They remind me too much of auditors and tax investigators, they're all the same!  Frankly, I hate them.  Parasites!"

      I told him I'd been recruited to work in Accounts, and that maybe my contribution might bring forth a few improvements, adding that I couldn't begin work until someone made a decision about my desk.

      "A desk?  I don't see why you came here for desks," he sighed, "this is Sales and Marketing.  Why don't you go along and try Phyllis?"

      It was like playing Lori's game, but without the beguiling sense of fun.

      "Phyllis who?" I said after a long pause.

      "Phyllis in Personnel," he revealed, as though anyone with any sense could have figured this out for himself.  "She won't be in yet though.  It's Friday!"

      To have asked for directions would have betrayed poor knowledge of the premises, so I politely thanked him and continued alone.  It didn't take long.  With a systematic search of every corridor, I came eventually to a door marked "PERSONEL."  Was this the approved American spelling?

      The place was deserted.  I wandered in, tugging idly at each of the locked filing cabinets, and was almost deluded into thinking I'd found a well-organised department when I noticed a stack of folders on the floor, each bearing an employee's name.  I spotted one marked Art Serraski.

      Inside was a copy of a letter, awarding the well-favoured Mr. Serraski a substantial increase to his ninety-five thousand dollar salary.  No wonder the man looked prosperous, and doubtless would continue to do so until the company went bankrupt.

      Struck by the contrast between this chaos and the professionalism I'd seen in Harrisburg, my thoughts turned again to Lori.  I still needed to know where she'd hidden Quinn's tape-recorder.  This would have been an ideal moment to make the call - but access to an outside line needed co-operation from the switchboard which was still unmanned.

      The click of heels in the outer passage gave me just enough time to replace Art's file before the door opened and a cheerful head came into view.  It was the cross-eyed girl from the coffee machine.

      "Hi, again!  Didn't Phyllis come in yet?  Oh no, I forgot, it's Friday."   Her alert voice sounded reasonably intelligent.   "You waiting for Phyllis?" she asked, and gave a chirpy smile.  "Phyllis never gets here before ten, Fridays.  That's why the others all take their time."

      "Naturally!" I said.  "What's so special about Fridays?"

      "Oh, didn't you know?  Phyllis is a professional ball-room dancer, and she always has her hair done Fridays, ready for the weekend, see?  Can I help?"

      "My dear, I'd be delighted if you would.  Right now I feel about as useful as a mosquito in a library."

      "The library?  Oh, right!" she giggled enthusiastically.  "Well, welcome to the funny farm.  I'm Cynthia - you can call me Cindy.  Do you want to come and explore - see where everything is?  What's your name?"

      "Would you believe Abraham Lincoln?" I asked, sorry to mislead someone so transparently well-meaning.  "I am here as a temporary accounts clerk, and while they're all trying hard to find me a desk I thought I'd take a tour.  Like all newcomers, I need to fathom out what goes on where."

      "Well, for a start there's nothing much here," she laughed.  "This is Personnel.  Come downstairs and we'll grab some coffee."

      Chattering ceaselessly about nothing I could readily understand, Cindy led me down to the sales office where she stood boldly on a chair, clapped her hands, and announced to the assembled gathering that I was Harry Lincoln, the new accountant - news they received with polite disinterest.

      Satisfied at having done her duty, she poured us each a cup of coffee, then led me down a dark corridor and over a short wooden ramp.

      "In here's the Computer Room," she confided in hushed tones.  "Can't take coffee in there, but then no-one's allowed in anyway, probably due to radiation.  I never did understand computers, but then if we didn't have them, it wouldn't be progress, would it?"

      I asked casually about the ramp, guessing it might be of some significance.

      "It goes over lots of cables," she said, "so they can join the new computer to the old one upstairs;  but don't ask me why we need two when neither of them seems to work properly."

      "Maybe to stop them both feeling lonely," I replied, careful to express no interest in this important revelation.

      "Probably right," she agreed.  "Anyway, no-one's allowed to see either computer, not without a secret password or something."

      We turned a corner, climbed a steep metal staircase, and continued down a long corridor which opened out onto a balcony overlooking the factory floor.

      "Here we are!" she announced.  "This is where they make all the sauce.  There's lots of different kinds - I'm not sure what - anyway it all looks gross from up here."

      Watching tons of grey sauce heaving about in huge vats like porridge, I was inclined to agree.  Fighting the nauseous stench of hot vinegar, my digestive system was urging me to sell the entire premises without delay.  The devious John Flannery was welcome to wallow in sauce to the end of his days, but not I.

      From our lofty vantage point, I could see a dozen men below, a few engaged in conversation but most of them standing motionless like robots in a power cut.  Headless chickens, Brian Smith had called them - though there was no sign of any panic, no running around - just easy-going calm, bordering on lethargy.

      "Forgive my naivety," I asked, "but they all seem pretty laid back.  What are they doing?"

      "I told you," Cindy exclaimed with pride.  "Making sauce."

      "Yes, but how?  Who controls the list of ingredients?"

      "Aha," she whispered as if it were all a game, "that's kept in a secret safe in Lanski's office.  Sacks of stuff are brought along to the factory floor, but they're all coded, see?  So I don't think anyone knows exactly what they're actually putting together."

      "But what about Quality Control?" I asked.  "Surely someone must keep records for costing purposes?"

      "Oh, you'd have to ask Mr. Lanski about that."

      Lanski, according to Lori, was the man who chose to do everything himself.  If he was down there among them, it should have been easy to spot him as the only man actually working.  But when I asked her to point him out, Cindy turned to me with a pitiable stare, evidently aware of her  imperfections.

      "I can't see anyone's face clearly from up here," she said, and started back the way we'd come.

      Everywhere I turned, I saw under-motivated staff content to waste the day in social chit-chat while ineffectual managers failed to foster any dedication or enthusiasm among their subordinates.  Not a soul questioned my presence, not even the helpful Cindy.  Had the staff yet been warned of the impending arrival of a V.I.P. from England?  I hoped not.   Their lack of interest was a bonus in my favour.  If no-one seemed concerned about a stranger in their midst, then no-one was likely to hinder my progress as I sought to assess the company's viability.

      My eager guide led me back into the accounts office, and introduced me to her friends as Harry Lincoln.  Anxious to avoid confrontation with Armitage, I discreetly asked where he was, whereupon Cindy clapped her hands and repeated my question for everyone to hear.

      "Didn't see him come in yet," yelled a girl from across the office, her mouth crammed full of doughnut.  "Guess he could still be in that meeting."

      "No problem," I replied.  "It's just that I left my briefcase in his room."

      Entering Dan's office I was astounded by the transformation.  There wasn't a sign anywhere of papers, pens or files.  The enigmatic Dan Armitage had filed everything away, and in the course of tidying his office he must have come across the portable phone.  Would its discovery be used as further evidence against Argyle Foods?

      Next door I noticed the scruffy specimen lounging in a swivel chair, munching on a large bag of crisps and drinking coffee with the pompous marketing co-ordinator.  And there on the floor beside him was my briefcase.

      "We meet again," I said, barging straight in.  "Have you managed to find me a desk?"

      "You again?" grunted the scruff.  "Who are you?"

      I felt frivolous, and assumed a benign grin.  "Why?  Do I look like some horrid inspector from the I.R.S.?  The name's Lincoln."

      The scruff thumbed idly through a pile of papers on his desk.

      "You'd better fix yourself some coffee," Serraski suggested.  "It's just along the corridor."

      I thanked him and asked where Mr. Armitage could be found.

      "Not sure.  Depends if he's got an update yet on that visitor of his."

      "A visitor?" I retorted.  "Must be someone important!  Why else would his office be so tidy?"

      "Tidy?" queried the scruff, with a curious glance at his colleague.   "Hey, wait a minute - you're British!"  He pointed a brown accusing finger.   "You must be that guy who showed up Tuesday when I had the decorators in.  Sorry, I can't dig your details out yet till they shift all this stuff back to my department."

      "I see someone found the briefcase I left behind."

      I picked it up and opened it.

      "Oh," I said, "that's odd!  What happened to my brother's old phone?  I was taking it to be mended.  It's not here now - did somebody pinch it?"

      "It's probably around someplace," said the scruff, making no effort to look.

      "And would I be right in assuming you're Mr. Fowler?  If so, you're the man I was sent to see about a job in the computer department.  Mr. Armitage was so confused on Tuesday, I think he took me on as an accounts clerk instead.  Not that I don't mind either way, as long as I don't stand around all day looking utterly useless."

      I did hope my irony might have reached its mark, but I doubt it.

      "In that case," grunted Fowler, "you'd best see Denis Patel in the computer room."

      Seizing what I took as a legitimate directive, I trotted downstairs to consort with my ally.

      "Hi, Denis!  How's it going?"

      He looked up, grim-faced.  "Don't ask!  My latest orders are to reload every file with test data so as to demonstrate the old system to some visitor who's coming next week.  I hate performing tricks like that, it's so amateurish."

      I gave a dismissive laugh.  "I agree.  Actual live data's far more impressive - unless, of course, it's giving away too many sensitive trade secrets.  Denis, is it true you've got a second computer?"

      "Yes, though no-one seems remotely bothered about that fact that it doubles my work load.  I wouldn't mind putting in the hours if I got some thanks, but none of this new regime wants any reports or on-line access, they just want games.  I truly don't know why I'm wasting my time here."

      "Has Slaggs always been like this?"

      "Oh, no!  No, in the olden days it was great!  But this bunch of apathetic morons are so dozy you couldn't even send them out to buy stamps."

      "Yet not so dozy when it comes to destroying disk packs," I reminded him.  "Did Driberg ever spot the switch?"

      Denis grinned his delight.  "No repercussions here!"

      "So tell me, Denis, does either of your two computers contain accurate live data?  If so, what have you got?"

      His face lit up.

      "Upstairs," he grinned confidentially, "there's the old Wang, still functional but programmed in a language not supported on the IBM.  The trouble is, we no longer have Buzz here, the guy who wrote much of the software for both systems.  He walked out a month ago after a blazing row with Armitage."

      "I wonder what that was about?"

      "Computers, what else?  Armitage is dead against computers.  When he heard we were busy developing new systems for Quinn, he came in like a tropical storm and ordered Buzz to keep his nose out of areas that didn't concern him."

      "I'm not surprised.  But can you show me what you've got?"

      With glowing enthusiasm, Denis launched himself into technical detail about on-line entry, sequential files, and corrupted pointers in a relational database.

      "Of course," he said, "once that happens, you've loused up the whole system.  The new machine doesn't have a data-entry package as such, and there was no live data on it till last month when I started transferring sales figures from the old machine.  Then Driberg comes waltzing in and confiscates the disk, claiming there was something wrong about the way it was all keyed in, the lumbering jack-ass!"

      "Not dodgy, Denis.  Politically embarrassing, and I'm very keen to know why."

      Having established our common interest, Denis and I discussed ways of salvaging what we could from both machines, copying all the old files across to the new computer, and then accessing them with new programs.   Despite Denis's misgivings about his database pointers, we both agreed there was no harm in trying to extract something useful from the mess.

      "Could be fun!" he said, excitement gleaming in his eyes.  "And it'll be great to do something useful for a change.  None of my recent work seems to impress anyone here.  The big three were okay, and quite generous too, especially the old man.  But with them gone, I predict this place'll self-destruct by Thanksgiving."

      I offered Denis all the sympathy he needed, and asked whether he'd heard any rumours about anyone new taking over.  I even suggested ways of impressing a new owner, but he gave a derisive sniff.

      "Whoever his is, this guy had better move in fast, that's all I can say, because the place is going downhill like a hot-air balloon fresh out of gas!"

      Then, unable to suppress a sly grin of satisfaction, he added: "Want to witness a secret demo, never before viewed by man nor beast?"

      Before I could respond, he took me to a terminal and flicked a switch.

      "A little private enterprise," he confided, "totally unauthorised, but who cares?  The new system's been designed using the modern approach with a complexity of inter-related databases, but I say there's still a case for good old-fashioned simplicity."

      Denis logged onto his private system, and brought an applications menu to the screen.

      "I've been tinkering with this ever since Buzz escaped, mainly to discover what I could do by myself in a simple environment - and I used real data because it's more fun.  Characters like Armitage and Driberg think their actual sales data's sitting only on the old system, stagnating in a corrupted file, but I've been quietly maintaining both, copying transactions over on a daily basis, mainly for back-up, true, but it means we have the best of both worlds."

      With schoolboy eagerness he began to unveil facilities that no-one had yet seen, starting with a sales summary showing product and customer, sorted from the top down by volume and value.  But as I scrutinised his various displays, I noticed several serious anomalies.

      "Hang on, Denis.  I'm looking at your top five customers by volume, yet none of them's listed among the top five by value.  How come?"

      Denis didn't have a ready answer, and seemed rather deflated by my criticism.  He set about scanning more data, puzzled and embarrassed as he checked for possible bugs in his software.

      "Could be that the biggest customers are taking the cheaper brands," he suggested to cover his uncertainty, till he suddenly snapped his fingers and pointed with a triumphant smile.

      "Got it!  Of course, it's those damned penny-a-pound orders!  If there's no listed price on file, they enter a selling price of one cent - that was Quinn's inspired way around the problem.  Eventually it's supposed to go through as a price adjustment, but then the idiots keep entering the quantity a second time, see?  It's a bug in the old system and I've got it fixed now, but we're looking at old data."

      I asked him to repeat his theory in more simple terms.

      "Okay," he said.  "We sell a hundred bottles of sauce at a penny each.  Comes to one dollar, right?  Then we apparently sell the same hundred bottles again, this time at the right price minus one penny."

      "So why not put through a reversing credit?"

      "Can't do that," Denis explained, "not on the old system.  Buzz fixed it so that each transaction must have a positive value and quantity or it won't go through.  That's why they use the penny-a-pound trick, to get around the problem."

      "Interesting," I said slowly.  "So the value gets corrected, but the quantities end up as double the amount."

      "I guess so," admitted Denis.  "Of course, Quinn's only interested in values, so he doesn't see it as a problem."

      "And what happens if no-one bothers to correct these silly low prices?"

      "Nothing, I guess;  we just lose the money."

      "We?" I said quietly.  "I've no doubt Slaggs loses some money, Denis, but I suspect someone  may be receiving it on the quiet.  Do you have any sort of financial ledger system?"

      "Yes, but it's useless until Armitage allows financial data to be entered.  And I can't see that ever happening."

      I gave him a persuasive smile.  "Denis, I need a special favour.  I told you earlier - my colleague and I are on a confidential assignment, winding up the estates of the three Slagg brothers.  An accurate detailed sales report would be very helpful, Denis - whatever you can give us.  Listen.  Keep this strictly between ourselves, but I'm certain your efforts will be fully recognised by the new owner, whoever he is.  And please, make sure you get all this sales data doubly protected before there's another midnight raid?"

      "Sure," agreed the willing Denis.  "No problem!   I could maybe fix you a vendors' analysis," he grinned artfully.  "Similar to the sales report,  but with raw material purchases, sorted by supplier in descending value."

      "You know, Denis," I said after a moment's thought, "between us, if they gave us the chance, you and I could run this entire company from down here, and perhaps even put it back on its feet again.  How would you feel about that?  Care to do a spot of overtime this weekend?"

      "It'll need approval from Armitage," he warned as though brain-washed.

      "Oh, Denis, no!  Absolutely no.  Come on, I'm talking about free enterprise.  Call it an investment in your future.  Think about it, Denis, and maybe this evening I'll let you in on a few managerial secrets.  Meanwhile, any chance of some print-outs?"

      He sighed.  "That's another problem.  Armitage has stopped signing requisitions for stationery, so I'm extremely low on paper.  Of course, I could always use the backs of old program listings if you're not fussy.  Shall I run them off now?"

      "Later," I advised, "when there's not so many people around.  What time do you normally go home?"

      "Depends how absorbing my work is.  I like to keep myself amused."

      "Good man," I acknowledged.  "If you can rescue enough paper, I'd appreciate a list of the top hundred customers by value, with details of all the products they take.  Same thing too for suppliers, if possible.  Ultimately I need details of every product sold, sorted by quantity and value.  If you can fix any of that, Denis my friend, I know of someone with a nice fat wallet who'll be exceedingly grateful."

      On my way back towards the accounts department, I caught a fleeting glimpse of Dan Armitage as he hurried down the stairs and out of the building.

      "I'll be over with Lanski," he yelled to the stand-by receptionist, "but we neither of us want any calls unless they're from England."

      I smiled.  I had no desire to attract Dan's attention, and I'd steer clear of Fowler too, in the unlikely event of being asked to produce my work permit.  Instead I would maintain a humble profile and conform to the local custom of wandering aimlessly about.

      With Armitage out of the way, I went up to the accounts office where I met a couple of women, giggling during another coffee break.

      "Armitage looks all hot and bothered," I said like a seasoned employee.  "What's up?"

      "Don't ask!" said the junior who looked about fifteen.  "That man's driving us all crazy.  He had me book five hundred special entries since yesterday, and I didn't even get half way through yet."

      It was important to ask: "What kind of entries?"

      "Credits, adjustments, over-paid refunds, under-paid corrections - I don't understand half of it.  I just know we have to get it done by Monday."

      "Maybe I can help," I volunteered.  "I'm new here and I can't seem to find enough work to keep myself occupied.  The name's Lincoln."

      The young one greeted me with unwarranted enthusiasm.  "Hi, I'm Cheryl.  And my friend, Barbara, she's from sales."

      "Hi," I echoed in the normal mode of greeting.

      "You're from England, aren't you?"

      "Seems a lifetime ago," I drawled.  "I guess I can't shake off that funny old accent."

      "Don't even try," Barbara chimed in.  "We all love it."

      "Come on," pleaded Cheryl, "you can sit and help me.  I have to enter the rest of these figures for Armitage before the sky falls in.  According to rumour, there's a guy coming over from Europe to hold secret talks about buying the factory."

      "I reckon it's all to do with the three who died," I remarked lightly.  "They were from England too, so everyone tells me.  I keep hearing their names, but I've no idea what they were like."

      "Old Arthur was a dear," she said, "like a cross between a professor and a friendly gnome.  His picture's in the directors' conference room.  If they've finished in there, we can take a quick peep."

      "He looks harmless enough," I commented as I stood on hallowed ground gazing at my uncle's benign features, seeing more than a trace of family likeness, and feeling a touch of sadness that he never sat me on his knee.  As his probing eyes stared down onto his beneficiary, I nodded to him in deference, hoping I was performing my appointed task to my uncles' full satisfaction.

      "Far too harmless," said Barbara.  "Those three brothers let Quinn and the others run rings round them."

      "The others?"

      "Armitage, Lanski, Serraski, and of course Fowl-pest."

      "Armitage and Fowler I know," I said, "but the other two are just names to me.   Who's currently in charge?"

      "They just had a meeting about that," Cheryl revealed.  "I hear Quinn's been appointed President."

      "Appointed by whom?" I asked.  "Aren't there any other little Slaggs waiting in the wings?"

      Barbara piped up.  "David, of course, but he doesn't count."

      I asked why not.

      "Ah!  Don't be taken in by Boy Wonder," she breathed in hushed tones.   "He may look impressive, and he can certainly talk his way out of all kinds of trouble, but he doesn't actually do very much."

      So who did?  In my view, David had the knack of talking his way into more trouble than out of it.

      For the rest of the morning I sat beside Cheryl at her desk, entering some of her special accounting adjustments, a deluge of extra work clearly brought on by the impending arrival of Mr. Downing and his phantom auditor.

      During one of Cheryl's many trips to the rest-room, I studied the kind of original entries she was having to adjust.  Some referred to unsupported travelling or entertaining expenses, but the majority were sales price corrections, far more numerous than in any normal set of accounts.  I was busy compiling a list of the more frequent names when she reappeared and announced it was time for lunch.

      "Most of us bring sandwiches," she said, "but we decided today we'll ditch them and take you out somewhere, as it's your first day."

      Lunching together would surely provide a good opportunity to learn more about Slaggs and its managerial hierarchy from the grass roots.

      "Fine," I agreed, "with one proviso.  I pick up the entire check."

      News of my generosity soon spread, and no less than six girls escorted me to a compact diner five miles away.  Like other feeding establishments I'd been to, it lacked windows and the menu was splattered with food stains, a phenomenon which inspired me to liven up the conversation.

      "I'm curious about something," I confided to the group.  "Can anyone explain why particles of food are stuck to the menu?  Is this a novel way of offering us a free taste, or merely someone's deplorable clumsiness?"   I pointed out that menus were usually snatched away before food arrived.

      "Maybe they're stored in the kitchen next to a malfunctioning food-processor?" I suggested, and the girls all laughed.

      I was now the focus of their admiration.  Was it due to my promise of a free lunch, or my entertaining pseudo-American accent?  I looked around the table, grimly aware of the contrast between their witless giggling and the elegant charm of Miss D'Amico.  I pictured Lori lunching alone, and felt a desperate urge to mention her name.

      "Do any of you remember a girl called Lori?" I asked.  "She used to work at Slaggs a few years ago."

      "Lori D'Amico?"  Barbara eyed me with a look of suspicion.  "Sure!  She was over in Marketing.  Why?  Do you know her?"

      "I met her on business a while ago," I said.  "In fact, the last time I was down in Maryland we actually had dinner together."

      "Really?  How well did you know her?  I mean, are you aware of her reputation, and what she's noted for?"

      Someone then coughed and Barbara hesitated.  She seemed about to elaborate further when another girl nudged her, and she changed her mind.

      "Meaning what?" I persisted, unable to let the matter rest.

      "Well," she conceded with an anxious glance at the others, "just watch yourself next time you bump into Lori D'Amico, that's all I'm saying."

      "Watch myself?  In what way?"

      The rest of the group had gone a little too quiet.

      "Skip it," said one.  "But just make sure she doesn't aim her sights on you."

      "Why?" I asked.  "Is she likely to?"

      "You men!" Barbara snorted, happy to reclaim the focus of attention.  "You none of you ever spot her game till it's too late.  Lori's kind of ... well, easy, if you know what I mean."

      "No, I don't," I said, anger welling inside me.  Lori had convinced me that any suggestion about her role as a temptress was completely unfounded; yet here I was, hearing the same story from several of her former colleagues.

      "If you must know," Barbara went on, "they often throw her in as bait."

      "Bait for what?" asked Cheryl out of simple curiosity.

      "Man bait, Dum-dum!  It's common knowledge she used to perform favours for J.W. till she got fired.  Didn't you know?"

      "Fired?" I exclaimed.  "What's this about her being used as bait?"

      "Oh, Lincoln, come on!  Do I have to spell it out?  Lori was a popular girl, good for offering her special brand of welcome to selected customers.  Don't tell me she's had you between the sheets?"

      The others all continued giggling, but I was incensed.  I'd raised the subject of Lori merely because I was missing her unique brand of intelligent conversation.   Now she was being slandered by a woman whose lunch I'd offered to pay for.

      Impulsively I raised my voice.  "Forgive my hostility," I said, "but I happen to have a very high regard for Lori D'Amico, and it makes me angry to hear slanderous remarks about someone I respect and admire, especially when she's not here to defend herself.  I'm sure none of the rumours are true."

      "Good for you!" said Cheryl.  "Barbara, apologise to Lincoln."

      "Are you calling me a liar?" she flushed.  "What makes you so sure it isn't true?"

      "True or not," I said with ominous calm, "I suggest you stop spreading unsubstantiated gossip, or I might succumb to an irresistible urge and hurl hot soup into your lap."

      Barbara stood up at once, backing away and knocking over her chair.

      "Well, if that's how you feel," she stormed, "I'll go back and finish my sandwiches."

      Everyone else in the diner turned to watch as the woman flung down her napkin and made a very public exit.

      "My, oh, my!" breathed Cheryl.  "Lordy-lordy!  How to make friends and influence people!  Welcome to Slaggs, Lincoln."

      I was trembling with anger, but felt mortified by my own behaviour.

      "Ladies, I am desperately sorry, but really, I couldn't let a good friend be insulted without coming to her aid."

      "Quite right," Cheryl supported me.  "Barbara gets awful jealous, that's her trouble.  She can't stand anyone who's successful, and from what I hear, Lori did very well since she left.  She works for some guy down at Argyle Foods."

      "Flannery," a voice confirmed, and they all nodded.

      Eventually I calmed down, and promised I'd apologise to Barbara when we got back.  "All the same," I added, "I wonder why she felt the need to say that?  No girl should have hurtful things said behind her back, true or false.  Again, ladies, my sincere apologies."

      "Don't worry," they all chorused, "we're with you."

      "In that case," I insisted, "today's lunch is definitely on me."

      The girls wouldn't accept my offer.  They kept piling dollar bills onto my table-mat as if it were a Sunday collection plate, and I almost made a profit on the outing.

      We had to fit ourselves into one car since Barbara had driven off without considering any of her passengers, but in the intimacy of our cramped environment, the return journey became a riot of friendliness.   From here on, I was definitely in with the crowd.

      Back in the office I went in search of Cindy, who'd been so willing to befriend me earlier in the day.

      "Hi, Harry," she called, "how's it going?"

      I placed my arms on her shoulders and looked into those memorable strabismic eyes.  "Cindy, I've made a serious faux-pas, and I need your help.  Do you know of someone called Barbara who works in Sales?"

      "Sure," she said.  "Hey! Was it you who upset her?  She came back from lunch in floods of tears."

      I admitted being the culprit, and explained what had happened.  Cindy seemed to understand at once.  "It figures!  Barbara's always bad-mouthing someone.  And you fought back nobly?"

      "I don't know about nobly," I said.  "I feel very ashamed.  I fought back without thinking, and luckily Barbara withdrew before I really lost my temper."

      "Wowee!" she whistled.  "Whatever did she say?"

      "Never mind.  But if she has first-hand knowledge of a certain matter, then I need to know more.  If not, I'd like to know who told her.  Either way, I have my own reasons for wanting to get at the truth."

      "Leave it with me, Harry!  I'll soon have it sorted out."

      Cindy set off, eager to act as my diplomat, while I returned to the accounts office and continued my audit under the guise of helping Cheryl.   No-one paid any attention to my activities, and by the end of the afternoon I had compiled dozens of queries I needed to pursue.

      Just on four o'clock, Cindy popped her head round the door and summoned me.  "Harry, can you spare a minute?"

      This time I had to put her straight.  I told her I wasn't called Harry, but she simply smiled and patted my lapels like a valet.

      "Maybe not, but Harry's a nice name and it suits you - listen, I've been to see Barbara but it's no good me repeating what she said or you might turn on me too, so as I don't know what is it you want to know exactly you'd best follow me," she said, all in one breath.

      Most of the sales staff had already left.  Barbara was hovering by a window, evidently waiting for her lift home.  Hoping that Cindy wasn't leading me into another head-on collision, I assured them that I was simply after the truth, with no recriminations.  Lori had been frank enough to confess something along similar lines, but it could have been a double-bluff.  I needed to know.  Had I had been the victim of a heartless confidence trick?

      "I'm so sorry I ruined your lunch," I said as contritely as I could.

      Barbara turned, glaring for a moment, then offered a smile of truce.

      "Well... my fault, I guess," she conceded graciously.  "Cindy says you want to know what I was getting at.  I was only trying to warn you off, that's all.  I didn't want you getting hurt.  The fact is, I often bump into Lori's husband.  He lives on our street, so naturally I hear a lot of bad-mouthing, though he's bound to be biased, I suppose.  Anyway, when Lori quit this place, word got around that she'd been sleeping with old J.W., and we also heard he'd got her to sleep with some of his business contacts too, as a way of winning them over - you know the sort of thing."

      "I don't, actually.  Who told you this?  Her ex-husband?"

      "If you must know, most of it came from Dan Armitage.  He's Head of Finance, though back then he wasn't head of anything - just one of the auditors."

      "Really?  When did he become Head of Finance?"

      "Only recently, when they had the big shake-up.  But he's been hanging around the place for years - we know him only too well.  He's not very popular, as you may have guessed."

      "Thank you," I said.  "So if it is just hearsay, then the stain on Lori's image really depends on how far you can believe Armitage."

      "I'll tell you this," Barbara confided, "I wouldn't trust Armitage to pack my parachute.  As for Lori's husband, he's fed up paying alimony when he knows she doesn't need it.  He's bitter about the whole relationship, so I suppose that's why he enjoys grubbing up her reputation."

      "How often do you see him?"

      "Alec?  Not a lot," she said.  "Don't particularly want to!  He just happens to live nearby, that's all."

      "So you know Lori's married name?"

      "Sure.  Lori Tanyev.  Funny you should say that.  Someone else was asking the same question only yesterday."

      I was about to ask who and why, when Barbara spotted the arrival of her car.  I commended Cindy for her tactful intervention, and told her she ought to be in Personnel.

      "Thanks," she said, screwing up her nose, "but somehow I don't think I'd want to work for Fowler, would you?"

      I refrained from hinting that changes might be imminent.  Instead I bade her goodnight, and after inviting them both to a peace-keeping lunch the following day, I set off down the corridor to rendezvous with Denis.

      "Got those print-outs?" I greeted him.  At first he seemed to be suffering from an unaccountable pang of conscience.

      "I've been thinking about that," he sighed heavily.  "I'm not allowed to release print-outs without Driberg's approval, and he didn't agree yet.   So, if I've stupidly jumped the gun I really need to get them shredded at once.  You must understand, I don't hand out confidential data unless I'm authorised."

      I was astounded by his change of loyalty.

      "Denis, you disappoint me.  Whose side are you on?"

      "Those are the rules," he shook his head ruefully, holding out an armful of print-outs.  "So, I guess someone ought to get this pile of stuff shredded.  Would you mind?"

      Only then did I detect the wicked gleam in his eye.

      "Denis, you rogue!  But did you actually tell Driberg?"

      "I left a note on his desk," he admitted.  "They're getting damned tight on security all of a sudden.  I had fresh orders this afternoon.  Of course, Driberg won't have read my note yet, because I didn't get around to putting it there till after he went home."

      "Denis," I asked earnestly, "can I trust you?  Trust means no running to Armitage, no notes on Driberg's desk.  Complete confidence, total and absolute."

      "Go on," he said with a smile.  "I'll buy it."

      "Then listen.  I am part of a special audit team, on an important mission working for the survival of this company, and I need your solemn promise.  Keep what I say strictly to yourself, Denis, at least until the end of next week."

      "For one week?" he grinned.  "I'd have no problem with that."

      "The fact is, there are going to be major changes here very soon."

      Denis's eyes narrowed.  "This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain British visitor, hm?"

      "On the ball, Denis!  But strictly between ourselves, the visit is mainly to serve as a dose of laxative, designed to stir certain people into action.  The guy who's due next week is already staying in a nearby hotel, delving quietly into some serious discrepancies.  Now, if the current heads of department did nothing, my job would be a lot harder.  But luckily they're flapping around like frantic starlings, bringing to the surface some very interesting worms."

      Denis gave me a look of profound respect.  "I guess I've already met the guy they're so fussed about?"

      "Very possibly, Denis, but I need your help.  From what I've seen so far, this place is rotten to the core, except for a few dedicated souls like yourself.  You can see the kind of staff we have here - poorly motivated, uninspired, in some cases grossly over-paid.  It's my job to weed out the rotten apples and save the good ones.  Denis, you're one of the best apples on the tree, but if the bad guys are to go, I need to make a cast-iron case against them.  You can't sack a man because you don't like the suit he wears, or because his eyes look shifty.  That's why we need data, Denis."

      "If it helps," he volunteered, "I could name a few toads I'd like to see kicked out.  For a start, don't trust Armitage an inch.  He used to be a crooked auditor.  He may not be up to any fiddles himself, but I reckon he's paid handsomely to cover up what's going on elsewhere."

      "Try putting a name to elsewhere."

      "Quinn?  Serraski?  And Driberg must be in on it too.  Why else would he come hounding me for that disk, or get so itchy about print-outs?"

      I disagreed.  I couldn't see Driberg easily getting another job.  Even if he knew something screwy was going on, Driberg was a humble lackey, not a decision maker.  I asked instead about Marco Lanski.

      "Ah, Lanski has his favourite suppliers.  I'm damned sure the figures he enters in the account books aren't what goes on in real life.  I'll show you what I mean.  You want to see a few more demos?  Take a look at this."

      Denis brought up a display of purchases from major suppliers, together with current balances outstanding.

      "But I thought you didn't hold financial data, Denis?"

      "Not officially.  But seeing we used the old computer to print cheques, I thought - why not run some comparisons?  Notice anything about the first ten items?  Cash up front every time.  Do you know something else?  Lanski visits every one of those guys in person, though it's not his job to purchase raw materials.  Officially he's in charge of quality control."

      It was becoming clearer.  Lanski was a man who liked to do every job himself.  He alone decided which deliveries to accept or reject.  By visiting each supplier personally he could set up contracts all by himself.  That's why Hank Murray was missing out - it was a long drive to Harrisburg, too far out for a busy man who wasn't prepared to delegate.

      "Tell me," said Denis proudly.  "If you were one of those favoured suppliers, wouldn't you sweeten the life of a guy who kept things buttered nice and rosy for you?"

      "Meanwhile," I added, "Slaggs probably has a huge overdraft, and is paying for the credit these other companies are enjoying.  And Fowler - what's his game?"

      "Have you met him?" Denis frowned.  "Looks like he slept under a newspaper in Central Park?  He'd like the world to believe he doesn't have two dimes for a phone call, but do you know, that guy runs at least four Cadillacs?  You'll never see them on site, but they're all listed here as company assets."

      With a few more keystrokes Denis brought up a display showing a fleet of twelve company cars, evidently Fowler's reward for selecting the very worst kind of staff.

      "How did you come to get a job here?" I asked.

      "Odd, isn't it!" he grinned.  "I have my theories.  Fowler was off sick at the time.  I was seen by Quinn, no less, but I guess he took my Indian origins as a sign of mindless subservience.  To him, all Indians are the same, with or without feathers.   Once I joined the outfit, Buzz warned me to act dumb and not to ask questions.  All day long queries used to enter my head, and I'd think to myself: 'Does anybody know?  Does anybody care?'  But my questions went unanswered.  I'll level with you.  Right now I'm hunting for another job."

      "Oh, Denis, I strongly advise you stick around, we're going to need you.  Tell me more about Jonathan Quinn."

      Denis looked grave.  "That man scares me.  A powerful and vengeful personality.  But a truckload of confidence can mask rank incompetence.  I doubt if Quinn has a clue about running a business, but you'd never guess it, the way he puts on his great act of I'm-in-charge."

      "So what's his real game?  The invoices?"

      "You got it.  I reckon the adjusting debit notes get entered in a completely different set of books which the accounts clerks never get to see.  Quinn may be accumulating a fortune in some extra bank account which the rest know nothing about."

      "And Serraski?  He's another who looks obscenely prosperous."

      "Marketing," said Denis.  "Travels one mile - claims a hundred.  He takes some poor jack-ass to lunch in a greasy-spoon, then dines the same evening with friends at the Ritz, putting in an expense claim supported by the second check, all neatly stamped of course with the correct date.  His friends then reciprocate, and you soon have yourself quite a cosy life-style.  That's not just a rumour, he's been caught several times, entertaining customers in the greasy-spoon when his expense account says otherwise.  But no-one upstairs cares to stop him, so he carries on.  Wouldn't you be overweight and prosperous if you could get away with that?"

      I vowed to keep an eye on Serraski, though his particular dodge was a relatively minor offence, by no means uncommon in the commercial world.

      "Here," said Denis, doubling the weight of output he was offering.  "I printed this too.  I didn't mean to, of course, and it all needs to be shredded.  But that's your job.  You just volunteered."

      I left my staunch ally with the promise of big rewards in the near future, and was about to head for the car when I bumped into Armitage.  Whether or not he recognised me, he seemed deeply concerned about what I was carrying, so I borrowed a trick from Jonathan Quinn and displayed hearty over-confidence.

      "All day long I've been given nothing but menial chores," I greeted him.  "Now I'm expected to take this lot to the shredder for some guy in the computer room.  Think how many rain-forests get chopped down to create this much paper, yet it's all going to waste.  Apparently Mr. Driberg wants it destroyed, and who am I to question the lovable Sam?"

      Dan was curious enough to thumb through several pages, but I took care that he saw only the wrong side of the paper, the system core-dumps which meant no more to him than technical gobbledegook.

      "Is that what this note was about?" he asked, clutching the slip of paper Denis had left on Driberg's desk.

      "Who knows?" I said, applying my benign Stan Laurel grin.  "I wouldn't know one report from another - they all look the same to me.  Let's hope the shredder enjoys its dinner.  Excuse me!  It's been a long day, and I'm utterly exhausted.  Is it always this busy around here?"

      I rounded this off with a weary yawn, and it worked.  Armitage sighed, looked at his watch and hurried upstairs, while I staggered away to the shredder.   Once I'd switched it on, I stuffed the entire wad of paper down inside my trousers, buttoned up my jacket, and waddled out to the car.

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