101 Mystery Stories

7 The Leakage Frank Sisk

Wigmore, executive vice-president of Great Greengrocers, Inc., addressed his secretary over the intercom. “Miss Dryson.”

“Yes, A.C.”

“Has that fathead of a detective appeared yet?”

“He’s coming along the corridor now.”

“Sober, I trust. At any rate, show him in immediately.”

“Yes sir.”

“And those figures that came in last night from Store Sixty-six, I want those, too.”

“They’re right here on my desk, A.C.” The voice went a bit off focus. “Good morning. Mister Horner. We’ve been expecting you.”

A moment later Miss Dryson, holding a manila folder to her meager chest, entered Wigmore’s office in tandem with Lewis J. Horner, head of Confidential Research Associates.

Horner was hardly anyone’s conception of a private detective. Short, portly, with a dozen strands of brownish-gray hair distributed sketchily across his round head, he had the blank look one sees in paintings of medieval monks given to cheerful sessions with the grape. The only emphatic feature of his face was the nose, shaped somewhat like a plum and of similar coloration.

Wigmore wasted no words. “We don’t seem to be getting anywhere. Horner. It’s seven damned weeks since you and your alleged staff started this investigation, and not a single result apparent to date.”

“My dear man,” Horner said in a surprisingly low, mellifluous voice, “what is not yet apparent to you may be quite apparent to us.”

“Don’t give me that line again. Horner. The president and the board of directors aren’t buying it. All they see now — and I can’t help but agree — is that Store Sixty-six is being systematically robbed of thousands of dollars a week and you and your men are unable to find the leak.”

“We may give the impression of inactivity,” Horner said, smacking his lips, “but beneath this illusion we are extremely thorough. Our reputation is proof of this.”

“Your weekly statement for services rendered is thorough,” Wigmore said. “And mighty prompt too. As for the expense account that accompanies it, a few of its outlandish items are causing certain board members to wonder if your purpose here is to plug a leak or to create another.”

Horner chuckled quietly. “To allay all such future speculation. Wig-more, I think I can now safely promise an imminent solution of your problem.”

“Good. Give me an inkling.”

“In short order. But first I suggest you send for a floor plan of the store under surveillance — an operational floor plan.”

“Miss Dryson.”

“Yes, A.C. I’ll call Engineering immediately.” Handing her boss the manila folder. Miss Dryson left.

A brief silence descended like a blanket woven from chain mail. Horner bettered the moment by finding and sitting in the second most comfortable chair in the room. Wigmore, appearing uncomfortable in the best chair, finally opened a copperish humidor on his desk, took out a long fat cigar and wordlessly offered another to Horner.

“I don’t smoke,” Horner said. “But I’ll accept a glass of cream sherry if you have it.”

“I don’t drink during business hours,” Wigmore said, biting the end off his cigar. Then he turned his full attention to the manila folder. “These are the latest profit and loss figures from our newest and largest market — with a strong accent on loss — as you will see.”

Horner had closed his eyes and seemed to be dozing.

“Would you like to hear a few salient facts?” Wigmore asked, vexed.

“I’m listening,” Horner replied from behind shut lids.

“Well, this week our loss leader was a special on frozen turkeys. Twenty-nine cents a pound.”

“I bought one myself,” Horner said with quiet satisfaction.

“Good for you. Anyway, we shipped fifteen hundred of these birds to Store Sixty-six. The retail value was estimated at six thousand five hundred and twenty-five dollars. As you know by now, all specials are assigned a code symbol which appears opposite the amount of the sale on the cash-register tapes. In the case of the turkeys the symbol was an asterisk.”

Horner dozed on.

“If we ever needed additional evidence of the ineptitude of your so-called investigation,” Wigmore continued in a voice barely under control, “we have it in hand now. The tapes from the twelve registers at the checkout counters show a sale of only one thousand three hundred and thirty-two birds. Are you able to draw a conclusion from this figure, Mister Horner?”

“The most obvious conclusion is that a hundred and sixty-eight birds are unaccounted for.”

“Precisely.”

“Of course they weren’t in the remainder inventory?”

“There was no remainder inventory. The special was a sellout. Not a turkey was left. But one hundred and sixty-eight were not paid for, Horner. How do you account for that?”

“Quite easily, I believe.”

“Is that so? Well, edify me a bit. Explain to me, if you can, how anybody could walk out with more than a ton of turkeys and not be observed by one of your eagle-eyed operatives?”

“Also easily explained,” Horner said, opening his eyes. “As soon as Miss Dryson returns with the floor plan, I think I’ll be able to verify my deductions.”

Wigmore peered narrowly at the detective. “You mean you really think you know who’s behind this systematic thievery?”

“We’ve known that almost from the beginning,” Horner said.

“Then why in hell didn’t you nail him?”

“We didn’t know how he was doing it. After all, when a man is consistently stealing about three thousand dollars a week, and right under the noses of three of my best undercover men, we like to discover the trick he’s been pulling.”

“Who is the magician? Can you tell me that?”

“The manager.”

“Jorgenson. I can’t believe it. He’s been with us for nearly twenty years.”

“Perhaps that explains something,” Horner said.

“Meaning exactly what. Horner?”

“Twenty years is a long time to wait to become a store manager.”

“He wasn’t really ready until now.”

“The personnel files contradict you there, I’m afraid. For a long time Jorgenson’s immediate superiors have been rating him as fully qualified for store management. In fact, he was first in line for the last several openings until you intervened in behalf of your deserving relatives.”

“You’re a sassy cuss, Horner.”

Mirth twinkled in the detective’s eyes but he said nothing.

“Anyway, when I finally made Jorgenson manager I seem to have made a mistake. How did he think he could get away with it? Going into a new store and stealing at that rate right from the beginning? He must have known he’d be suspected and watched.”

“His method gave him confidence. He felt it would be foolproof for a certain period of time, I imagine, and he wanted only enough time to amass a little capital for a venture of his own. Within a few more weeks, I think, Jorgenson’s resignation would have been forthcoming, based probably on the very fact that he was under suspicion and found the suspicion intolerable.”

At that moment Miss Dryson reappeared with a roll of blueprint.

Horner got to his feet, murmuring politely, and took the roll and unrolled it on Wigmore’s desk. He studied it for half a minute, then grinned happily. “Ah, clever. Most simple and clever.”

“Out with it, man,” Wigmore said impatiently.

Horner continued to grin. “One of the ironies here, Wigmore, is that you held the key to the riddle every time you told me about the symbol on the cash-register tapes.”

“How’s that?”

“You always referred to twelve registers, twelve checkout counters.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, if we go by this floor plan. For here, too, I see twelve registers and twelve checkout counters. But yesterday morning, as I stood in a line of housewives with my frozen turkey, I began an idle count of the checkout counters and they added up to thirteen. Immediately I realized where the leak was. Sometime and somehow, before the grand opening of Store Sixty-six, Jorgenson had set up his own register and checkout counter.”

“Well, I’ll be a blue-eyed obscenity,” Wigmore said.

“I dare say.”