The Seersucker Whipsaw Read Online Free PDF Page A

reflectively, and glanced downwards. His voice softened, and took on a measure of quiet awe. “I decided that there was only one man—not in England, not in the States, but just one man in the world . And that was Clint Shartelle.” He raised his eyes, looked at Shartelle directly and said humbly, “So I asked Clint Shartelle to help me out.” He paused again and then added a line—almost as a throwaway, but not quite—“And more important, to help out Africa.”
    Shartelle shook his head slightly from side to side. It was the gesture of frank appreciation that the concertmaster pays the performance of the virtuoso. His voice was as soft as Duffy’s, and the honeysuckle seemed to bloom as he said, “Put that way, Padraic, no man could refuse.”
    Duffy brightened, grabbed Shartelle by the arm, and steered him towards the forever-open door. “I’ve got the whole morning open for you, Clint. We’ll have a bit of a natter, and then you’ll meet the candidate. He flew in two days ago and is leaving this afternoon, but you’ll have a chance to get acquainted at lunch.” Duffy turned his head. “Come on, Pete.” I took it as a nice afterthought.
    We walked down the hall past Duffy’s two secretaries to where The Hatrack guarded his doorless entrance. The Hat- rack was a statue made of welded scrap metal. It stood seven feet high on an onyx base and was supposed to be representative of the Crucifixion. And at least that was its real name. The main crosspiece looked for all the world like the cor rugated bumper from a 1937 DeSoto, the kind once held at a premium by the hot rod crowd in Los Angeles. Slightly tight and Philistinish after a particularly good lunch, I once had hung my bowler on it. Duffy wouldn’t speak to me for a week, but since then everyone called it The Hatrack. Shartelle gave it an appreciative glance as we moved into Duffy’s office.
    It wasn’t an office exactly; it was more of a huge livingroom that smelled of leather from the hexagonal pieces of quarterinch-thick cowhide that served as wallpaper. There was a view of the square and the Embassy, a fireplace with a fire in it, some highly comfortable chairs and a huge oaken coffee table made, Duffy claimed, from the butt end of an ancient giant wine cask. Here and there, placed strategically on small individual shelves that jutted from the walls, were the products of the major clients: a box of instant tea, a package of tissues, a bottle of ale, a model of a jet airliner, a miniature of a bank, a model automobile, a package of cocoa, and a cigarette package. Each had its own niche and to get it, the billing had to top three million pounds a year. There was no desk, but a telephone was handy to Duffy’s chair, which sat in a corner behind the immense wine-cask coffee table.
    Duffy took his seat and gestured Shartelle and me to chairs. Shartelle gave the room a long and careful appraisal. Then he nodded his head. “You’ve done right well by the English folks, I’d say,” he told Duffy.
    â€œWe’re growing, Clint, expanding a little every year.”
    We were interrupted by Wilson Davis, the art director. He didn’t knock. He just walked in and stuck a layout under Duffy’s nose.
    â€œHello, Pete,” Davis said to me.
    â€œHow are you, Wilson?” I asked.
    â€œIf he ever makes up his mind what he wants, I’ll be all right.”
    â€œGiving you a hard time?”
    â€œThis is the fourth rough. The fourth, mind you.”
    â€œNow that’s more like it, Wilson,” Duffy said. “Now that’s something that you could say bears the DDT imprint.”
    â€œIt isn’t bad,” Wilson admitted.
    â€œAll right, then proceed.”
    â€œYou’re not going to change your mind again?”
    â€œNo. That’s the basis of the campaign I promised. That’s the one I’ll deliver.”
    Wilson