Читать книгу The Driver онлайн

38 страница из 48

“Your business, please,” he said, holding it out to me again.

I let it to him tactfully that my business was private. If necessary, I could explain it to the president’s secretary. Might I see his secretary first?

The boy put down his book and eyed me steadily.

“He left this morning.”

“The president?”

“His secretary.”

“Suddenly, perhaps?” I said.

He slowly nodded his head several times, still gazing at me.

“How long have you been here?” I asked.

“Two weeks.”

“Do you care for it?”

Instead of answering he got up, took the name I had written on the pad, and disappeared through the door to the left. Almost at once he stood holding it open and beckoned me to enter.

First was a small ante-space, probably called his office by the private secretary who had gone suddenly away. It was furnished with letter filing cases, two chairs and a typewriter desk standing open and littered with papers.

The president’s room immediately beyond was large and lighted by windows, but desolate. The rug was shabby. The walls were hung with maps and railroad scenes in photograph, their frames askew. At one side against the wall was a long oak table; on it were ink and writing materials, also some books and periodicals.