Trial and Error by Anthony Berkeley Page B

indeed,” agreed Ogilvie; and somehow the well-worn phrase seemed to have been used by the one and accepted by the other more literally than is generally the case.
    2
    On any Saturday morning the huge building occupied by Consolidated Periodicals Ltd. is a centre of activity. A couple of months ago this activity had been not unpleasurable. Enlivened by thoughts of leisure ahead, assistant editors of the bright weeklies in which Consolidated Periodicals specialised would stop for a chat with the lady secretaries past whose desks their way took them; art editors would pause to exchange a quick story with film reviewers; even editors would swing their umbrellas with a more jaunty air, for the editors at Consolidated Periodicals are not a haughty lot of men.
    But on this particular Saturday morning, as indeed for the last five Saturday mornings, there were no such pleasant interludes. Assistant editors dashed past secretaries with a frown of preoccupation, as if intent only upon reaching their desks; art editors and film reviewers alike wore expressions intended to convey that work and the firm’s interests were the only preoccupations of their minds; and editors walked delicately and with reluctance. There was indeed a hum of activity throughout the warren of offices, but its note was sharp now with fear. In one or two of the cubbyholes in which the main work was carried on the note was even shrill with something very like hysteria.
    Very soon rumours were spreading.
    On the third floor young Bennett, assistant editor of the Peepshow, had hardly settled himself at his table, exceedingly conscious of arriving there ten minutes late, when the door opened and the tall figure of Owen Staithes, the art editor, came into the room.
    â€œOh, about those blocks for the centre page, Benney,” he began loudly and then, as the door closed behind him, changed abruptly to a lower tone. “Not got yours?”
    â€œNot yet. Has anyone?”
    â€œNot that I’ve heard. It’s a bit early yet.”
    â€œHe usually sends them round about eleven.”
    â€œYes.” Staithes fiddled with the coins in his pocket. He looked worried. “Damn these Saturday mornings. I’ve got the wind up, badly.” Staithes was married and had a small son.
    â€œOh, you’re safe enough.”
    â€œAm I? What about poor old Gregory last week? It’s my belief he wants to be rid of all us art editors.”
    â€œBut you’re doing Greg’s work. He couldn’t leave the Housewife as well as the Peepshow without an art editor.”
    â€œGod knows what he could do.” Staithes kicked moodily at the leg of Bennett’s table. “Seen Mac yet?”
    â€œNo. I say, I was ten minutes late.”
    â€œThe devil you were. Did you run into him?”
    â€œNo. But I had to pass his door and it’s my belief he can see clean through it. I’m expecting a chit at any minute.”
    â€œDon’t be an ass. . .. Oh, hullo, young Butts.”
    Young Butts, so known to distinguish him from his uncle, the editor of Film Fancy, sidled in with an uneasy grin.
    â€œHullo, chaps. I say, is it true that Fletcher’s got his?”
    â€œFletcher? Surely not.” Staithes looked surprised. “What would the Sunday Messenger be without Fletcher?”
    â€œYou might just as well have asked a month ago what it would be like without Purefoy, or what the Film Trader would be without Fitch. Dash it, Fitch founded the thing and ran it for twenty years at a pretty useful profit; but that didn’t save him.”
    â€œIt’s the devil,” muttered Staithes.
    There was a knock at the door and a girl looked in, pencil and notebook still in her hands. She was a pretty girl, but the men looked at her as if she were Medusa herself.
    â€œMr Bennett, Mr Fisher wants to see you at once in his room.”
    Bennett stood up awkwardly. “Me-me?” he stammered.
    â€œYes.” A look