Executive Suite by Cameron Hawley Read Free Book Online

twenty-fourth floors of the Tower, Luigi occupied a position so completely gratifying that he regularly included his thanks in his prayers. That was no more than just. Divine Providence had unquestionably intervened in his behalf. Without supernatural beneficence it was totally incredible that he, little Luigi Cassoni who had been born with no right to expect anything from life but a peasant’s work in the olive groves, should now be one of Mr. Avery Bullard’s closest personal friends. That was true. No one could deny it. Mr. Bullard had said it himself on that never-to-be-forgotten night eleven years ago. “Luigi, sometimes I have a suspicion that you’re the only real friend I have in this whole damned company.”
    Luigi knew that his intimate personal association with Mr. Bullard was recognized up and down the floors of the Tredway Tower. Even the vice-presidents on the twenty-third, riding up to twenty-four for a presidential audience, frequently said, “Luigi, what kind of a mood is the old man in today?”
    His answers were always carefully guarded because he recognized the horrible danger that he might, by some inadvertent slip of the tongue, say something that would be disloyal to Mr. Bullard.
    Despite the perpetual pleasure of his employment, Luigi was always conscious of a slight discount on his happiness when Mr. Bullard was out of town. When the president was not in the Executive Suite, the flash of the twenty-fourth floor signal light was different. Then it was only a pinpoint of red light, not the exciting crimson flare that sent him skyrocketing up the shaft.
    Mr. Bullard had been out of town for two days now. He had been in New York since Wednesday. In this whole day, Luigi had made only seven runs to twenty-four … Miss Martin up this morning … Miss Martin down and up at noon … four trips with mail.
    Now, unexpectedly, the yellow light blinked on the control board of his cab, signaling a special call from the mail room.
    Luigi threw the control lever and the cab dropped to the sub-basement. As the door opened, the sliding panel revealed the spare and angular figure of Emily Gastings. She was waiting impatiently, her face frozen in her never-varying mask of icy criticism. For even longer than Luigi had been with Tredway, Emily had supervised the handling of all mail and telegrams. She was so clearly the frustrated spinster that she seemed an overdrawn caricature of the type. Through the years her mind had become something like a sour-soil plant that perpetuates its habitat by the self-generation of an acid atmosphere.
    â€œTelegram for Miss Martin, and don’t take all day getting it up there. It’s from Mr. Bullard.”
    The perpetually lurking smile behind Luigi’s eyes neither warmed nor cooled. He had long since learned that the easiest way to stay happy was to disregard unpleasantness.
    He saw that Emily was perversely standing just far enough away to force him to step out of the cab to reach the envelope, but he took the step without resentment. “Mr. Bullard coming in tonight?”
    She took a quick gasping breath as if his words had touched some inviolate spot. “None of your business. Telegrams are strictly confidential.”
    Luigi held his smile until the closing door screened his face. Women were funny … if you asked them something and the answer was no, they’d say it right out … if the answer was yes, they’d shut up like a clam and not say a word. Mr. Bullard was coming home tonight.
    He had thrown the control, express to twenty-four, and the cab was flying up the shaft, alive with silent flight, no sound except the soft swish of the air. Luigi nodded with satisfaction as he passed sixteen. That little clicking sound between fifteen and sixteen was gone. He had been right in forcing Building Maintenance to have it fixed immediately. George had tried to tell him that Mr. Bullard would never notice it, a sound that