“I just wanted to know if Don’s in this morning,” Hutchman extemporized. Don Spain was a cost accountant who had the office on the opposite side of Muriel’s and shared her services.
“Him!” Muriel’s face was scornful behind the tinted prescription lenses — the exact colour of antique-brown glass — which screened her eyes from the world. “He won’t be in for another half-hour — this is Thursday.”
“What happens on Thursday?”
“This is the day he works at his other job.” Muriel spoke with heavy patience.
“Oh!” Hutchman recalled that Spain made up the payroll for a small bakery on the far side of town as a sideline and usually handed his work in on Thursdays. Having outside employment was, as Muriel frequently pointed out, a breach of company regulations, but the main cause of her anger was that Spain often gave her letters to type on behalf of the bakery. “All right, then. You run along and have your coffee.”
“I was going to,” Muriel assured him, closing the door firmly behind her.
Hutchman went back into his own office and took the sheet of figures from his pocket. He held it by one corner above the metal waste bin and ignited it with his bulky desk cigarette lighter. The paper had begun to burn reluctantly, with a surprising amount of acrid smoke, when the door to Muriel’s office was opened. Shades of gray moved on the frosted glass, the blurred mask of a face looking his way. Hutchman dropped the paper, stamped it out, and crammed it back into his pocket in one frantic movement. A second later Spain looked into the office, grinning his conspiratorial grin.