Page:Weird Tales volume 36 number 02.djvu/99

 as a number of other enterprises. Vanderhof had never seen Throckmorton; there were vague rumors of his existence on some Olympian height. Walker sometimes visited the man, and even dined with him on occasion. Now, leaving the elevator, Vanderhof thought of Walker, and visualized the man, blue-black hair, flashing eyes, and apish face.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Walker," said the receptionist. "Go right in."

Vanderhof nodded and opened a door, facing a glass-brick desk about a mile long. Behind it sat a shriveled little fellow who was chewing a cigar.

This was Enoch Throckmorton.

Or, better yet: This was—Enoch Throckmorton!

"Ha," said Throckmorton in a cracked voice, "sit down, Walker. I've just been getting a telephone call from downstairs. Quite a little fuss, eh?"

"Nothing much," Vanderhof shrugged, grinning to himself. Apparently his resemblance to Walker was so complete that even Throckmorton was deceived.

"Nothing much! Indeed! This man Vanderhof deserves recognition! He captured those bandits himself—we'd have had to make good on every cent stolen if he hadn't. I still don't know how he did it, but—he did it. That's the important thing."

"Well," Vanderhof said, "I've been intending to talk to you about Vanderhof for some time. He's the smartest man we have. Candidly, I think he deserves promotion."

"Very well. What have you in mind?"

"Manager. At a corresponding salary."

Throckmorton said slowly, "You know, of course, that the manager of The Svelte Shop is responsible only to me. You will have no authority over Vanderhof if—"

"I know my limitations," Vanderhof shrugged. "Vanderhof needs no discipline."

"Very well," said Throckmorton, pressing a button. 'Til attend to it immediately."

"Uh—" Vanderhof stood up. "By the way—if I should change my mind—"

Steel glinted in Throckmorton's beady eyes. "Indeed! You should have thought of that before. Do you, or do you not, recommend Vanderhof's promotion."

"I do."

"Then he's promoted. And the matter is now out of your hands—entirely!"

Vanderhof smiled and turned. He walked out on clouds. He did not even know that the elevator was taking him downstairs. Nuts to Walker....

So engrossed was he in day-dreams that he forgot to resume his normal appearance by the time he reached the general offices—which was, save for one person, deserted. This person wore tweeds, and now turned a round, crimson face and a bristling mustache on Vanderhof. It was Colonel Quester.

"Hah!" the colonel bellowed gently. "There you are! I see you've kept me waiting again."

"Uh—"

"Silence!" said Colonel Quester, and the ceiling shook. "I have come for Model Forty-three. Mrs. Quester's still furious, but the gown will placate her, I am sure. Is it ready? It had better be."

"Yes," said Vanderhof faintly. "I—I'll get it."

He fled. He got Model Forty-three. And, looking into a nearby mirror, he saw that he still exactly resembled S. Horton Walker.

Carrying the gown over his arm, on the way back he met one of the models. "Why, there you are, Mr. Walker," the girl said. "I thought you were in your office."

"I—uh—just stepped out for a minute."

So Walker was in his office! Vanderhof started to grin. He was beaming like