Michael Malone - Weebly

"Here. Just a second, Irene. Wait. You can send
these out."
Ransom walked with her back into the office,
where he floated a hieroglyph of his name across the
bottom of six sheets of paper at which he no more than
glanced. Busy men must be able to trust those who
work for them. Had she been so inclined, Irene could
have led Ernest Ransom's signature, like a blind man's
hand, to sheets of libelous slanders, vast philanthropic
bequests, foreclosures, interestless loans to the indigent
unemployed in Madder. However, as she was neither
an ironist nor a revolutionary, none of this had ever
occurred to her. "On that call?" she said. "There is no
Mr. Palter with the Interior. There was a Mr. W. Derek
Palter who worked there many, many years ago. But he
transferred to the Central Intelligence Agency back in
the sixties. I've been trying them all day, and finally
somebody told me Mr. Palter had died overseas, I'm
afraid. Should I try someone else with Interior? Sir, I'm
sorry, should I try—"
"No. No, thanks, Irene. I had a question concerning
this Mr. Palter in particular. It doesn't matter. Now, I