ONE WAY STREET

Bay of Plenty Times, Volume LXIV, Issue 11932, 25 January 1936, Page 4

ONE WAY STREET

Mark Sturges, the new general manager at Cannon’s, paused in a morning stroll through the fourth floor to cast an appraising glance about the dress department. He was not a large man, but his shoulders were muscular and he held them well back. His hands were thrust aggressively into the side pockets of his well tailored flannel coat. His keen blue eyes travelled about •swiftly absorbing the details of the big room. Its great windows of plate glass across the front, the deep piled carpet of restful green, ranks of mahogany cases with rain-bow-hued contents, easy chairs scattered about, floor lamps contributing subdued touches of colour—

“Best looking spot in the place,” Sturges decided with an approving jerk of his smooth head. “Stewart’s afflicted with ideas. Hello—” He smiled. “Life class in session.” The amused remark was caused by the discovery of a girl seated on the stool near one of the large pillars where the light from a window fell directly upon her. She held a small drawing-board in the hollow of her left arm and was sketching a gown that hung against the flat figure of a modernistic wooden female posing nereby. Sturges strolled in the direction of the artist who was so deeply absorbed in her task that she did not sense his presence when he halted almost at her side. Tho girl herself was rather a picture, Mark thought. Her thick redbrown hair was bobbed becomingly. He approved tbe way it revealed the shape of the small head. Where the lights touched the crests of the soft waves there were golden glints. The hair, falling forward, concealed the greater part of the profile. But the small chin was interesting. Something very determined about it. Young Mr Sturges likewise favoured the brown dress. It was simple, yet distinctive. He speculated instinctively whether or no it was out of stock and hoped it might be. There was, however, no speculation in regard to the slim legs in their sheer hose. Very pretty. Or of the neat little pumps. “Looks after her heels,’’ he thought. The girlish hands were slender and devoid of rings. The fingers guiding the pencil moved with swift sure strokes. A very capable air about this person.

Mark took a step nearer and deliberately inspected the drawing over the worker’s shoulder before he remarked, “That’s a very good job.” “Oh— I”

The red-brown head came up with a startled move. As Mark had suspected, the eyes looking at him from under their delicately arched brows were dark brown. The mouth was wide and sensitive; A doubtful little smile revealed the fleeting presence of two dimples.

Which also was as it should be. When the artist volunteered nothing more than her brief exclamation of surprise, Sturges took the situation in hand. He glanced from the sketch to the model. Back again. “For a display ad?” he inquired crisply. “Yes, sir.” “Accurately drawn, liver try your hand at designing?”

“A little.” “You should.”

With a brief nod, he resumed his cireut of the room. A glance into the office of Emory Stewart, head of the department, revealed only a young woman busied with a filing cabinet. 'Mr Stewart will be back in a few moments, Mr. Sturges,’’ she volunteered. “Will you wait?’’ “I’ll see him later. Thanks.

The general manager walked directly to the nearest elevators and entered an upbound car.

Mark Sturges’ office was on the top floor of the store, directly adjoining the extensive suite of Spencer Cannon, owner of The -Iron Block. Although Mark had spent the better part of a month in his new position, he still paused reflectively each time he crossed the threshold of his quarters. Usually, the room wrested a wry smile from his firmly set lips. Too fancy to suit his idea of a workshop. The walls were paneled in walnut. Heavy silken drapes hung at the one wide window. The desk in the centre of the soft rug was massive, its top glass-sheeted. There were two cavernous lounging chairs upholstered in dull blue leather. This morning, something more than the room and its expensive contents accounted for Sturges' halt and the blank surprise in his eyes. Close beside the desk’s combined clock and Inkstand stood a slender vase. In the vase was a full-blown crimson rose. Neither the rose nor the vase had been there half an hour ago. With an impatient shrug, Sturges dropped into his swivel chair and paused to light a cigarette before attacking the pile of letters awaiting him. A pretty state of affairs if redheaded Terry was going to distribute hothouse roses with the morning mail. Mark tossed aside the first letter on the heap and picked up another. There came the sound of a door opening softly. He glanced up to find a young woman in white surveying him calmly from the entrance to Spencer Cannon’s inner office. “Hello,” said a rich careless voice.

"How do you do?’’ Mark got to his feet, pushing his chair away. His glance chanced to rest on a cluster of roses pinned against the visitor’s white coat. The single bloom on the desk was accounted for.

"Keep your seat," the newcomer directed, sauntering leisurely to the desk. "I’m Edythe Cannon— Since there's no one to do the honours.’’ Mark had suspected as much, and bowed a trifle formally. He was on the point of offering his hand but restrained the impulse when he encountered the unabashed stare of the gray eyes.

"I’m very glad to meet you, Miss Cannon.’’

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(To be continued).

‘Thanks. No—Never mind.” She said it with a careless gesture of the glove carried in one hand, cutting short her host’s motion in the direction of the nearest easy chair. "1 shan’t intrude but a moment. I m sure you’re frightfully busy.” "But I’m not,” Mark insisted, resuming his own chair and returning the caller’s frank regard. Miss Cannon helped herself to a place on one corner of the desk where she sat swinging a white-shod foot back and forth. “I’m sure you were busy,” she protested nonchalantly. “Dad tells me you’re a perfect paragon of industry.” “Not so bad as all that, I hope,” was his amused retort. ‘Do you happen to know if he’s about? I thought perhaps he had wandered in here.” Miss Cannon must have seen Sturges shift his glance to the rose again, for she remarked indifferently, Yes, I was here before.”

“Thank you for the souvenir. It’s very beautiful. Perhaps Miss Howard could tell you if Mr Cannon is in the building.” “I dare say. I came in through the hall and didn’t bother to ask her. What do you think of Gorham by this time? It might be interesting—if you cared to tell the truth.”

“Very nice-—so far.” For some reason he found himself assuming the defensive.

“You don't have to say that to me. It's a perfectly deadly place. You must know after living in— Chicago, wasn’t it?” “Among other places. To be truthful, since you insist, I’ve seen very little of Gorham except the part between the store and my hotel. Almost a square and a half.” “Really?” She reached for the pack of cigarettes lying near, "Do you mind? My brand just at the moment.” “Please do. Pardon my neglect for not offering them to you. Here—Let me give you a light.”

Miss Cannon tapped one end of her cigarette indolently against the carved bracelte of white jade encircling her left wrist. She inserted the tip between her carmined lips and leaned forward to the waiting match flame. Sturges caught the subtle scent of gardinia.

“Lord, she’s stunning!’’ was his mental comment, as he watched her tilt her head gracefully and allow the smoke to filter slowly through her delicate nostrils. “Knows it, too.’’ “I wanted to apologise for not coming in sooner—or having you out to the house,” the caller continued, after a second leisurely inhalation. “I’ve been out of the city, you know. Looked in on a house party at the lake on my way back. I didn’t reach home until yesterday.” “That must have been plesant." St urges wondered vaguely if she thought he expected an explanation. “It wasn’t. I loathe house parties. But this was—one of those things.” There was a touch of curiosity in her voice as she asked, “Then you really were not in circulation while I was away? I fancied you’d be quite in demand.” “No indeed.” “Haven’t you met anyone at all?” Miss Cannon persisted. “Surely. Your father has been very kind. He's seen to it that I have encountered some o the ■—best minds.” Mark’s blue eyes twinkled slightly over the memory.

“Rotary, Commercial Club,l know. Please don’t forget you are engaged for Sunday evening.” “Sunday evening?” he echoed politely. “Where?”

“In Arden Terrace. At the humble abode of the Cannons. You’re having supper with them. Pardon that version, but Dad’s rather old-fashioned. At all events, it's six o’clock. And informal, of course.”

“That is very kind: Thank you.”

There was the sound of a door closing nearby. Edythe left her seat at the desk and raised her voice slightly, as she called; “In here, Mr Cannon.”

In spite o the daily contact with his chief, Mark Sturges still found it difficult to reconcile Spencer Cannon with his preconceived picture of the man. Prom indubitable sources he had been impressed with the fact that the merchant was Gorham's outstanding citizen. Besides being sole owner of the department store, whose name already was Sturges’ pet aversion, Spencer Cannon was president of the city’s strongest bank, as well as a director of two others. Extensive real estate holdings were among his assets, including the one skyscraper boasted by the municipality, the Cannon Tower, with its thirty floors. The largest and most fashionable church in Gorham was cryptically referred to as “his.” One of Sturges’ informants offered a pleasantry to the effect that the mayor and council were at home in the Cannon vest pocket. It was the steadily growing demand upon the merchant’s time that led to his search for a progressive young executive to take over the management of the Iron Block, his pet interest—the one whereon his father had laid the foundation for the family fortune. With these bits of information presented to him during the early negotiations, Sturges envisaged his prospective employer as a lean and leathery individual. For some reason, the name Cannon suggested a gray atmosphere. Gray clothing and gray hair —probably gray side-whiskers, closely trimmed and meeting the corners of a tight mouth. The Gorham magnate would be a modern Scrooge. Suave, but hard. Very hard. On the contrary, Spencer Gannon proved to be a short rotund man who waddled. His feet were large and toed ont in a fashion suggestive of a penguin, a similarity heightened by the white spats that usually were a part of an immaculate costume.