Chapter 1
"They're not formally engaged, and Jack says-"
"Not Jack, Jacques," corrected Henri. "Well, Shack-" Bettine mouthed the word.
Henri made another try. He couldn't come right out and admit openly that there were people who did not consider a beauty salon such as the Hair-After the epitome of desirable bequests.
Bitterly his thoughts ran contrary to the words he used. He had thought Mary Morgan would leave a stipulation in her will that he, Henri, would be named executor-manager until the will was through probate.
Instead she had left the salon to a grand-niece, Susanne Morgan. Not that he had given up. He'd caught a glimpse of the girl at the funeral. She would be wax in his hands. Before the six months had elapsed she would make a gift to him of the salon, even if he had to marry her to gain the gift.
As for that other man in her life, pouf! He was not the type to desire a beauty salon.
Neither was Susanne. At that precise moment she would have offered it to anyone who'd take it off her hands, except that she couldn't, not for six months.
I, she informed traffic, am in a vile humor.
But who wouldn't be after a night in a motel situated in a gore between freeway and arteries leading into the city, and on a truck route?
She glanced at the dial-board clock. She was late. And the attorney was meeting her at the salon. Such a nice old man. They'd become quite chatty at the hotel after the funeral.
Practically every eye in the Hair-After was glued to a peephole as Susanne drove up. Jansen, the janitor, purportedly giving an extra shine to a window, had alerted them.
"Oh-oh," said Jacques.
It wasn't what Susanne was saying. Some insolent young man had literally snatched the one parking space on the street, right out from under the nose of her car; an angry young man who stepped out, glared and stalked to the meter.
Now where should she go? The cars behind left no doubt where they thought she belonged. She drove on slowly, and two blocks farther on held up a long cortege waiting for a shopper to load.
The angry young man whisked up the sidewalk to the crossing and strode across the street, his coat tails literally standing straight out behind him.
Imagine him, Bert Leehoff, being detailed to a beauty salon to tell some fool girl the details of her inheritance, while a most important committee meeting of Citizens' Green Light was under way.
There were times when he found being the junior partner of Barnes, Burdon, Ames and Leehoff not the seat of opportunity he'd envisioned.
Well, he'd make short work of this chore. He had everything in his briefcase. Ha! And where was that? In the car. That girl had made him forget it.
Leehoff wheeled and saw himself in a mirror wearing a pink and gold choker and long loop earrings. As he was hatless, the petal pink turned crimson, and off he strode to miss the traffic lights coming and going.
By the time he was back, the girl who'd tried to steal his parking space was striding in. Probably late for a beauty appointment. Well, if he'd ever seen anyone who needed one more, he'd been wearing dark glasses.
She was fairly tall, with straight light-brown hair crammed up under a most unbecoming hat, a shiny face, too much rouge and lipstick. At least her cheeks were scarlet. And what eyes-tiny and sharp. Ha, she was still mad at him.
Automatically he held the door for her, and she sailed in, then came to such a short stop he, in his hurry, barged into her. "Welcome, Miss Morgan," chanted the staff.
"Good morning, and thank you," Susanne managed. "I'm probably late."
All seemed to be waiting for something. Henri looked at Leehoff and identified him from news photos, though no photographer had ever caught that expression on his face.
"Mr. Ames is waiting?"
Leehoff stepped forward. "I am representing
Mr. Ames. Leehoff, Bert Leehoff."
"Oh?" Susanne smiled sweetly. "And I took you for a professional curb opportunist."
Leevoff smiled right back. "And I thought that meeting a client was more important than waiting for some shopper to make up her mind where she wanted to park."
Mentally Henri rubbed his hands. Excellent, excellent. Let these two get off to a bad start, and the Hair-After would be his the moment it went on the market.
"Chilly this morning," he offered brightly. "Should we not go to Miss Susanne's office for coffee?" He slapped his hands briskly, sending Jennet, the maid, into a flurry of activity.
Both Susanne and Leehoff were surprised at the office. Contrasted with the reception room of the salon, it seemed austere. Even the chairs were uncompromising; purchased, it seemed, to keep any caller from overstaying a brief business appointment.
Susanne thought it looked like a jail. Gray walls, furniture, filing cases, desk, even the typewriter were all that one dull color.
The walls were relieved only by pinup cards on which were hand-inscribed mottoes of some kind. Susanne blinked at the one above the desk where she had been seated.
"Beauty is an inside treatment."
It hung slightly askew.
Henri smiled apologetically. "A peculiarity Of the late Miss Morgan," he explained. "Reminders, she called them."
"But this inside treatment-" mused Leehoff.
This time Henri's arms were extended. "Understand please. Much money it has cost us since the late lamented began this inside-out campaign. There were patrons she would not accept, but would send instead to the mental doctors."
"Oooh." Leehoff listened with interest. "I think I understand. An individual's disposition usually shows up on his face; right? And she felt no amount of facials, creams, and the goop women use could cover it up. Good thinking."
"But expensive," mourned Henri. "The worse the disposition of the patron, the madder she grows when this is pointed out. The madder she grows, the more patrons she draws from the Hair-After. I shudder at what the books reveal."
Susanne was leaning forward with interest. "What would you do to such a patron? How would you handle her?"
"What but make the best of what she has?"
"Outside?" persisted Susanne.
"The beautician does not build the structure," Henri informed her earnestly; "he or she but finishes the facade."
"Think you've got something." Leehoff nodded. "He lops off the hair, or shingles, then slaps on the paint."
Susanne's eyes were no longer small and sharp; they were wide, dove-gray, and dancing with the light of inner laughter.
Where, she wondered, could be found two men more unalike? All she needed was Danny Harper in another chair with some of his obviously trite but telling comments.
Henri continued to talk, to downgrade the Hair-After. Hm. Could be she had inherited a lemon from which the juice had long since been squeezed. Business had fallen off, he intoned.
Could be. Yet judging from the sounds she'd heard when the doors were opened after they'd reached the inner office, each booth outside was well filled with patrons waiting for the first line to reach the dryers.
She glanced at Leehoff. My, how grim he looked. Henri was giving the salon's history. In the beginning it had fared well, but now that Leesburg was becoming a metropolis, only business girls were steady patrons.
The clientele upon which the salon had been founded now went to the petite salons at shopping centers in the better areas, where there was plenty of parking space. To the Hair-After was left the after-work hours young women. After-work hours meant the payment of overtime.
Why not stagger the operators' hours? Susanne wondered. If there are so few customers during the daytime, let some come on at noon and work through.
Her thoughts came to a grinding halt. What had Henri said just before that? Something about parking space.
Susanne swept up, grabbing her bag, smashing hat on her head, and streaked to the door.
"See you in court," she called back.
She had reached and passed the entrance before Leehoff swept the papers into his briefcase, cried, "You certainly will," and swept after her.
Henri came from the office, a fatuous look on his face. He had succeeded. This niece of the late lamented wanted no part of a losing business. She would appoint him to run it. And he would, with such a careful hand no profit would show before the six-month period was up.
He floated around on a roseate cloud until his first appointment, eleven o'clock and late as usual, came in, laughing.
"Country girl had forgotten she was in a one-hour traffic zone, and who but Bert Leehoff was trying to talk the traffic officer into giving the ticket to him? I mean, he already had one on his own car."
Leehoff was addressing the traffic officer as he hoped some day to address a committee of businessmen with influence at City Hall.
If it were not for the men who owned the older business houses in the city, the city would not have grown so that no customers could park and shop without fear of tickets. Something had to be done, some new parking area created.
"Could be a Space Needle like at the Seattle Fair," suggested the officer happily, and went on with the theme of elevators which would carry cars to temporary resting places.
"Thank you," said Leehoff. "There is the old Morrison Building; I'll look into it.
Now if you'll turn that ticket over to me-I represent Miss Morgan-"
"Morgan? Ah, yes, 'tis on her car license."
"Miss Mary Morgan's niece, who inherited the beauty salon."
The officer swung on her. "You'll be carrying on as did she, and you so young? Saved my daughter's marriage, she did. Well, as you're a guest in the city for the moment, this we will forget." And he disposed of the ticket.
He swung on Leehoff. "But you are not a guest, and your car is rapidly gaining overtime."
Susanne and Leehoff exchanged expressions of dismay. They hadn't had a chance to discuss the salon. Henri had done all of the talking.
"Could you face an early lunch?" Leehoff asked. "Then get ready to follow my car when I pass."
Dutifully Susanne fell into the wake of the Leehoff car and nearly got a dented fender for her determination. This was certainly an up-and-coming small city, mostly coming, with no one giving way to anyone else.
Far on the outskirts of the city, Leehoff pulled into a drive-in where customers were already having an early lunch or perchance a late breakfast.
"I choose this because it has booths and no one I know comes here," Leehoff explained as he helped her from her car. He made a quick recovery. "I mean, we must talk without interruptions."
Seated in a booth with nothing but the view of a sharp mountain beyond to distract them, they waited until their order was taken. Then Leehoff leaned forward.
"Miss Morgan, I am bound to let you know there is an escape clause in the will. You are not forced to take over the beauty salon to benefit by your bequest.
"You need not give final word at this time. However, having listened to Henri, do you feel inclined to go into the business angle of the salon further?"
He sat back rather sharply. Susanne's eyes were no longer round; they formed a straight, narrow line.