The Fraud That Paid Off

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At eleven-thirty in the morning, Johnny Brewer was at last able to take a ten-minute break after three hours of ulcer-breeding activity. He sauntered into the Production Manager’s office, collapsed loosely into a chair and gave Kathie Morrison, Proctor’s redheaded secretary, a weak smile.

“Get it straightened out?” Kathie asked. He nodded. “How did it happen?” She was a smallish girl with a brisk manner and wise gray Irish eyes.

“Watson in the stock room missed a reorder point. He transposed stock numbers when he reordered. Purchasing didn’t catch it. So for lack of a supply of lousy little die castings only so big, this vast industrial enterprise would have had to shut down the whole line tomorrow afternoon.”

“Johnny,” she said severely, “I told you about Watson.”

“He’s a nice guy.”

“He’s a lovely guy. He knows more limericks than anybody. But as I told you, life will be easier for you if you get in there every once in a while with a components list and take a visual inventory.”

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