by Emma Lathen
“I’ve already made plans for the weekend,” Charlie objected. Under the best of circumstances, he was no lover of overtime. Too often, in his opinion, it did not result from the impossibility of cramming six days work into five days, but from someone’s efforts to fiddle with which five days he was willing to work. “Too bad we weren’t able to sit down with Wylie this morning,” he added meaningfully.
Cramer took the point instantly. Interpol might be regarded as an act of God, but it was only partially responsible for the current disruption. In a very real sense, the Wylies were trying to conduct their divorce on Charlie Trinkam’s time. “I’ll tell you what,” he urged in a more conciliatory fashion. “This stuff is all in the files. I’ll dig it out, and I’ll go over it with you.”
Until now Wylie had been an apathetic observer of the dislocations he was causing. But some habits die hard. As if a button had been pushed, he drew himself up to lean forward, his eyes fixed hypnotically on Cramer, his voice warm with sympathetic concern.
“It’s nice of you to offer, Hugo, and believe me, I appreciate it. But we don’t want to take any chances on a foul-up, just as we’re getting Noss Head off the ground, do we? All things considered, we were damn lucky to get the contract in the first place, but we can’t count on an unlimited run of luck. Naturally all the facts are in the files, but it’s the interpretation that counts. And, Hugo, you know you aren’t familiar enough with customs in Britain to help Charlie out much.”
Trinkam decided to rise above Macklin’s internal power struggle. “Well, if someone doesn’t help Charlie out today,” he growled, “they’re going to have to wait until Monday.”
“Don’t worry.” Dave Wylie was already dialing another extension in the building. “I’ll get Paul Volpe up here right away. He knows all about the firms on our consideration list—credit ratings, experience, principals. He’ll be able to give you chapter and verse.”
“Fine.”
Wylie produced a wan smile. “Now I can stop worrying about what you’re all going to be doing and start worrying about this guy from Interpol.”
Both as a bid for sympathy and as a forecast, this remark fell flat. Those present immediately addressed themselves to the problem of financing preliminary site work in Scotland, forgetting entirely what the afternoon held in store for Wylie. On the other hand, the one man he had forgotten was on his way to lodge a protest.
Klaus Engelhart normally worked with meticulous regard for the orderings of any hierarchy in which he found himself. His system, which had proved satisfactory in Scandinavia, the Near East, and Great Britain, was soon in difficulties at Macklin. Shortly after his arrival he had been present at an extended discussion among Cramer, Wylie, and Volpe that would have defied any outsider to rank them. If there were clues, Engelhart decided, they were beyond him. The one indisputable superior whom he had encountered was Arthur Shute, and, accordingly, it was to the president’s office that he brought his complaint.
“I have been here a week now, and it was Dave Wylie himself who asked me to come. Yet he is always too busy to see me,” the German charged. “I cannot stay in Houston indefinitely. There are things in Hamburg that need attention, but I do not wish to leave without accomplishing anything.”
“Naturally. And I’m glad you’ve come to me. Dave has had a lot of trouble with his schedule this week, but I didn’t know you were one of the victims.” As he automatically produced apologies, Shute was conscious of mounting irritation. Everyone from Hugo Cramer down had assured him that getting the Noss Head contract was the problem. Thereafter, the world-renowned Macklin efficiency would swing into action. Arthur Shute had not been with the company long enough for loyalty to displace common sense. As far as he was concerned, the award of the contract had heralded one ball-up after another. Without showing a hint of annoyance, he went on: “Let me see if I can set something up.”
In spite of his previous experience with Charlie Trinkam, Shute’s first attempt involved a Saturday morning session. Engelhart’s short, stocky figure, his bald dome, his thick eyeglasses, all suggested a solemn dedication to business that would not begrudge an expanded work week. And, unlike Charlie, he was trying to sell something to Macklin. It soon developed that Arthur Shute was looking for objections in the wrong corner.
“I’d like to help you out, Arthur, but I don’t see how I can,” Wylie said with real regret. “Francesca and I are passing papers on some real estate tomorrow morning. And you know what happens to meetings the minute you let a lawyer in. There’s no telling when I’ll be able to pull free.”
Shute was briefly thankful that Klaus Engelhart had reasons of his own for wishing to speed the Wylie divorce. Nonetheless, Macklin’s European manager was not getting away with it that easily.
“Just a minute, Dave, I’m not finished. If you can’t manage tomorrow, then we’ll have to make it a business dinner tonight. My secretary will get us a dining room at the Tidewater, and I’ll ask Cramer and Trinkam if they want to sit in.”
In one quarter this suggestion met with instant approval. Klaus Engelhart was beaming broadly. “That is excellent. There is a limit to what Dave and I can accomplish alone. This way Hugo and Charlie can get an overall view of NDW’s participation—which will make it easier for us to work together.”
Shute blinked. “There are a lot of questions still to be decided, Engelhart. We don’t want to race too far ahead. At the moment NDW has simply been asked to bid on the pumping subcontracts. It’s not even certain that you’ll be doing that.”
“Of course, nothing can go forward until the technicalities have been satisfied,” Engelhart agreed. “But I expect to be interested in much more than the pumping work.”
“That,” said Shute with a touch of severity, “will depend on your company’s capabilities.”
But young men who take too much for granted are notoriously self-confident. “Do not worry about our capability. On the contrary you may find that we are indispensable.”
“Perhaps. But for tonight we’d better restrict ourselves to the subcontract at hand.”
Dave Wylie leaped into the breach. “And that’s what you wanted to discuss anyway, Klaus. I’m glad I was able to work something out for you,” he went on, taking credit for a business dinner that had been rammed down his throat. “You’ll find that tonight I’ll be able to settle all your problems.”
But very shortly it began to seem as if tonight would never come.
“Now, Mr. Wylie,” the big neutral man with the expressionless face was saying, “the room you were held in had a window so heavily shuttered you couldn’t see out. Is that right?”
Dave was overeager in his response. “Yes. I never saw what was outside so there’s no point in asking me about that.”
“You couldn’t see anything except what was in the room?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Then there was artificial light in the room.” It was a statement, not a question. “What kind of fixture was it?”
Wylie flinched as if bitten. “I didn’t say there was any light.”
“But you could see what was inside in spite of the shutters. So there must have been light.”
“I guess so.” The agreement came slowly and reluctantly.
“And how did you turn it on and off?”
“I didn’t.” Wylie seemed to feel some amplification was required. “They did, from someplace outside.”
There was apparently no end to the questions that could be asked about lighting.
“And what kind of light was it? Lamps? A fluorescent circle? A chandelier? If it was anything distinctive, that would be a help to the police over there.”
“Well, it wasn’t. There was just a bare bulb in the ceiling.”
“That’s odd, very odd.” There was a pause for lengthy notetaking. “A bare bulb would usually have a drop cord.”
“I can’t help that,” Wylie shot back. He had been unnerved ever since Interpol’s representative turned out to be
a local FBI agent. Dave had been hoping that, here in Houston, unlike Ankara, it would be the policeman who was out of place.
“You see, Mr. Wylie, we’ve made progress already. There can’t be many places in Istanbul that have been rewired to provide outside switches for a simple ceiling plug. I’d say we’ve narrowed things down considerably.”
Dave looked anything but gratified. With a visible effort he pulled himself together and managed to speak in his usual manner. “Naturally I want to be as helpful to you people as possible, and it’s great that this session has been of real use.” Already he was pushing his chair back from the desk. “I’m glad I was able to fit you in but you’ll understand that I’m in a real bind for—”
Agent McMurtrey simply talked right through him. “Interpol wanted me to say how grateful they are for Macklin’s cooperation. And I really did appreciate it when Mr. Shute told me to take as much time as I needed, because he agreed that our investigation takes priority over any other commitments.”
Davidson Wylie licked suddenly dry lips. Slowly and painfully he was beginning to realize that James McMurtrey was sitting on the other side of the blotter, not because of any expertise about Turkey, but because he knew how American corporations worked.
“Then that’s fine,” he said weakly. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to Shute myself.”
“I thought we’d better be absolutely clear about the whole thing.” McMurtrey was as stolid as ever. “Now you said there were shutters over the window. Too heavy to move?”
“Yes.”
“Did you try?”
“Of course I did. What do you take me for?” Wylie flared. “They weren’t just heavy, they were nailed shut.”
“And you couldn’t loosen the nails?”
“There wasn’t that much in the room to use on them. There was a tin ashtray, but it just crumpled up. And a spoon I tried wasn’t any good.”
“But you spent some time on the problem?”
“Until I exhausted the possibilities.” Dave became sarcastic. “Those guys in ski masks weren’t considerate enough to leave a lot of crowbars lying around.”
“Fine! The Turkish police claim that a detailed description of those shutters will practically tell them what section of Istanbul we’re dealing with.”
Wylie narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t take in a lot of detail.”
“You just think you didn’t. You’d be surprised at what you’ll remember if we nudge you along a little. Were they wood or metal?”
“Wood.”
The shutters became a repetition of the lights. Were they paneled or solid? Were they grilled? Did they have any decorative hardware? How many sets of hinges were there?
As Dave fiddled with some paper clips in the pencil drawer, his replies began to sound random, even to himself.
“What the hell do you think I am?” he demanded. “I was worried about my life, not taking a survey of interior decoration. I didn’t notice any of this stuff.”
“Come now, Mr. Wylie. You were in that room for over two weeks. If we can’t get anywhere with the shutters, let’s try the floor.”
But Dave no longer dared admit anything. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember the floor.”
With no apparent chagrin, McMurtrey abandoned the floor for the walls, the ceiling, the bed, the door . . .
Grimly Wylie clung to his contention as the strange duel prolonged itself.
“I don’t remember,” he said over and over.
He was incapable, however, of maintaining his facade of willing helpfulness. The sullen defiance in his disclaimers accorded better with a suspected criminal than with an innocent victim. When five o’clock brought the normal bustle of departing employees to the corridor outside, he gave a sigh of relief.
“Look, I’ve got an appointment for dinner tonight. It was Arthur Shute who set it up.”
“I know. And I’ve barely started on my list. Let’s knock off now and get together tomorrow morning.”
Dave gritted his teeth. “I’ve got an appointment then, too.”
“I know. At eleven o’clock. Shall we make it nine?”
“I suppose you think you know everything?” Dave snapped.
“No.” McMurtrey looked at him stonily. “Not yet.”
When Davidson Wylie rose, he closed the drawer with a slam that echoed through the room like a pistol shot.
“He’ll crack all right,” McMurtrey was reporting over the phone a short time later. “All I have to do is keep squeezing him.”
“You yourself have no doubts?” Captain Harbak asked.
“He’s lying himself blue in the face. And he’s no good at it.”
“I am relieved to hear you say so. Confirmation is always welcome.”
“I’ll go further. You had three possibilities. You said either he was crazy, he was scared stiff of Black Tuesday, or he was in this up to his neck. Take it from me, he’s as sane as you are.”
“It never seemed very likely. But the psychiatrist who was present in Ankara . . .” The distant voice trailed off apologetically.
McMurtrey was a veteran of many court battles about diminished responsibility. “Aren’t they something?” he remarked, before returning to the subject at hand. “What bothers me is this business of Wylie’s being too scared to open up. We’ve never had this problem before with one of the big Che Guevara specials. Unless there’s something unique about your terrorists?”
“No, even if they are novices and discordant about everything else,” said Captain Harbak, who was still disseminating his theory about Black Tuesday, “they would unite in the desire for publicity.”
“Then the only explanation is that Wylie can tell us a lot more than the color of a bedspread. He could tell us names. Which means Davidson Wylie wasn’t casually chosen as a victim. There was some previous contact and he got snatched as a lesson.”
Captain Harback was diffident. “I have been studying his dossier.”
“So have I. He was just a standard American businessman based in Europe.”
“Yes, but first in chemicals, then electronics. Is it too bizarre to imagine him in an arms deal? If he ever shortweighted a customer, that would explain this pattern.”
When there was no audience to impress, McMurtrey stopped being impassive. Scowling in concentration, he loosened his tie and ran a hand through his hair. “No, I don’t think so,” he said at length. “There are plenty of reliable arms merchants, and all these groups know it. Then, you haven’t seen Wylie when he wasn’t being hysterical. I’d say he was the last man to decide to moonlight in munitions and go searching for customers. And he’s too respectably middle-aged to fall into accidental contact with them.”
Captain Harbak coughed. “Actually it was his wife I was thinking of.”
There was a pause as McMurtrey riffled through his own file. What he found was not very convincing.
“She’s not exactly a spring chicken herself. She’s 36.”
“A spring chicken? Is that how you put it? It is not very gallant.” Captain Harbak was mildly amused, but he persisted with his theory. “Her work takes her to all the film studios in Europe. Presumably she comes in contact with all the young actors, all the students trying to pick up some money as extras. It is a totally different environment.”
“I grant you the different environment, but it still sounds farfetched to me.”
Harbak clicked his tongue in exasperation. “And Wylie’s manner gave you no clue?”
“When I’m there, Wylie is so scared of me that it blankets his other reactions,” McMurtrey explained. “But why bother shooting down each other’s theories? I guarantee you that within 48 hours Mr. Davidson Wylie will be telling us all about it himself.”
The business dinner has become a time-hallowed institution largely because of an underlying psychological reality. A group of co-specialists “laboring to meet a demanding deadline can rise above the physical discomforts of long hours, stale air, improper food, and endless cups of inst
ant coffee. Accountants completing an exhaustive audit, lawyers composing an appellate brief, scientists summarizing research data, all are working toward a common goal. But complex business negotiations, however much camouflaged by a veneer of cordiality, are basically adversarial in nature. Different participants represent different interests. Under these circumstances, the wise executive sets a limit to physical fatigue. A dinner hour that features the relaxation resulting from one or two drinks, the warm glow of substantial caloric intake, the feeling of rich surfeit induced by a cigar after coffee, can pay for itself. Frayed tempers are miraculously restored, concessions that loomed as impossible mountains melt into manageable molehills, and more progress is made between nine and ten than was made all afternoon.
Arthur Shute had seen it happen many times, and he confidently expected similar benefits that Friday evening. Unfortunately, he had forgotten that what one or two drinks can achieve, five or six drinks can destroy. By the time shrimp cocktail yielded to steak, Davidson Wylie was a major social menace. He had arrived late, with liquor on his breath and self-pity just around the corner. When Hugo Cramer casually asked about the Interpol agent, Wylie drained his double Scotch before replying.
“The SOB claims he isn’t finished with me. He wants another go-round tomorrow. And tomorrow he’ll say he wants another one after that, and it’ll go on and on . . .” Wylie’s voice had been rising before he choked it off with an effort of will. He steadied himself with a hand on the bar. “I tell you I can’t take much more of this.”
Shute had not seen Davidson Wylie until he was restored to normalcy. Cramer’s description had emphasized the heavy-handedness of the Ankara personnel in dealing with the malady, rather than the malady itself.
“For God’s sake, Dave, I didn’t realize you were still so tight about the whole thing,” Macklin’s president exclaimed. “Why don’t I have someone from the law department stand by you tomorrow?”
