by Emma Lathen
Fran was innocently absorbed in the drama of Barbara Gunn. Her companions, each in his own way, seized on other implications.
“There’s no reason to assume she did the dirty on him,” Eric objected. “Oh, I’ll grant you all that other stuff if you like, that she wanted to move on when she couldn’t hook him and needed money to do it. But he was beginning his crooked scheme then. He probably paid her to fudge the files over the next five years.”
Both the Pendletons were alive to the absurdity of this particular suggestion, but Howard had other fish to fry.
“There’s no way we can tell exactly what happened back then. Some people will see it one way, and other people will see it differently. But there’s nothing to be gained by listing a lot of wild improbabilities.”
“It’s crazy, no matter how it happened,” said Fran, agreeing with him in spirit if not letter, “but then I’ve always said that Milton probably was crazy.”
“Fran!” It was a cry of agony. “We simply cannot run down the Vandams, one by one, analyzing their potential for every crime in the book. And I don’t particularly want to do it with Wisconsin Seed either. It’ll be bad enough if we ever know for certain, but at least that will just be one person. Oh God, now you’ve made me miss my exit. I’m not going to have a moment’s peace until I get this damned thing back to the rental agency and never have to look at it again.”
Fran, who realized perfectly well that her husband’s malaise did not stem from the Chevy Impala, was more than willing to oblige him.
“I really never thought I’d see a woman who was so right for Scott,” she mused. “His self-absorption will never bother her. She’s just as bad. And when she really wants him to do something socially respectable, she just makes him do it, the way she did at the cemetery. He’s awfully lucky to have found her.”
“He doesn’t seem to think he’s so lucky,” Eric Most retorted. “You notice he hasn’t married her.”
“You mean he doesn’t value her enough to make an honest woman of her?” Fran chuckled. “That isn’t the way it will happen. In about two years Scotty will realize he can’t live without her, and he’ll go into a panic. For all I know she’ll give him a hard time.”
Eric Most did not approve of the way the conversation was going. After all, he was a young man under 30 and Fran was a grandmother. Why then was he the one who sounded like a maiden aunt?
Meanwhile Fran had moved to other considerations. “I wonder what they do about meals?”
“I suppose they eat out,” her husband said, baffled.
“Oh, Howard, that’s so old-fashioned,” his wife reprimanded him. “Gourmet cooking is the in thing these days. Probably Scotty makes a mean beef Wellington by now. I’ll bet Hilary encourages it as a good relaxation for him.”
Howard Pendleton laughed outright and Fran, pleased with her tactics, enlarged on the improvements Hilary had effected in Scotty’s wardrobe.
“You remember the way he looked in Puerto Rico? I don’t think anybody had broken it to him about dry cleaners.”
And so, for poor Eric, it was Hilary Davis all the way back to the Blackstone Hotel.
Chapter 19
On Slopes and Banks
DEATH is the ultimate finality for everyone except press, radio, and television. Barbara Gunn’s funeral, simple though it was, provided raw material for reams of purple prose. “Her name was Barbara Norris. . . .” wrote columnists specializing in pathos. “Bridgeport buried one of its own today,” throbbed hard-boiled chroniclers of city life. “. . . her little daughter, Tracy, who is too young to understand . . .” pealed the human Wurlitzers on channel six.
Fortunately, before this outpouring crested, John Thatcher was safely back at the Sloan. The tragedy of Barbara Gunn was bad enough; wallowing in it struck him as either perverted or cynical.
Besides, even without the horror of murder, reassuming his rightful place in the universe was always satisfying. This morning, Thatcher had entered the Sloan with a springy step.
The other inhabitants of Exchange Place were also pleased at his return.
“. . . although the weather isn’t the best for you,” said Billings, who piloted the executive elevator.
“It’s better than it was in Chicago,” said Thatcher untruthfully. He felt kindly disposed to these stinging pellets of sleet, ice and rain because they were portents of weather to come. “Yes, I was lucky to beat the storm.”
Everett Gabler, Grand Old Man of the Trust Department, was above climate.
“John,” he said, falling into stride beside his snow encrusted superior, “Charlie’s already here and he said you’d be coming in this morning. Now, I have to talk to you about Section 12. If we let it slide . . .”
Gabler was not the only one on the lookout. Walter Bowman pounced as soon as Thatcher and Gabler rounded the corner.
“. . . and high time too,” he said, attaching himself to the group. “Have you heard what’s happening to First Miami?”
Thatcher was not by nature a daydreamer. His attention, like his time, was valuable. Nevertheless, the passing vision sometimes descended. Over last night’s high-altitude Salisbury steak, he had idly projected Miss Corsa’s reaction to his unannounced return complete with post-Lordmas gift.
She was certainly surprised at the crowd scene. But here too, Trinkam had gotten in first.
“Good morning, Miss Corsa. As you see, I finally made it,” said Thatcher, deferring present-giving to a quieter moment.
“Welcome back, Mr. Thatcher,” she replied. “I’ve put your current file on your desk.”
During these formalities, Charlie Trinkam unhurriedly pushed himself off the corner of Miss Corsa’s desk, greeted his colleagues, and prepared to join the procession into Thatcher’s office.
Just then sound effects were added. Miss Corsa’s phone rang.
“Mr. Thatcher’s office. . . . Oh yes, Mr. Sanders. . . . I’m not sure Mr. Thatcher is in yet. . . . Let me check. . . .” she said, cupping a hand over the mouthpiece and semaphoring inquiry.
With a sigh, he stepped over to take the receiver. “Sanders? Yes, I just got in. . . If nothing else, he reflected as he stood watching moisture from his overcoat drip on Miss Corsa’s rug, he was setting a good example. He listened for a moment, then said, “I see. . . . No, I am not surprised. I assume this means we’ll be hearing from you in the near future. . . . Fine. . . . Thank you for telling me.”
After this the immediate chances of getting down to Section 12 or First Miami faded dramatically.
“What’s happened now?” Gabler asked acidulously, speaking for all of them.
“No, it is not a progression beyond murder,” Thatcher said dryly, answering the implication.
“Sanders was simply informing us that Standard Foods is scrapping its delaying tactics. They have decided to push Numero Uno through the Patent Office as soon as possible.”
In some circles, this might be regarded as anticlimax, but not at the Sloan Guaranty Trust.
“That’s a switch, isn’t it?” Bowman commented.
“It’s an about-face,” said Trinkam. “But as John just said, it’s not a real earthshaking surprise.”
Everett Gabler, although high-minded to a fault, wanted all the distasteful details. “I’m not sure I follow you, Charlie. Surely some sort of compromise—”
“That’s what SF thought before Chicago, Ev,” Charlie said. “But now, when the can of worms includes murder and bribery, compromise is out. SF wants Numero Uno settled fast, before anything really ugly is pinned on one of their boys. Right, John?”
Thatcher, who had been riffling through his backlog, looked up. “That is certainly the line that Sanders and Standard Foods are taking.”
The keen-eared Bowman thought he detected a note of reservation. “What about Vandam’s?” he asked. “Are they going along with this rush to judgment?”
“That,” Charlie told him, “is the $100 question.”
While he would have phrased it
differently, Thatcher agreed. At this juncture, SF and Vandam’s could well be defending radically different positions. SF wanted Numero Uno, no matter what. Vandam’s, on the other hand, could be thinking that its loss was a small price to pay for escaping criminal charges.
“. . . find it very difficult to believe!” Everett was declaring.
“What do you find hard to believe, Ev?” Thatcher inquired.
“That a reputable firm like Vandam’s could be associated with systematic theft, far less murder!” Gabler replied.
“You should get together with Edgar Brown,” Charlie said with a grin. “He thinks it’s a fine old firm too. But he’s met the Vandams, and he wouldn’t put anything past them.”
Everett was incensed. “I recognize the distinction between the firm and an individual, possibly demented Vandam—”
“They’re all a little screwy,” said Charlie.
“—however,” Gabler plowed on, ignoring this aside, “surely there are alternate ways of interpreting the actions of this Mrs. Gunn, are there not? According to what I have read, the only thing incontrovertible is that some five years ago she accepted a payment of $15,000, presumed to be a bribe.”
Walter, a numbers man, had to interrupt. “$25,000, Ev.”
“I beg your pardon. The New York Times—”
It was a needless debate, and Thatcher said as much. “It’s not a matter of which paper you read,” he said, amused that this point should have to be explained at the Sloan. “Once the unexpected discovery of $25,000 was made in Mrs. Gunn’s account, McNabb’s people went to work. It was simple enough to determine that five years ago she deposited $15,000 in a time account. As she hasn’t touched it since, well, I don’t have to labor compound interest, do I?”
Since Bowman lived and breathed interest rates, he was visibly discomfited. But not for long. “Have they found out how she was paid?”
“As you would expect, a cashier’s check,” said Thatcher with no fear of further embarrassment. Jove may nod, but if He worked at the Sloan He could never forget that cashier’s checks bought for cash are untraceable.
“And Ev,” Charlie interjected wickedly, “the cashier’s check was drawn on Midwestern Trust which, in case you’ve forgotten, is Vandam’s bank. Makes you think, doesn’t it?” Gabler was not drawn. “Nonsense. The purchase of a cashier’s check can be made by anybody walking in off the street.”
“Undeniably,” said Thatcher, encouraging him. While he had not hurried back to the Sloan for more of SF, Numero Uno and murder, Gabler’s idiosyncratic viewpoint was often unexpectedly rewarding.
“So,” Gabler continued severely, “despite all the rumor, hearsay and innuendo, the one solid fact appears to be this so-called bribe. All this deplorable confusion would be dissipated if the police could discover who gave it to Mrs. Gunn—and why.”
“Well, you can wash out Standard Foods,” said Bowman. “They didn’t get into the picture until years later.”
“I was not thinking of Standard Foods,” said Gabler portentously. “I was thinking of Wisconsin Seedsmen.” The pronouncement fell flat. “Ev,” said Bowman sadly, “you’re letting your prejudice run away with you.”
Small companies with more promise than capital might become Wall Street’s darlings, but never Everett’s. He liked substance, in the form of cash reserves, and he had just reminded himself of another company headquartered in Chicago.
“. . . a committee of Wenonah Industries’ creditors, meeting with a court-appointed receiver,” Gabler was saying when Thatcher managed to clear them all out of his office, with promises of availability later in the day.
Nevertheless, once he was alone, he was irritated to discover that Gabler had left a sleeper behind. What about Wisconsin Seed? Thatcher found himself wondering instead of addressing the material Miss Corsa had prepared for him. Was there a variant reading that pointed the finger of blame at Scott Wenzel?
It was, Thatcher discovered, almost too easy.
If Wisconsin Seed, not Vandam’s, had been engaged in commercial espionage, then the bribe to Barbara Gunn took on totally new significance. What if she had been a conduit, not a thief? Scott Wenzel could scarcely nose around IPR without being noticed. But Mrs. Gunn, Thatcher seemed to remember, had friends at IPR. She had gone back to Puerto Rico to close down her apartment. She could have been instructed, and bankrolled, to locate someone privy to Howard Pendleton’s work, say, a secretary. . . .
“Mr. Thatcher!”
Standing before his desk was an indignant Miss Corsa. For one confused moment, Thatcher feared she had been reading his thoughts. But his gross libel on the secretaries of America was not what was exercising her. It was his obvious dereliction from duty.
“I’m glad you came in. I was just going to call you,” he said, making a brisk recovery. “Sit down, Miss Corsa. Now, as you know, I visited Vandamia last week. While I was there, I arranged something. . .
Thatcher outlined his treat, an all-expenses paid VIP tour of Vandamia, for two, at the time of Miss Corsa’s choosing. Miss Bohm, of Vandam’s, was eager to learn when she should unroll the red carpet.
“Oh, Mr. Thatcher,” Miss Corsa breathed when he finished. “My grandfather will be thrilled!”
Thatcher was halfway through Miss Bohm’s phone number before her comment registered.
“Your grandfather?” he said weakly.
In a burst of loquacity she told him about her grandfather, about his gardening, his indomitable spirit, and his physical infirmity.
“. . . but if I go along to take care of him, why it will be wonderful!” she concluded resolutely.
“Fine,” said Thatcher, biting his lip. Miss Corsa’s choice of companion was, after all, her business. “I think I’d better go upstairs to check in with Lancer for a few minutes.”
Talks with the chairman of the board tended to last longer, but Thatcher wanted to give the dust plenty of time to settle before he got back.
Two hours was barely enough for George C. Lancer. He spoke extensively not only of present and future, but of past; he descended from policy to mere personality.
“I’ve got to get back or Miss Corsa will have my scalp, George,” said Thatcher, fighting his way out. He had no one to blame for this interlude but himself. Inauguration of Republican Administrations always acted like May wine on Lancer. Fortunately, they did not come often enough to constitute a major menace, but today, the net result was that Thatcher was running late before he got started.
Back on the sixth floor, he discovered that Miss Corsa had not been doing much better. Despite the work at hand, she had already, so she told him, been on the phone to her grandfather and to Miss Bohm.
And, as he could see with his own eyes, she had also been gossiping with Charlie Trinkam.
“You said 10:30, John,” said Trinkam unapologetically.
“George is dreaming of balanced budgets,” Thatcher explained.
“So, I’ve just been telling Rose how anybody could have done the dirty in Chicago.”
Thatcher had no trouble going from deficit financing to Vandam’s current difficulties. But since his most recent source had been Everett Gabler, not the tabloids, he said, “You mean that anybody could have bribed Mrs. Gunn?”
“No,” said Charlie, giving him an odd look. “I was just explaining how anybody could have poisoned her.”
Belatedly, Thatcher realized that this was the real inside information. Captain McNabb had released everything he knew about cashier’s checks and Midwestern Trust to the press. But for a variety of reasons, the salient facts about the poison itself had still not been blared to the world although Charlie, like Thatcher, had heard about Phyllacitin before he left Chicago.
Phyllacitin was a new broad-spectrum fungicide, introduced by Lund Chemical as proudly and publicly as possible. There had been displays all over McCormick Place, and sales to Vandam’s and Wisconsin Seedsmen, among others. Lund Chemical was denying charges that Phyllacitin had been criminally availab
le to almost everybody, but they had to admit it was lethal.
Phyllacitin would have killed Barbara Gunn within minutes, depending on how much and how fast she drank. These were the brute technical details, enough for everybody except police pathologists. Thatcher and Trinkam could, of their own knowledge, add the next expert testimony. The Hogarth hospitality suite at the McCormick Inn had been crowded with people in motion.
“. . . so anybody could have gone up to her, dropped something in her glass and—pfft!” said Charlie. But he was not all insouciance. “You know, it’s chilling when you think about it. I mean, somebody stocking up on Phyllacitin, just in case. Then, watching the poor kid to see how she was bearing up, and if she could pull herself together, or if she had to be killed to keep her mouth shut.”
Miss Corsa shivered and Thatcher was deliberately matter-of-fact. “Put that way, it sounds like a particularly ghoulish watching and waiting game. But you know, Charlie, I doubt it. After all, everybody seems to agree that Mrs. Gunn could never have been realistically expected to stand up to cross-examination, or even emotional pressure.”
“You mean the murderer came prepared to kill?” said Charlie. “But premeditation and picking up Phyllacitin at the last minute? It doesn’t hang together, does it?”
It did not, as Thatcher was first to admit.
Miss Corsa, who rarely put herself forward, waited until she was sure neither man had anything to add, then said, “Do you think it could have been a mistake?”
“Not from what the cops told us about this bug killer—” Charlie began expansively.
That was not what Miss Corsa had meant, as she explained, “I didn’t mean a mistake about the poison, I meant a mistake about the murder.”
Seeing that both Thatcher and Trinkam were lost, she continued, “You see, I was thinking. Mrs. Gunn was quitting work to go back to college, wasn’t she? That’s what Newsweek said. Well, it seems to me that, if this whole lawsuit came up after she had left, she would never have been called to testify.”
“Good God, of course she wouldn’t have been called,” exclaimed Thatcher, struck by the simple undeniable truth he had completely overlooked. Ex-employees forget details, they cannot read last year’s shorthand book, they barely recognize the world they have left behind. No lawyer worth his salt bothers with them.
