by Emma Lathen
“It’s Mr. Jackson,” she reported. Then, in an uncharacteristic bit of editorializing, she added, “This time.”
Thatcher had already held long meaningless conversations with Earl Sanders, Dick Vandam, and, surprisingly, an unknown attorney representing Standard Foods. Sanders had pretended to have some questions about SF’s current financing program, Dick Vandam had maundered through some disjointed sentences about the enduring affection uniting his relatives despite their surface bickering, and the attorney had rehashed the arrangements governing the frozen Vandam account. To an experienced listener it was obvious that they had all been sending out waves of receptivity. Thatcher was no stranger to this phenomenon. On Wall Street it means that the callers have all heard of some development or rumor that they wish to have confirmed or denied without themselves repeating it. So they telephone someone presumed to be knowledgeable, trail enticing lures, and wait hopefully. If it had been a question of interest rates or bond offerings, Thatcher would have understood their unanimous selection of the Sloan. But under the circumstances, why him?
Miss Corsa, with grandfather’s trip in mind, was only beginning to lose patience. Thatcher had irretrievably lost his two calls back.
“What’s this all about, Paul?” he began baldly. “You people are supposed to be going into a big huddle before you take off for your patent hearing in Washington. Instead you’re all wasting my time. This is the fourth call and nobody’s said anything worth hearing yet.”
“So the others have been putting an ear to the ground, too? I’m not surprised. Everybody’s rattled by this latest wrinkle. Including me.”
“If you’d rather not divulge this alarming development, suppose you let us both get back to our work,” Thatcher suggested, noting out of the corner of his eye that Miss Corsa was nodding approval.
Good trial lawyers develop thick skins both in and out of the courtroom. Jackson simply launched into his tale. “Wenzel has insisted that I call a meeting of all parties at the Federal Courthouse this afternoon. And, in his usual charming way, he refused to say why on the grounds that I wouldn’t understand.”
Thatcher knew perfectly well that, even if Paul Jackson had failed to establish his usual supremacy over these particular clients, neither had he become Caspar Milquetoast in his dealings with them.
“So you just rolled over and agreed?” he asked skeptically.
“Of course not! But I’ll say one thing for Wenzel, he’s got a gift for riveting my attention. He went on to say there shouldn’t be any problem getting the others to attend. Not after I told them that Wisconsin Seed would agree to withdraw its petition for an injunction.”
“Withdraw!” It was not what Thatcher had expected to hear. Involuntarily he remembered his last view of Wisconsin Seed on the night of Mary Larrabee’s triumph. There had been eddies of tension but they had involved the women, Barbara Gunn and Hilary Davis. The men, each in his own way, exuded determination and confidence. But now, suddenly, the first cracks in the wall were appearing. Unfortunately there was no mystery about what had happened in the interim. Barbara Gunn had been murdered.
“Will withdrawing the injunction make a substantial difference to your position?” he asked, searching for a foothold in these murky waters.
“Not really,” said Jackson. “The Vandam catalog has already been mailed and, even if they wanted to follow up with an offering of Numero Uno, Standard Foods wouldn’t let them. If the board of patent interferences comes down in favor of my clients, SF would be liable for whopping damages. That’s always supposing my enterprising client isn’t planning to withdraw from the patent action as well.”
“No wonder everybody’s been spinning.” Thatcher realized that he had been guilty of the sin of egotism in supposing this morning’s calls had centered on him. Sanders and Dick Vandam were probably going down the Manhattan white pages in hope of catching some slight clue as to what was going on. “And I can see why you’re disturbed.”
“You haven’t heard the half of it. I’ve always realized that Wenzel was some kind of nutboy. After I couldn’t get any explanation out of him, I called the Hilton and asked for Ackerman. They told me that he’s not there and, what’s more, he never has been. Nor has any reservation ever been made for him.”
Thatcher was beginning to appreciate Paul Jackson’s plight—one client going crazy and the other one missing. Nonetheless he tried to keep things in perspective.
“Didn’t Wenzel come east alone the last time? Maybe Ackerman is still saving plane fares,” he suggested.
By now Jackson was taking obscure satisfaction in the magnitude of his confusion. “Sure! So we’ll forget that when Ackerman called after the funeral and insisted on full speed ahead, he was filled with what we were going to do. We’ll even forget that for the last three days Wenzel has been sitting in my office conning me that Ackerman was back there in the hotel room. I said to myself that maybe Ackerman was held up in Madison and I called Wisconsin Seed. Now get this! The dummy on the phone there says Ackerman hasn’t been back to the office since he left for Chicago, and she has no idea where he is. Dr. Wenzel, she tells me, stopped by for a day to pick up some stuff for New York. In other words, complete openness about Wenzel’s movements and a curtain of secrecy about Ackerman’s.”
Before Thatcher could ask his next question, Jackson was answering it.
“Then I called the Drake in Chicago. Mr. Ackerman checked out four days ago and left no forwarding address.”
There was a long pause.
“It’s conceivable that Ackerman has other business somewhere and is planning to join you in Washington,” Thatcher murmured, not believing a word of what he was saying.
“It’s also conceivable that he’s in Brazil by now,” Jackson rejoined. “You’ve met Wenzel. Offhand, can you think of anything that would make him not only start to withdraw but also invite everybody to a conference so he can explain why? Including all the Vandams?”
The scenario had taken place often enough before. The authorities start to close in, one partner vamooses and the other, left holding the bag, has no alternative except a public mea culpa.
“But that’s not in cases of murder,” Thatcher objected, completing his thoughts aloud. “That’s in cases of fraud.”
“This whole thing started with fraud,” Jackson snapped right back. “Suppose Ackerman set this caper up himself, persuaded the Gunn girl to be bagman for data from IPR, then killed her when the heat came on. Wenzel would come apart at the seams when he found out. He’s just the sort who’d insist on baring his breast and telling all.”
Refusing to be diverted by character analysis, Thatcher considered the facts.
“No,” he said firmly. “There’s no way Ackerman could have done it without Wenzel’s connivance.”
“I’ve always said that Ackerman was the brains at Wisconsin Seed,” Jackson insisted.
“He may be a grey eminence, he’s not a geneticist. He could never have fooled Wenzel in the laboratory.”
For the first time there was a note of hopefulness in Jackson’s voice. “You don’t think so?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then what in God’s name are those two playing at?” the lawyer exploded.
There was only one answer to that.
“Presumably you’ll find out at this meeting Wenzel has called. You said it was this afternoon, didn’t you?”
“Yes, at three o’clock,” Jackson said absently. “Come along if you like.”
Under Miss Corsa’s reproving glance, Thatcher disdained pretense. “I thought you’d never ask.”
The scene at the courthouse was much as Thatcher expected. Paul Jackson was in the corridor, to all outward appearances a man totally in charge of the situation. He had, however, cunningly provided himself with two secretaries and was so deeply engaged with them that he could not be questioned. Directly by the door, Dick Vandam was caucusing with his attorneys. And inside the conference room normalcy still prevailed. The IP
R contingent was huddling in one corner, while Earl Sanders seemed to be giving the SF team a pep talk in the other. Jason Ingersoll and Milton Vandam had placed themselves directly across from each other, thereby giving the impression, intentionally or not, of being antagonists.
And at the head of the table, in solitary splendor, Scott Wenzel lounged. He was skewed sideways, with one arm across his briefcase and the other draped along the back of his chair. With a casual nod he acknowledged Thatcher’s arrival in the chair next to him. Wenzel certainly did not look like a man bowed down by a guilty secret. But Thatcher had just seen one masterful performance out in the corridor. There was no reason to suppose that he was not seeing another one here.
Within seconds his suspicion was confirmed. A casual shift on Thatcher’s part brought his chair into contact with Wenzel’s ankle and the whole leg reacted as if to an electric shock. The nonchalant posture was simply a pose. Beneath the table, where no one could see, Wenzel was a tautly wound spring. Fortunately he was spared any further preliminaries.
Paul Jackson, continuing his impersonation of a man who knew what was going on, ushered in the Vandam troops and went to the other end of the table.
“As we’re all here, I think we might begin,” he called to the comers.
Earl Sanders took him up on this. “We’re not all here. Ackerman’s missing.” He turned to Wenzel accusingly. “And when I called the Hilton, they said he wasn’t even in town.”
Thatcher nodded at this confirmation of his theory that Sanders had been making wholesale use of the phone.
The outburst had not made a dent in Wenzel’s composure. “Well, he is now. Ned called from LaGuardia an hour ago. I suppose he’s having trouble with the traffic,” he said with a fine display of indifference. “Anyway, we can get started without him.”
Dick Vandam asked nothing better. “Jackson says you people are willing to drop the injunction,” he began suspiciously.
“That’s right.”
“And I assume that means you’ve come to your senses and are willing to drop the patent interferences as well.” In spite of all his efforts, Vandam did not sound threatening, he merely sounded like a bad poker player bluffing for all he was worth.
Thatcher examined the young man at his side with interest. Surely now was the time when Scott Wenzel would have to fish or cut bait. He could either laugh contemptuously or surrender.
He did neither. “We could go on with that if you like,” he said, shrugging, “but Numero Uno is now irrelevant.”
Businessmen like to delude themselves that scientists have no sense of money. Other scientists know better. The loudest outcry came from IPR.
“Irrelevant!” Howard Pendleton and Eric Most gasped as one man.
“Have you gone completely crazy, Scotty?” demanded Fran Pendleton.
Before Wenzel could frame a reply, the door opened and Ned Ackerman entered, saying, “Sorry if I kept you people waiting.”
Rarely had a man’s appearance so much belied his words. Thatcher had never seen anyone looking less regretful in his life. In fact the only time he had seen that expression was on the face of a young bride coming down the aisle. Ned Ackerman, grizzled, paunchy and smelling of cigar smoke—looked so radiantly anticipatory that Thatcher involuntarily expected bridesmaids.
Ackerman did not keep them in suspense. “All right, folks, this is it,” he said, planting his palms on the table and peering at them from his cloud of beatification. “I’m just back from Washington, where Wisconsin Seed has filed for a patent on the MF-23 tomato. The war’s over.”
He then collapsed into a chair as if he had run out of steam.
For a moment it seemed as if nobody would be able to make himself heard in the uproar. What was Ackerman talking about? What kind of fast one was Wisconsin Seed trying to pull? What difference did a name make?
Scott Wenzel behaved very well. He let the din abate before attempting any explanation. Then, in thin precise terms, he told them.
“The VR-117 was never intended as anything but a first approximation. The MF-23 is the final generation. It is a true perennial, hardy in ninety-five percent of the United States.”
Ackerman now had his second wind. “It’s a tomato tree,” he said joyfully. “You buy some plants from us and you’ve got an orchard that starts producing in early spring and goes on doing it, year after year.”
The conception was so dazzling there was momentary silence. Then:
“I don’t believe it,” Dick Vandam said flatly.
“I thought you might feel that way about it,” Ackerman replied, still breathless with achievement, “so I brought one along. Incidentally, the last generation has been tested at 14 separate USDA field sites.” Heaving himself to his feet, he went to the door. “All right, boys. You can roll it in now.”
As the dolly entered, tenderly nursed by four men in overalls, Thatcher felt that a band should have been playing. Even to his untutored eye, agricultural history was being made. The dolly held a vast tub and in the tub was a six-foot tree. Most important of all, the tree was almost obscured by its burden of rich, red fruit.
Ned Ackerman, who seemed to have gone quietly insane, was not content to present visual evidence. With a manic laugh he plucked a tomato and tossed it to Dick Vandam.
“Taste it!” he ordered. And before anyone could stop him he was bombarding every occupant of the table. “Go on,” he urged, “you wanted proof Wisconsin Seed was developing a blockbuster. Well, here it is!”
His methods were not without results. After Thatcher had taken one bite from his own projectile, he was ready to discuss Sloan backing for Wisconsin Seed.
The others, of course, were not so detached. The Pendletons were pelting Scott Wenzel with technical questions, the Vandams and SF were muttering to each other in undertones, Paul Jackson looked as if he had been hit on the head.
Only Ned Ackerman was available for conversation.
“I see why you wanted validation by USDA this time, but it must have cost a good deal for a firm your size,” Thatcher remarked to him.
“I had to take out a second mortgage on my home.”
Thatcher was impressed. “I can think of no higher vote of confidence in your partner,” he observed.
Ackerman looked across the table. “I gambled everything I had on Scotty,” he growled lovingly, “and the beautiful SOB came through.”
Euphoria was, of course, not the general mood at the table. Not surprisingly, Standard Foods and Vandam’s had decided to retire.
“An adjournment,” one of the lawyers said in an attempt to cast a gloss of control over his party’s retreat, “to consider these new findings.”
“Of course,” said Paul Jackson graciously, still reeling himself.
But there was nothing gracious about his attitude when the opposition had retired. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” he demanded. “How do you expect a lawyer to handle your case if you keep him in the dark?”
“We got burned once, trusting people,” Wenzel shot back. “That was enough.”
Ned Ackerman’s explanation, more temperately phrased, was even more damaging to his lawyer’s self-esteem. “There never was any case. It was just a feint. If we hadn’t pretended to be defending the VR-117, people would have wondered what we had up our sleeve. You were just a distraction.”
“A distraction!” Jackson repeated in high dudgeon.
Belatedly, Ackerman applied balm. “We figured if we hired Paul Jackson nobody could doubt we were dead serious.”
This view held some attraction for his lawyer. In any event nobody could have been proof against the waves of high spirits emanating from Scott Wenzel and Ackerman. Until the very last minute, they explained, they could not be sure how much Barbara Gunn had stolen. The combination of relief, triumph and expectation would not be denied. Jackson and Thatcher must come with them to the nearest bar.
“We’ll take the MF-23 along,” Ackerman proposed exuberantly.
It was no
t easy to separate him from his cherished tub, and only as they were pushing him through the door did Thatcher realize there was still one occupant left in the room.
Eric Most, his face white and his eyes glazed, was staring unseeingly into space, oblivious to all that was going on.
“Impossible,” he was saying, over and over again.
Chapter 24
Before They Bolt
SCOTT Wenzel and Ned Ackerman could afford to go out and celebrate. Their opposition was otherwise occupied. Conference succeeded consultation far into the night. As it assessed the damage, Standard Foods called up lawyers, accountants, and marketing managers.
But not Vandam’s.
Now, with everything on the line, SF decided to send the Vandams down to the minors. This was a bitter pill for them to swallow.
“When do you expect to hear from Sanders?” Jason asked early the next morning.
Dick Vandam shrugged.
“You shouldn’t let him think he can treat Vandam’s so casually,” Milton chimed in.
“Oh balls,” said Jason.
With the best will in the world, the manager of Vandam’s cramped New York branch could not provide his visiting grandees with the spacious offices, rambling corridors, and crowds of hired help to which they were accustomed. In addition to their other troubles, the Vandams were forced to do their squabbling eyeball to eyeball.
“Where do you get off, telling people what to do?” Jason continued, reverting to his main theme.
“You couldn’t even manage a competent theft. My God, if you had to land us in this mess, Milton, why let the real prize get away!”
Jason was sitting on a radiator cover so low that his long bony legs were thrust under his chin. Like a small boy, he scowled at the world over a barricade. Milton, however, was the major sufferer from the inadequate amenities. In Vandamia, he was masterful at using the perquisites of rank to compensate for personal defects. His chair there had been worthy of William the Conqueror. Here, by contrast, his tubby frame overflowed an armless stenographer’s stool that had to be shifted every time someone used the door.
