Come to Dust

by Emma Lathen

Absently she pushed a cigarette pack across the desk. “All right Gage. Let’s get right down to it. Neither of us can see Elliot as a thief.

  “Heck no.”

  “But we are in no position to take any chances are we? We will have to call the auditors. Elliot’s accounts are going to have to be checked — fast.”

  Gabe closed his eyes in very real pain. “And everybody in the office will know. And the word will get out too. Oh God. Marian, don’t you think Elliot’s bank account means anything?”

  Compassionately she said, “Not really, Gabe. After all, if Elliot simply walked out on Sally, he might have left the money for her. Or maybe his own bank account was too small to bother with — after he cleaned us out.”

  In agony Gabe pushed himself to his feet and took an agitated turn around the small office. “And if he walks in on us. What then? If he finds us auditing his books?”

  “Gabe, if Elliot walks in tomorrow he’s going to have a little explaining of his own to do.”

  With that, Gabe departed for lunch as it was possible for him to be.

  In contrast Thatcher and Bowman left Massoletti’s contentedly and joined the Loan Policy Board milling casually outside the Sloan’s conference room. With an inward sign, Thatcher watched his ebullient companion greet a colleague with zest. His own wellbeing was plummeting. He was, he reminded himself sternly, being paid for this sort of thing, but offhand he could think of 20 occupations preferable to prolonged and indecisive committee meetings, including an attack on items currently littering his desk. He was, therefore, not displeased when Miss Evans rounded the corner with a message for him.

  “Of course,” he replied. “Oh, Vaughan, I think perhaps the Committee and you had better carry on. Lancer and I are going to be delayed briefly.”

  “Fine,” said Vaughan, revealing ferocious determination to extract results from his colleagues.

  “And keep a weather eye on Bowman,” Thatcher advised paternally, departing. In expert hands, a brief delay could be made in parallel with this meeting.

  Still he wondered, as the elevator bore him towerward, what accounted for Lancer’s courteous request. Unlike the absent President Brad Withers, Lancer was not given to fits and starts. On the contrary, he was almost painfully dedicated to discharging each of his duties and obligations to the best of his very considerable ability.

  “Oh John,” he said when Thatcher reached his office. “I hope you don’t mind. Frankly I don’t see that the Committee is making enough progress to require our presence.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Thatcher commented, carefully drawing up the one comfortable chair in George’s office.

  Lancer nodded, indicating to the knowledgeable a fact received and docketed: at some time in the near future, the Sloan would reevaluate the effectiveness of that committee.

  Hoping he could avoid the committee inevitably meant he probably would have to do something about it. Thatcher then inquired about their departure from the routine of attending.

  George was clearly troubled about something. Thatcher reserved judgment and comment.

  “You know John, Gabe has a lot of good reasons for wanting to keep the police out of this,” he said without facing Thatcher.

  Thatcher groped for a moment before recalling the willing Patterson. “Certainly he has,” Thatcher agreed. “Professional fund raisers have to have impeccable reputations. Or at least they have to keep the police off their premises.”

  “Yes,” Lancer concurred.

  “Although I would be willing to bet that Gabe is calling in the auditors right now,” Thatcher continued reflectively.

  This was not omniscience but experience. Books can be audited in decent privacy—without alarming potential contributors and current clients.

  Lancer pressed on. “He said yesterday he was urging Mrs. Patterson to hold off calling the police.”

  Thatcher waited.

  “Then I ran into the Dartmouth Committee having lunch at the club,” Lancer went on.

  “That curator,” Thatcher said appreciatively.

  “Yes, Marsden. And Ralph Armitage. You know him don’t you? Runs that big insurance brokerage up on Lexington Avenue.”

  Thatcher did vaguely and nodded.

  “And a youngster who’s just starting out in some PR outfit. Dunster or Davis or something like that…”

  Thatcher knew George and accepted this without comment, knowing that somewhere on his person a memorandum book contained the correct name, the precise business affiliation, and any other relevant details.

  “These people all have good reasons — or what they think is good reason — to let things drift,” Lancer said censoriously. “Marsden, as you might expect, is terrified of being involved in scandal. He seems to feel that if Patterson emerges from some lost weekend, the press will seize on his connection with him. That young man certainly has a very inflated conception of his own news value.”

  Gravely Thatcher agreed.

  Lancer resumed his indictment. “As for Armitage, I’m surprised at him. I would have expected a higher degree of responsibility. He’s obviously picked up news about an audit at Target. There’s no problem about the kind of scandal he anticipates. And there’s no denying that Dartmouth isn’t going to look good if tis fundraisers turn out to be embezzlers.”

  Thatcher’s guess during lunch with Bowman had been justified. Lancer and Armitage had their ears to the ground. So did others.

  “And what is the upshot of all this?” Lancer asked severely. “Everyone is grinding their own axe. No one is advising the wife with a view to her best interests. It’s high time Mrs. Patterson went to the police. This has passed beyond the realm of a night out and a hangover the next morning.”

  “Yes it has,” Thatcher said reluctantly. It was all too clear where his agreement was going to take him. He had been victimized by Lander’s strong sense of duty before.

  “I’m glad you agree, John,” said Lancer, consulting his watch. “But if this poor woman is getting all this advice from Gabe and the others — she may well be confused. I gather she has been convinced not to call the police so far. I thought what I would do was run up and talk to her. In fact, go with her, if that’s necessary. I think that’s the right thing to do.

  That tore it. If only Lancer were going forth as an old Dartmouth grad, Thatcher was safe. But the right thing to do?

  One older, wiser man of substance, bent on lending a helping hand and moral support spoke to another.

  “I’d be glad to have your company, John.”

  Never had the Loan Policy Committee looked more inviting.

  Chapter 4

  At the Pleasure of the Instructor

  Newspeople, perhaps understandably, constantly tout the power of the press. In fact the power of banks should not be despised either. An hour after George had unveiled his intentions they were speeding up the New England Thruway in the Sloan’s opulent limousine en route to Rye and the Patterson household. With them respectful but dazed was Jim Dunlop, who had been ruthlessly winkled away from his desk at Pruett, Pruett & Mayberry by dint of a phone call from Miss Evans to Mayberry’s Miss Howes.

  “It was good of you to join us, Dunlop,” said Lancer with his usual meticulous courtesy. Dunlop, who had been offered no alternative, murmured that he was pleased to be of service. If he was too youthful to pull this off without showing curiosity, he at least refrained from outright question. Thatcher was inclined to give him high marks.

  “We felt we should talk to Mrs. Patterson, who must be having a difficult time,” Lancer continued. “It occurred to me that it might be easier if we arrived with someone she knows. I myself have only met her on social occasions, perhaps two or three times.”

  Dunlop listened hard, then, with care said, “Yes, Mr. Lancer. But perhaps I should point out that my wife and I am not — have not been terribly close to the Pattersons. They’re …”

  He broke off. Amused, Thatcher guessed that he had been about to explain th
at the Pattersons in their mid-30s represented an older generation to the youthful Dunlops. An awkward point to make among one’s seniors.

  “It’s really Elliot I know,” Dunlop continued doggedly. “We’re on the Dartmouth Committee together. He helped me out when I first came to New York job hunting.”

  “I see,” said Lancer tolerantly. “Still you know the Pattersons better than I do. You may be able to help convince Mrs. Patterson that she should report her husband’s disappearance.”

  Thatcher thought that Dunlop looked daunted. He did not blame him.

  Lancer, however, continued, “Now from all reports Patterson appears to be a respectable man, not the sort to have dropped out of sight. Right?”

  “Right,” Dunlop concurred.

  Thatcher broke a promise he had made to himself and joined the conversation. “You don’t sound enthusiastic,” he remarked. “Do you have doubts about Patterson?” Even as he spoke he recognized the essential unfairness in his challenge. Young Dunlop was already outweighed and outgunned. There was no justification for further harassment. Thatcher tried to mend matters, “Or do you oppose informing the police?”

  George relieved Dunlop of the need to reply. “Nobody wants to call the police,” he said. “It’s only natural to hope you can put it off. After all, Patterson’s friends must want to avoid the inevitable speculation that any publicity will involve. And there’s the fear too. But no matter how reluctant people may be this situation can’t be allowed to drag on. It is adding needlessly to Mrs. Patterson’s anxiety. And for all we know it may be adding to whatever difficulties Patterson is in.”

  Lancer, Thatcher could tell, was thinking along standard almost respectable lines: innocent mishaps like street accidents, medically inexplicable attacks of amnesia, venial sins which had come to grief.

  Jim Dunlop on the other hand was not. Little could Thatcher be expected to realize that Dunlop, having resolutely faced up to his ignorance of adult life as it is liven in America, no longer had any guidelines. The sky was the limit, with the latest fundraising techniques; he might have joined the Peace Corps; he might be making a living by mugging people in Central Park. He might be holed up in a cold beach cabin on Fire Island with a teen age sex kitten.

  “Well, I think we’re here,” Lancer said peering out.

  The chauffeur had indeed turned on to Walnut Street and was searching for the right number. This did not prove insuperably difficult. The Patterson house, architecturally indistinguishable from its fellows, was a house apart. For one thing, two cars were pulled up in the driveway although it was only the middle of the afternoon. The law was carefully raked and the drapes cheerfully drawn, but already people had pulled up and gone indoors, then hurried out. Coming and going had continued for almost two days. Unremarkable as such departures from normal might seem in an urban setting, in suburban circles they were equivalent to a small scale riot. Not a soul could be seen on the pavements; no curtains twitching in neighboring windows. Yet Walnut Street was breathlessly, if invisibly, keeping tabs on every new development at No 203, as in Manhattan or the villages of the world.

  Mrs. Patterson herself answered the musical chimes. A small trim woman, she was dressed in a handsome woolen dress. Her hair was a sleek golden cap. Yet her cheeks were pale. She had been crying, but she seemed to have herself well in hand now.

  “Oh Jim,” she said in welcome. “Yes of course I remember Mr. Lancer. And Mr. Thatcher? How do you do? Won’t you come in? I’m afraid everything is upset just now.”

  Now, when it had become inevitable that this party was to descend, armed with unsolicited good advice, on a woman whose husband was missing, a woman described as confused and distraught, Thatcher had reasonably enough experienced distinct premonitions. His forebodings were correct; where he had gone wrong, it developed, was in the detail. Mrs. Patterson had an unalterable commitment to gracious living. It was more chilling under the circumstances than hysteria.

  “It is kind of you to come,” she said in a clear sweet voice, transforming their visit into a social call. Thatcher was wondering if she was practicing for the funeral when he found himself enmeshed in a second round of introductions.

  “My brother-in-law Mr. Consett. And this is Susanna. This is Andrea. This is Caroline. Say hello to Mr. Dunlop, Andrea.”

  Mrs. Patterson made it velvety clear that Susanna, Andrea, and Caroline were going to exhibit their beautiful manners. This caused a delay since the little girls had grown big eyed with shyness on the arrival of the newcomers. They were lovely children, with much brushed Alice in Wonderland tresses combed back from angelic brows and streaming to the shoulders of their charming little frocks. They were also under three feet tall, and, acting on principle about human beings that height, Thatcher extricated himself and moved over to the brother-in-law, who was less endearing but adult. A red faced overweight man, he showed signs of strain.

  “Heck of a thing,” he confided to Thatcher. “I can’t understand what El’s up to.”

  This indiscretion was probably due to relief at being liberated from a suffocatingly feminine atmosphere. “Still, we decided the girls better come home with us, in case Elliot turns up the worse for wear. You know.”

  Elliot’s wife admitted no such lack of confidence. “And now we are going to go with Uncle Bill to see Aunt Karen and Jimmy, Donny, and Mary Louise,” she exclaimed sweetly, ignoring mounting sullenness among her daughters, “We’ll put our coats on …”

  It was a full ten minutes before order was restored, a ten minutes during which Mrs. Patterson was driven to tell her offspring that she was deeply disappointed in them all. But finally the coats were donned, and they all sped off to Long Island. Consett’s parting injunction that his sister-in-law remain calm seemed, to the unbiased observer, to be totally unnecessary.

  Mrs. Patterson gallantly waved at the departing station wagon and then rejoined her guests in the living room with a brave smile. “I thought it was better to send the girls to my sister,” she informed them. “Of course, they don’t know that anything is wrong. I’ve been very careful about that. I told them Daddy is on a trip. But children are so sensitive to atmosphere at that age. And I don’t want them to see Mummy worrying.”

  Dunlop, newly married, was respectful. Lancer, who like Thatcher had raised a family, was made of sterner stuff. He got down to business.

  “Yes of course. Now, Mrs. Patterson, the reason I asked if we might come to talk to you was that I had heard about the difficulty you are having.”

  Thatcher waited for the questions. How had Lancer heard? How many people knew? Were people talking?

  They did not come. Mrs. Patterson settled herself opposite them, sighed, and looked at her visitors with sad patience. “You do understand,” she said, underlining her words with approval. “It is terribly difficult. I have been trying to keep a grip on myself for the children’s sake, but I am just frantic.”

  Now frantic was precisely the word Thatcher would not have chosen. In his day he had seen women who were frantic. The price of black emotional abandon was higher than reddened eyes.

  “I simply tell myself that Elliot will walk in any minute. This whole horrible dream will be over.” She produced a spanking clean handkerchief and raised it to her face.

  Lancer leaned forward and spoke gently, “That is what we all hope; but Mrs. Patterson, we can’t rely on just hope. After all, Elliot has been missing since Monday.”

  She withdrew from her handkerchief and looked at him for a moment.

  With kind authority Lancer said, “You must call the police.”

  There was absolute silence.

  Then with equal kind authority Mrs. Patterson replied, “Oh I’m afraid that is out of the question.”

  Briefly puzzled Lancer launched into his sensible argument. At intervals Mrs. Patterson replied. As the exchange continued, Thatcher derived unholy glee at Lancer’s increased difficulty in keeping acerbity at bay. Thatcher had never questioned George’s purity of motiv
e on his errand of mercy. Yet there was no doubt that he had been moved, however unconsciously, by visions of a frail woman whose helplessness called for manly protection. Instead, with motives equally pure, Mrs. Patterson was explaining things to him with softly perfect self-assurance.

  “You see, Mr. Lancer, I know that Elliot wouldn’t like that at all,” she said with bewildering certainty. “And of course I have complete faith in Elliot. Just as he has complete faith in me.”

  Thatcher took pity on George, who was frankly at sea. So he interceded, “Mrs. Patterson, exactly why wouldn’t Elliot want you to call the police?”

  In considerable detail she told him. Sally Patterson, it developed, had cultivated that highly articulate manner which sheds a specious gloss of rationality over the wildest absurdities. In fact, there was no logical underpinning to her moral certainty. It was a matter of revealed truth. On the one hand, recourse to the police, they learned, was tantamount to accusing Elliot. On the other hand, she, Sally, did not wish to expose Elliot to vulgarity of this sort.

  “You see,” she said, intelligently persuasive, “What I am determined to do is keep everything as it is, the way Elliot and I love it. When Elliot returns, he will find things just as he left them.”

  This proud proclamation left Thatcher, who was nobody’s fool, disinclined to add anything further. Fortunately young Dunlop, benefiting from more recent exposure to women in their prime silliness, took over after this rout of his elders.

  “We know how you feel Sally,” he said inaccurately. “But look at it this way. What can have happened to Elliot? He may have some sort of accident. Calling the police about him would just help us check out the possibilities.”

  Without rancor, Mrs. Patterson corrected error when it crossed her path. “Oh no Jim. Bill has called all the hospitals for me. So there’s no need to worry about that.”

  Perhaps this accounted for the brother-in-law’s badgered air. Thatcher could think of less charitable explanations. At any rate, he settled back, leaving the impasse to others. Lancer, unwilling to believe his ears, summoned up heavier guns. But Sally remained unmoved while her duty was defined, while her intelligence was appealed to. She appreciated Mr. Lancer’s concern, but she knew exactly where her duty lay. Her duty was to Elliot. And despite terrible anguish of spirit, she had thought about things very carefully. She knew she was doing what Elliot would want. Argument only reinforced her assurance. She remained quite kind.