by Emma Lathen
This time, Sonia hurled herself into the colloquy.
“. . . start with a still of Albrecht Dürer’s praying hands . . .”
“Marcel Marceau . . . or maybe those shots of Frank Costello . . .”
“. . . dead faces, with hands stabbing . . .”
“We,” said Craig, fixing burning eyes on Clemence, “are going to bring in our own lighting. With shadows . . .”
Mr. Clemence looked at him. “Like hell you are,” he said pleasantly, before continuing his discourse. “Now, over there are the observers, who are officials of the Exchange. They keep track of prices, time each transaction, then transmit them into the system . . .”
To Charlie’s growing satisfaction, there then ensued an example of the two cultures. Mr. Clemence simply carried on, describing the computer which fed receivers in brokerage offices from New York to San Francisco.
Craig, Sonia, and the rest of the Phibbsites plunged into communal ecstasy about tomorrow’s footage. That men buying and selling cocoa futures would provide them with faces rivaling those of Healing—A Week in a Hospital for the Criminally Insane, they did not doubt. Neither did they doubt that they were going to dim lights, lower booms, and eavesdrop on any conversations going.
“I’m almost tempted to turn up here tomorrow,” said Charlie, reluctantly preparing to tear himself away.
“Oh, you should,” Sonia told him. “What Craig will focus on is one man, losing everything he’s got in the world. Isn’t that a tremendous idea? We’ll show the hope, the fear in his eyes. We’ll watch him trying to control himself. Then, we’ll follow him home to his wife, his children . . .”
“Great!” said Charlie heartily, storing this up for later use. “You mean, you want to catch a broker who’s dealing for himself?”
Sonia’s face projected more blankness than usual. “What do you mean?”
Across the room Craig Phibbs was also having difficulties. His deep, manly bellow brought quivering delight to his followers, including Sonia, who clutched Charlie’s arm. “He’s so real!”
Mr. Clemence did not seem to agree. “I simply said that not one single member of this exchange would allow you to listen in on his telephone conversations with his customers.”
“Why not?” said Craig Phibbs with a significant smile.
“And,” said Mr. Clemence, “before you barge into people’s offices and photograph them, you’re going to need a lot more than cooperation. You’re going to need clearances. Frankly, if I were you, I’d check back with Mr. Glasscock.”
A neater example of passing the buck back where it belonged, Charlie had rarely seen. Phibbs’ eye for this sort of thing was not so sensitive. He was still expostulating when Charlie withdrew.
“Maybe we can get together for dinner some time,” he said, without really thinking.
The new Sonia scorned anything but meaningful communication. “When?” she asked instantly.
Charlie took it like a man and made an engagement for the following week.
“Groovy,” said Sonia. “I know a place that has really fine Nepalese food!”
Charlie Trinkam was deep in thought as he strolled into the lobby. For a good many years he had been a happy and contented man, thanks to the arts and skills he brought to his social life. But one thing was beginning to be obvious. The middle of a sexual revolution was no time for a man to rest on his laurels.
Chapter 8
Two Dreyer Elk Collide
Characteristically, Charlie Trinkam was hit with a Nepalese restaurant at the Cocoa Exchange. Worse lay in store for John Thatcher the following day.
“You’ve got to drop everything and get right over here.” Curtis Yeoman’s phone call had been described as an emergency.
“Can’t it wait? I’m in a committee meeting.”
Yeoman was urgent. “Vandevanter’s gone crazy.”
“If I have to choose between devoting full time to the Sloan or to Dreyer,” Thatcher said acidly, “you’d better find yourself a new trustee.”
“Yes, yes,” Yeoman agreed. “But you’ll come this time, won’t you?”
“All right,” Thatcher grumbled.
Disengaging from the sixth floor of the Sloan was not easy. After Thatcher had saddled Charlie Trinkam with his committee, rescheduled another appointment, and survived Miss Corsa’s frozen displeasure, he arrived at Amory Shaw’s office gently simmering. But Curtis Yeoman cut him short.
“Amory’s still on the floor, thank God! I need you to help calm him down when he comes off.”
“You still haven’t told me what the trouble is,” Thatcher pointed out.
“You remember our trip downtown yesterday?”
“I am not likely to forget it.” To date that taxi ride was Thatcher’s chief grievance against the Leonard Dreyer Trust.
“Well, Howard thought over what Amory told him about the custom of the trade. He decided it wouldn’t do any good simply to ask the staff if they were dealing on their own account. His next bright idea was to insist on a full tabulation of cocoa trading from everyone employed in New York. Amory categorically refused. He said he wasn’t handing 20 people an opportunity to show what brilliant fiction they could come up with. So Howard thought that one over, too.”
Thatcher had come to rest with his hands planted on the back of a chair.
“It sounds to me as if Vandevanter does too much thinking.”
“Wait!” Yeoman held up a palm. “Listen to this. Howard has by-passed Amory. He’s gone directly to the president of the Cocoa Exchange and he’s demanding that the Exchange get statements from all brokers.”
Thatcher circled the chair, sat in it, and studied the ceiling. Finally, he said: “What is Vandevanter after? Is he trying to force Shaw out?”
Before Yeoman could reply, the door opened to reveal a youthful figure.
“Shirley told me you were in here,” it said. “Anything I can do for you?”
“That’s all right,” Yeoman said dismissively. “We’re waiting for Shaw.”
The young man stood his ground. “I’m afraid Mr. Shaw is on the floor, but I’m his assistant. If you tell me, I’ll pass it on.”
Yeoman shook his head. “We’ll wait.”
“Then I’ll let him know as soon as he comes in.”
“Thank you. The receptionist knows what to do,” Yeoman growled to the closing door.
“Who was that?” Thatcher asked disapprovingly.
“Another one of Howard’s brainstorms. As soon as he found out Amory was over sixty, he decided Dreyer needed a young man to learn the trade. You can imagine how enthusiastic Amory was.”
Thatcher nodded. He was familiar with the problem of the senior man saddled with an assistant as a form of life insurance. It helps if these things can be done tactfully. “I suppose Shaw is dissatisfied with him.”
“I don’t think he pays much attention to Orcutt. Uses him as a general dogsbody and then ignores him. Anyway, Amory has always maintained that traders are born, not made.”
“He may be right. Is this the Orcutt who had the quarrel with Frohlich?”
“Yes, but I doubt if it means much. Gene Orcutt has a good opinion of himself. He’s always putting people’s backs up. Do you hear what I hear? My God, somebody must have told Amory.”
Amory Shaw listened in silence to Yeoman’s narrative. Then he marched to the elevator and punched the button, undeterred by the fact that he was trailing two Dreyer trustees in his wake. In the presidential suite he returned no answer to the gentle patter of deferential greetings his appearance evoked. Instead he sailed directly toward target and threw open the inner door.
Three startled faces looked up. Howard Vandevanter and Russ Martini were flanking the desk but it was the man in between who heaved a sigh of relief.
“Amory! I’m glad you’ve come,” he said, sincerity in every syllable. “We seem to have a little problem here . . .” His voice faded.
“I’ll bet you do,” said Shaw, showing his teeth.
Well
, thought Thatcher philosophically, he had not expected it to be a cordial encounter.
Vandevanter took up the gauntlet. “I have been explaining my proposal to Mr. Glasscock. It occurred to me that the Exchange could solve all the difficulties you raised, Amory.”
“Maybe we should all sit down and talk this over,” the president of the Cocoa Exchange said weakly.
Even this innocent suggestion was not entirely successful. Thatcher and Yeoman were amenable. But Amory Shaw drifted over to a wall of bookshelves, set his back against it, folded his arms, and, looking down at the company from his great height, said: “I’ll stay here.”
Vandevanter plunged on. “I asked that Mr. Martini be present because I noticed he was the broker handling Frohlich’s account. This way we can get the view of a broker without discussing the account of any existing Dreyer personnel.”
Russ Martini looked hopefully toward the bookshelves but one glance convinced him that Shaw was saving his fire. He was going to have to take his own position. “I didn’t know why Wayne Glasscock wanted me to come down here,” he said, running a hand over his smooth, balding pate. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have come. You can’t ask me to dish up a lot of details about my customers. It wouldn’t be long before I didn’t have any customers.”
“That’s not what I meant at all, Mr. Martini.” Vandevanter settled down to a job of persuasion. “Naturally, all brokers would have to cooperate. Then a customer would have no grounds for complaint. And there’d be no point in switching to another firm.”
Martini was irritably fumbling for a cigarette. “If you ask me, there’d be plenty of point in switching out of cocoa futures if we started to play the game by these new rules.”
“Oh, no.” Vandevanter was earnest. “As Amory has explained to me, these people are trading because of their professional familiarity with this one commodity. Under those circumstances, they’re not suddenly going to deal in something else.”
“Brokers live on commissions, Mr. Vandevanter,” Martini said bluntly. “And they’re not chancing their livelihood on someone’s theories.”
Wayne Glasscock had been nodding to himself during this exchange. If the president of Dreyer wanted the reaction of a representative broker, he was getting it. Russ Martini could always be relied on to provide a dollop of sound common sense.
“I’m afraid that about sums it up,” he said, trying to sound regretful.
“The practical difficulties make your proposal impossible, Mr. Vandevanter.”
John Thatcher had often noticed that the men who make it all the way to the top usually have a little more tenacity than the general run of their colleagues.
“BS!” snapped Vandevanter. “If we’re going to review the practicalities, let’s do it all the way. The customers we’re talking about are all on the payroll of Dreyer and they’re not going to be making any complaints. I’ll see to that. And while we’re at it, let me say that I don’t like all these references to general procedures and what would happen if the Exchange did this every time somebody asked. You’ve got a lot of members who do nickel-and-dime business. But Dreyer has the most important seat on the Exchange. We damn near make the market. And we’ve got a right to ask for special consideration.”
It was the moment Amory Shaw had been waiting for.
“Who did you say has that seat, Howard?” he asked silkily.
For a moment Vandevanter was confused. He had not expected his show of force to founder on a technicality. “Why, Dreyer . . . that is—”
“NO!” thundered Shaw. “I hold that seat.”
Wayne Glasscock hurled himself into the breach. “As a matter of fact, the Cocoa Exchange prefers individual members.”
Vandevanter received this instruction with poor grace. “All right, then, as a matter of form, the seat is in Amory’s name.”
“It’s no formality,” Shaw said icily. “I’ve held that seat for 30 years. For your information I held it before I worked for Dreyer. I’m the member of this Exchange, and I’m not making any idiotic proposals.”
He was an impressive figure towering over the rest of them. Thatcher wondered if he realized that he was unconsciously assuming the stance he had made famous on the floor. There was a section of the wall down there known as Shaw’s Rest and novice traders were warned off it. During frantic moments in the history of world cocoa he leaned there, impassive and immobile, while everyone waited to see how Dreyer would jump. Even the tweed jacket with leather patches that he wore for floor trading had become legendary. He was wearing it now. In a very real sense, this was Amory Shaw’s ground on which they were fighting.
And Howard Vandevanter was growing aware of it. He abandoned the issue of the seat. “I don’t understand your attitude, Amory,” he said plaintively. “You ought to be on my side. Have you forgotten that Dick Frohlich was murdered? And we still don’t know why. We can’t simply let the situation drag on. And this is the only way to figure out what’s been going on.”
“A fine way!” jeered Shaw. “Throwing the whole Exchange into confusion.”
“Then tell me a better way,” Vandevanter challenged.
“I don’t have to. My job isn’t investigating murders. There’s a big police force to do that. They won’t have any trouble finding out about accounts they’re interested in.”
Russ Martini cleared his throat. “As a matter of fact, the police have already been around to my place. They wanted to see our records on Frohlich.”
Vandevanter swung to the broker. “And you let them?”
“Sure.” Martini stared at him. “What do you think I am? The police want to look at what a dead man has been up to, it’s okay with me.”
“Then why is it so impossible for Dreyer to do the same thing?”
Shaw intervened at once. “What Russ is saying politely is that the police have a legitimate interest. There is no indication that anybody else has. You have no right to start an investigation, even if that was what your proposal amounted to. And to me it sounds more like a fishing expedition.”
“I see no reason why my good faith should be questioned.” Howard Vandevanter flushed darkly.
“That’s a remarkable statement from a man who has not hesitated to suggest that Dick Frohlich was double-dealing,” Shaw flung back. “And you’ve come very close to making the same suggestion about me.”
“You misunderstood me.” Vandevanter did not sound apologetic. “And it is only natural that a few questions should be raised about a situation that has resulted in a murder.”
“It depends on who asks the question, and why. So far, you’re getting some very strange mileage out of this murder.” Shaw raised his fingers and began ticking off the indictment. “You’ve seized the opportunity to cross-examine everyone in Frohlich’s office. You’ve rattled Orcutt to the point where he’s even more bumbling than usual. Now you’re trying to use my seat on the Exchange to meddle in things you don’t understand.”
“I don’t pretend to be a specialist about cocoa futures,” Vandevanter said stiffly. “But I would remind you that your operation is part of the Dreyer Company.”
Now Vandevanter, too, was on his feet and both antagonists were glowering at each other. They had eyes and ears for no one else.
Shaw smiled sardonically as he chose his words. “It’s perfectly true that the New York office is part of Dreyer. But either I run my operation independently, or I don’t run it at all.”
“We’ll see about that,” Vandevanter said incautiously.
It was exactly what Shaw wanted.
“Then Dreyer will have to get along without one of us, won’t it?” he said softly. “Would you like to bet which one it will be?”
Chapter 9
The Ideal Candy Store
The Dreyer Chocolate Company was one of Fortune’s Top Five Hundred. The New York Cocoa Exchange was nothing to sneeze at, either. But both edifices rested on the bedrock of customers shelling out for candy bars. A lot of people took this homely trans
action more seriously than murder or the ominous break in cocoa prices that kept Amory Shaw glued to his desk the next day.
Among them was Fred Nagle, who had remembered John Thatcher’s special interest in Dreyer.
“. . . their advertising agency is Bridges, Gray. & Kanelos. Kanelos is the one we’re dealing with—Ted Kanelos. Although I understand his name is really Spiro—what’s that, Helen? No, I am not bending John’s ear with my prejudices. I am simply filling him in . . .”
Thatcher grinned at the long-suffering Miss Corsa. The dictation was going to have to wait until the end of this call.
“As I was saying,” said Fred with the saintly resignation of one unjustly maligned, “we’ve been trying to help Kanelos find the perfect store. What’s that, Helen? Oh, come on . . .”
Dispute resounded from the New Jersey warehouse of Arrow Jobbers, then a feminine voice took over. “John?”
“Hello, Helen,” he replied. “You sound exasperated.”
“Between Fred and Bridges, Gray & Kanelos, I defy anybody not to be exasperated,” she retorted. “Has he explained how we got involved in the Old Glory promotion?”
Obviously, this was no time to nail Fred Nagle to the literal truth. In any event, Thatcher did know that Old Glory was in a Bridges, Gray & Kanelos countdown and that, somehow, Arrow Jobbers had been enlisted for the launch.
“Sure I told him,” said Fred, who had found an extension. “And you’re not claiming that I haven’t been cooperating to the hilt, are you? I spent the whole morning showing Kanelos our humidity controls and the low-temperature rooms.”
Arrow Jobbers’ controlled atmosphere system, Thatcher had good reason to know, had cost $300,000. It was a masterpiece of sophisticated technology designed to keep cigars and cigarettes, as well as candy, absolutely virginal.
“Kanelos,” Fred continued, “wouldn’t care if we stocked Old Glory next to the furnace. All he wants is the ideal store—”
“Fred!” Helen protested on principle.
“Come on, Helen. Did he want to know about our biggest customers? No, he did not. When I told him about Sid’s Fun Store in Times Square, he turned green. And what about New Era Variety, up in the Bronx? They’re good for three—$4,000 in candy alone, week in, week out. And as for the stand at the Port Authority Bus Terminal! John, you should have seen his face!”
