Sweet and Low_An Emma Lathen Best Seller

by Emma Lathen

  “. . . reasonable settlement,” Tom was saying virtuously. Then his face darkened. “But Jennifer’s dug up some smart lawyer . . .”

  While he relieved pent-up emotion with a frontal assault on the mashed potatoes, Thatcher remained discreetly silent. Reasonable settlements and smart lawyers boded ill for Tom Robichaux in connection with either Jennifer or Union Funding.

  “Well, I suppose things could be worse.” Tom’s philosophic conclusion sprang from a substantial family fortune, rather than inner grace. “Take whatsisname!”

  He was the only one Thatcher was destined to meet that Friday in a position to forget Amory Shaw’s name.

  Certainly Detective Dennis Udall was not.

  Thatcher was making progress through yet another optimistic study of oil shale when Miss Corsa, after purely nominal warning, ushered the policeman in.

  “First I want to say that we appreciate any cooperation you can give us,” Udall began earnestly.

  “I believe I told the detectives everything I had done or seen at the Cocoa Exchange,” Thatcher replied. “But anything further I can do to help . . . Won’t you sit down?”

  Udall did so and Miss Corsa decorously withdrew. The cooperation had been all hers. Thatcher’s request for an uninterrupted afternoon would have been good against most suppliants, including the president of the Sloan Guaranty Trust. But with the New York Police Department, Miss Corsa did not even stop to think. Thatcher himself believed that citizens should aid law enforcement authorities, but he did not go to Miss Corsa’s fanatic extremes. Any day now she was going to turn up in one of those posses that prey upon would-be muggers.

  Udall, it developed, did not want to review Thatcher’s exhaustive account of the Old Glory press conference, or Amory Shaw’s collapse on the floor.

  “Everything you told us jibes with what other witnesses have said,” he observed while Thatcher wracked his brain for details he might have overlooked. “What I want to talk to you about, Mr. Thatcher, is the situation at the Dreyer Chocolate Company.”

  Thatcher was unpleasantly jolted, although he hoped it did not show. He fully recognized the police had a legitimate interest in the Dreyer Chocolate Company. On the other hand, the last few weeks had made him privy to some, if not all, of Dreyer’s secrets. It was a fine line, and there was only one way to handle it.

  “My personal acquaintance with the Dreyer Chocolate Company is of relatively short duration,” he said forcefully. “Dating from my appointment to the Leonard Dreyer Trust . . .”

  “That would be the beginning of September?”

  Udall inserted this casually but Thatcher took note. He would have liked to say that his contacts with Dreyer’s front office had been limited. But two of those limited contacts, after all, had involved murder. The prudent thing to do was sit tight, and let Udall lead the way.

  Udall showed himself to be reasonable as well as competent. There were no questions about the interplay of personalities at Dreyer—at least not directly. Instead, he zeroed in on areas where Thatcher could not plead ignorance.

  “I understand,” he said with unconvincing hesitation, “that you were present during a confrontation between Amory Shaw and Howard Vandevanter, in the office of the president of the Cocoa Exchange.”

  “There was quite a crowd of us,” Thatcher replied with a grin, certain that Udall had already ticked them off. It did not require much reflection to see why Udall wanted his version. Glasscock, Russ Martini, and, above all, Howard Vandevanter had solid reasons to downplay the scene.

  Even Curtis Yeoman was probably guarding his tongue.

  “Vandevanter and Shaw differed about Dreyer employees’ trading in cocoa futures on their own, didn’t they?” asked Udall, carefully not mentioning the employee who sprang to mind.

  With similar care, Thatcher obliged with a comprehensive, but arid, description of the dispute which had culminated in Glasscock’s office. Udall, he had a shrewd notion, knew all he needed to know about the intricacies of futures trading and the customs of the cocoa trade. If not, there were plenty of people over at John Street better qualified than Thatcher to clue him in.

  To his credit, Udall showed no disappointment when the thin end of his wedge produced neither vivid characterization nor editorial comment.

  Instead, he simply remarked: “Feelings can run high over that sort of thing.”

  Thatcher contemplated asking if the police thought Amory Shaw’s murder was a crime of passion, but decided that Udall was too serious-minded.

  “Vandevanter and Shaw were strongly defending their respective positions—and making no bones about it. But, in all fairness, I should add that Martini, the broker, as well as Glasscock, were not backward about expressing themselves. After all, large sums of money were involved, as well as established usage.”

  But he was not getting off that easily.

  “Were any accusations made?” Udall asked. “Did Vandevanter think Shaw, for example, was using Dreyer to feather his own nest?”

  “Specifically, and more than once, he repeated that he was not suggesting any impropriety by Shaw,” said Thatcher, relying on the literal truth to speak for itself.

  Udall tried a different tack. “Did you get the impression that this did not really concern private trading? That it was just part of a power struggle between Shaw and Vandevanter?”

  Thatcher was firm. “I got the impression that two strong-willed men were meeting head-on over an important issue.”

  “And whose side was Governor Yeoman on?” asked Udall quietly.

  Thatcher was not temporizing when he replied: “Governor Yeoman took almost no part in the discussion in Glasscock’s office. To be honest I was surprised by his lack of participation.”

  At the end of another 20 minutes, Udall was in full possession of the facts at Thatcher’s disposition. His bland expression gave no hint as to his interpretation of them. Nevertheless Thatcher thought he could hazard a guess.

  All he said when he finally took his departure was: “Thank you again, Mr. Thatcher. This has been very helpful.”

  Thatcher had been too scrupulously precise to have said anything to regret. Even so, the interlude reinforced his strong inclination to keep distance between himself and the tortuous affairs of Dreyer Chocolate.

  This resolution stood for the remainder of the afternoon at the Sloan. Miss Corsa, although unrepentant about capitulating to the police, reestablished an effective defense perimeter. This left Thatcher at least theoretically free to think long and hard about oil shale.

  It was in his own apartment that evening that the axe fell.

  Chapter 15

  Gilligan to the Rescue

  “Is that you, Thatcher?”

  The whisper on the phone sounded conspiratorial.

  Thatcher’s immediate reaction was irritation, pure and simple. This was his telephone. This was his apartment Who else was it likely to be? But, since he thought he recognized his caller, he said only: “What can I do for you, Vandevanter?”

  As he spoke he was assailed by misgivings. Possibly Howard Vandevanter had caught wind of Detective Udall’s research into Dreyer’s latest infighting. If so, Thatcher could be in for a long, tedious harangue.

  But relief came gusting over the line, not indignation or self-pity. “Thank God! I was afraid I might not be able to catch you at such short notice. Thatcher, something very important has come up. That’s why I’m going to ask you for a favor . . .”

  Instinctively, Thatcher braced himself for the worst.

  Vandevanter’s next words came as an anticlimax. “. . . asking a lot, I know. But can you spare me an hour of your time tonight?”

  John Thatcher was, if anything, overinclined to invent previous engagements on the spur of the moment. But Vandevanter’s urgency piqued his curiosity and slowed him down.

  Vandevanter seized the opportunity to plead his case. “. . . it could make or break Dreyer!”

  Under the circumstances, Thatcher could scarcely re
fuse.

  “I’d be glad to be of assistance—” he began.

  “Good, good!” Vandevanter broke in. “Now we’ve got to keep news of this from getting around! What I want you to do is this . . .”

  Ten minutes later Thatcher was plodding through the sodden misery of a late September downpour in New York. The unforgiving wind turned raindrops into missiles, rattling window panes, assaulting umbrellas, drowning clogged sewers.

  The few cruising taxis were not worth the fight. Thatcher always found walking conducive to thought and utilized this interval to canvass possibilities. None of them explained to his satisfaction why Howard Vandevanter needed him at the New York Hilton.

  “Nobody will notice you in the lobby. It’s always jammed,” Vandevanter had explained. “You come right up to my suite on the seventeenth floor. I moved in here today purposely to have a place where we could meet without causing comment . . .”

  If anything, this raised more questions than it answered. The Dreyer Chocolate Company had many offices in New York, as well as permanent quarters for traveling executives at the Waldorf.

  Why this last-minute flight to the Hilton?

  Thatcher was still theorizing when he hurried across Sixth Avenue, directly into the path of two men barreling northward.

  “John!” Charlie Trinkam was never dampened by mere weather. “This is one hell of a night to be taking a constitutional.”

  Leo Gilligan confined himself to a brief: “Evening, Thatcher!”

  “I’ll join you,” said Thatcher, catching a glimmer of light. “I take it that you two are on your way to the Hilton.”

  This earned him a sharp look from Charlie, but Gilligan seemed to accept Thatcher’s presence as perfectly natural.

  “I hope Vandevanter isn’t trying to pull some sort of fast one,” he said when they stood dripping in the Hilton lobby. He looked around with discontent: men with attaché cases lined up at the desk, family parties celebrating wedding anniversaries, conventioneers hailing conventioneers. “Why have us all sneaking around in the middle of the night? Why meetings in hotel rooms? I don’t know what Vandevanter thinks he’s up to—but it’d better be good. After the day we put in down at the Exchange—”

  “How bad was it, Leo?” Charlie asked him.

  “Hell,” he replied tersely. “A couple more like it—”

  He finished the sentence by drawing a stubby hand across his throat.

  Thatcher had no reason to doubt Leo Gilligan’s reading. He already knew that cocoa prices were still tumbling—and that most speculators, like most gamblers, count on the upside.

  But was it likely that Gilligan had braved the elements tonight with no inkling of what Howard Vandevanter wanted?

  Charlie could sometimes read Thatcher’s mind. “Leo says Vandevanter has a proposition for him. He decided that, all things considered, he wanted a witness.”

  Given the implications, Thatcher remained carefully expressionless.

  “I think that may be my function as well.”

  It would not be the first time that the Sloan Guaranty Trust fielded a team of official observers. Thatcher was just deciding that he could make a fair guess at the truce terms, when the door to 1701 was flung open.

  “Come in!” Vandevanter was more anxious than cordial.

  Only when they had filed in did he notice Charlie.

  “What are you . . . oh, I suppose Mr. Gilligan asked you . . . well, of course that’s fine . . . as a matter of fact, I invited Thatcher . . .”

  Sardonically, Gilligan interrupted: “Is there someplace we can hang up our coats?”

  Vandevanter had neglected to draw the drapes across the large, rain-streaked window. Remains of a dinner awaited room service. An open door off the characterless sitting room yielded glimpses of a rumpled bed.

  All in all, thought Thatcher as Vandevanter awkwardly relieved him of his soaked raincoat, not an auspicious beginning.

  “Can I offer anybody a drink?” asked Vandevanter. “No? Well, then . . .”

  Without looking, Thatcher knew what Charlie and Leo Gilligan were thinking. Starting negotiations, no matter what they are about, by displaying tension and discomfort is a serious mistake. Howard Vandevanter would have been much more effective behind a Dreyer desk, in a Dreyer office.

  By contrast, Gilligan settled in the corner of the sofa and unwrapped his cigar with conspicuous ease.

  “What was it you wanted to talk to me about, Vandevanter?” he asked.

  Vandevanter was either deaf to the bored tone, or determined to ignore it.

  “You know, of course, that Dreyer has to replace Amory Shaw as rapidly as possible,” he began. “The final choice will take some time. The board and I have discussed it, and we decided to approach you, Mr. Gilligan. Would you be willing to take charge of our cocoa trading, on a pro-tem basis?”

  Gilligan did not even pretend to be surprised. “Spell it out for me,” he directed.

  Vandevanter glanced at a note, then launched on a prepared text about financial arrangements. While he outlined handsome salary terms, Gilligan sat with narrowed eyes. But when he wound up, there was no immediate response. Finally, Gilligan said: “I’m willing to think about your offer. But first, we’d better get some things out in the open.” Pointedly he glanced toward Thatcher and Charlie as if reminding Vandevanter of their presence. “Why me? Why not someone from Dreyer? Someone in your Purchasing Division—or even Gene Orcutt. Have you considered promoting him?”

  Vandevanter had anticipated this, and was ready with fluent evasion. “We have reviewed the total situation of Dreyer in New York. There is nobody suitable to do Amory Shaw’s job. As for Orcutt, it appears that Amory did not use him as an assistant in any meaningful sense of the word. He was not in Amory’s confidence, nor does he have adequate experience—”

  “Has he asked for the job?” Gilligan demanded baldly.

  Looking uncomfortable, Vandevanter nodded. “Yes, he spoke to me about it this afternoon. But I made it perfectly clear to him that it was not possible. We have agreed to continue him in his present capacity.”

  Gilligan thought about this, then said flatly: “That’s not a very good idea.”

  Before Vandevanter could defend himself, Gilligan methodically began putting other cards on the table: “Now, there’s something else we’d better talk over. If I go to work for Dreyer, I want the same free hand that Amory Shaw had. I’ll make the decisions, about when to buy and sell. The way the market is going, whoever takes over is going to be doing some heavy trading in the next few weeks.”

  Vandevanter accepted this condition as soon as it was out of Gilligan’s mouth. “Yes,” he said quickly. “We understand that completely. Dreyer has to have an experienced man in charge—” He broke off, then lamely tried to avoid conceding too much. “Naturally, we expect to maintain close contact with you about your operations—just as we did with Amory. Daily consultations would be necessary . . .”

  Thatcher expected Gilligan to tear into this. But Amory Shaw was dead and gone. Gilligan made no comment on the past reporting between New York and Dreyer, except for a contemptuous: “Sure.” Then he went on to something more important. “Now, let’s get it all straight about my trading on my own account.”

  “It is not,” said Vandevanter emphatically, “a practice that Dreyer encourages.”

  With Detective Udall fresh in his mind’s eye, Thatcher was hard put to keep from commenting. Gilligan was more brutal.

  “Uh huh,” he said almost conversationally. “I hear you raised hell with Amory about it.”

  “We discussed—”

  “You tried getting reports from brokers, you tried to get the Exchange to monitor insider trading.” Gilligan was studying a lengthening cigar ash as he sunk these accurate shafts.

  “We had some exploratory discussions,” Vandevanter insisted. “They were highly confidential—”

  “Confidential, my foot! There are plenty of secrets down at the Exchange—but not that
kind of crap. Everybody knows a lot more about what Dreyer people are doing, or trying to do, than you think, Mr. Vandevanter. And that includes the police.”

  This plain talk silenced Howard Vandevanter.

  Gilligan remained in command: “Charlie here can tell you that my dealings in cocoa aren’t chicken feed. If I accept your offer, I’d have to cut back a little, that’s only reasonable. But I am not prepared to give up my own activity in cocoa, and I want that clearly understood by you and everybody else.”

  While Vandevanter struggled between what he wanted and what he needed, Gilligan mercilessly laid it on the line: “I could milk Dreyer by using my position to get in fast and make a killing for myself. Hell, I could even cost you money if I started playing fast and loose with how I bought and sold for Dreyer.”

  For many reasons Thatcher wished Vandevanter could counter with an equally candid statement. When he did not, Gilligan continued: “But if that worries you, then you’re making a mistake even talking to me. Either you trust me, or you don’t. And right now, I think you’ve got to trust me. Unless you get somebody who knows what he’s doing in Shaw’s office pretty damned fast, Dreyer is going to be in worse difficulties than it already is.”

  Too late, Vandevanter pulled himself together. His remarks about confidence and reliance left much to be desired. Gilligan barely heard him out before he struck again with a further question.

  “By the way, you said you talked this over with your board? Does that include Governor Yeoman?”

  “Why, yes,” said Vandevanter, bewildered. For the first time, Thatcher sympathized with him. This was one he had not seen coming, either.

  “And he goes along with your offering me the job?” Gilligan persisted.

  “Certainly he does,” said Vandevanter positively. “As I recall, he said that he would accept any decision about a temporary replacement that I made. But why do you ask?”

  Leo Gilligan was not afraid to speak his mind. “Because Governor Yeoman was around when Amory Shaw got murdered. From what I hear, he’s been around a lot. Before I do anything I regret, I want to know the lay of the land.”