by Emma Lathen
“We had noticed how your community has . . . er . . . escaped metropolitan pressures,” said Signor Alizio dolefully. It had taken only 24 hours in the hinterland for his opinion of Milan to skyrocket.
Dr. Mercado hastened to assure Captain Huggins that no disparagement of his community was intended. “It’s a great little town,” he said insincerely, before diverting the conversation, “but you said something about the killer going back to his car. How do you figure that?”
“It took a lot of questioning, but we’ve finally established that there was a car parked by the restaurant, when the help went home at midnight. It wasn’t there at six o’clock the next morning.”
“Do you have a description of the car?” Thatcher tried to keep everything but mild curiosity from his voice.
“About what you’d expect.” Huggins shrugged. “It was a late model Chevy sedan, dark color. We got that much from one of the busboys, and we’re lucky he was that specific.”
Huggins was looking pleased enough to suggest that no member of the Dreyer front office was associated with such a vehicle. Thatcher himself, remembering the vast white Oldsmobile in which Howard Vandevanter arrived for work, was conscious of relief.
The Italians were happily unaware of these crosscurrents. “Your discovery is interesting, of course,” said Alizio courteously. “But it does not appear to be very helpful—an unknown car and an unknown driver.”
“You’d be surprised,” Huggins rejoined. “A car’s not a little thing. If the killer was saddled with it at one o’clock in the morning, he had to do something with it. It hasn’t turned up in Dreyer. And there are just so many ways out of Dreyer.”
Alizio was puzzled by Huggins’ newfound dogmatism, but not so John Thatcher. Murder was probably a novelty to the captain but, like every policeman in the country, he was an expert on traffic patterns, hit-and-run drivers, stolen-car rings, and youthful joy riders. For him the darker motivations of latter-day Cains might be unknown territory, but he knew what anyone would do behind a steering wheel under any conceivable set of circumstances.
“Always supposing that was the murderer’s car,” Thatcher finished his thoughts aloud.
“Oh, I could be wrong,” Huggins agreed readily. “But until someone shows me a better bet, I’m assuming the murderer did a bunch of things.” Three muscular fingers were extended, ready to be ticked off. “I say he was the one who called the hotels to locate Frohlich, he was the one who waited in the bushes, and he was the one who drove away that car. Any other way you look at it means a whole bunch of people circling around Frohlich’s murder, doing crazy things, and not coming forward because they have something to hide. I don’t buy that unless I have to.”
Signor Alizio seemed to accept the principle of narrowing things down. In fact, he had a suggestion along these lines. “But you have ascertained the time at which these events occurred. Surely that must eliminate some suspects.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t call them suspects.” The Dreyer police chief looked shocked. “We’ve asked a few discreet questions. But, like I said, it was one o’clock after a big business banquet. Everybody claims they were asleep. As for wives, most of them went to bed early and left their husbands to find the Alka-Seltzer by themselves.”
Dr. Mercado refused to be drawn by this insight into American domestic manners. “I don’t see how you can cross off anything at this stage. Until you know the motive for the murder, you can’t tell how many different people might be involved.”
“We haven’t forgotten that. And the New York City boys have been a big help. But so far it’s all negative. They had their auditors run a ruler over Frohlich’s department down there.”
“Ah, these American audits,” breathed Alizio respectfully. “We have heard of them. They are performed on your criminals, and on your politicians, and apparently even on your victims.”
“Well, this one didn’t do much good. The buyer’s department came out clean as a whistle. And even Frohlich’s private trading account was just what I’d expected. No big surprises for anyone, or even little ones, either.”
Thatcher’s attention had been captured by one phrase. “Did you see the account summary yourself, Captain?” he asked.
“Sure thing. Asked them to send it down to me.” Huggins grinned at Thatcher’s response. “I probably understood it better than most of the boys down there. I take a little flyer myself, every now and then. Here in Dreyer, we’re all pretty interested in cocoa.”
“I should have realized that,” said Thatcher. He should not have been misled by Captain Huggins’ man-in-the-street act. In a pinch the local police force was probably capable of running the whole conching process, too. Huggins’ area of expertise might be a little odd but he was a specialist quite as much as anyone in the New York Homicide Division. And he was also far too busy to waste time on visitors, no matter how eminent. The only question was when he would demand his quid pro quo.
He did so immediately.
“I hear you were at the Cocoa Exchange yourself, Mr. Thatcher, when Amory Shaw was knifed. Now, I’ve seen the reports but that isn’t the same as an eyewitness. I was wondering . . .”
15 minutes later Thatcher felt as if he had been mauled by an exceptionally powerful vacuum cleaner. He re-created for Huggins everything seen, heard, or sensed from that perch in the visitors’ gallery.
“Unbelievable,” said Huggins at the tale’s conclusion. “Well, we wanted to know why someone killed Dick Frohlich. Now we know the answer’s right on John Street.” He paused to let his eyes stray across the highway to the compound of the Dreyer Chocolate Company. “In one sense, anyway.”
Chapter 19
cinéma vérité
Combine an Etruscan vase with Columbus Day, and the prospects are not good. John Thatcher had been unhopeful but, by Sunday afternoon, he had to admit it could have been worse. The cocktail party was being held in the garden of the Museum of Modern Art. Benign weather over the three-day weekend operated on midtown Manhattan like a giant pump, sucking away population, traffic, and pollution. A blue sky arched overhead, a gentle breeze rustled the gallant city trees, and the air smelled fresh and clean. With some satisfaction Thatcher reflected that every resort within a 150 miles was currently the scene of traffic congestion, choking exhaust fumes, and irritable crowds. Nor was he alone in his sense of well-being. There was no doubt that the museum’s party was going with a bang. The guests had come for duty and remained for pleasure. The courtyard was filled with animated chattering groups. Lavish supplies of food and drink were holding up well. And, considering the nature of the occasion, there was some unexpectedly interesting conversation to be had.
Of course, not everyone was hitting it lucky. On the other side of the buffet, Curtis Yeoman seemed to be stuck with the governor of New York. And Howard Vandevanter’s yellow head, silhouetted against some angular sculpture, was more golden than ever under kleig lights. Bridges, Gray & Kanelos was immortalizing the moment for a future commercial. But Thatcher himself had just emerged from an account of dark doings at the Brooklyn Museum. An employee of that venerable institution had described a recent dismissal.
“They threatened to eject him physically,” the young man had reported.
“No!”
“Without any warning, you understand, they sent the head of security with a note telling him to leave forthwith!”
“What did he do?”
“What could he do? This guard is a great hulking brute. And that’s not all.”
“Ye-e-s?”
“He was wearing a uniform we didn’t even know he had. Epaulettes and a gun belt. He looked like the embodiment of militarism. But I can tell you, we’re not taking this lying down.”
“I should hope not,” Thatcher said warmly.
“We’re going over the director’s head. The petition is already 80% subscribed. And if the board doesn’t see reason, why we’ll just walk out.” The young man squared his shoulders defiantly. “I’d like to see t
hem try running that museum without us.”
A carping mind might have found Thatcher’s agreement ambiguous.
“So would I,” he had said before walking away.
But the exchange had given him food for thought. Was the Sloan Guaranty Trust turning into a stagnant backwater? To the best of his knowledge, and he was in a position to know. when the Sloan told a man to go, he went quietly. Certainly no trust officer had ever been carried from the building, kicking and screaming. Was this good or bad?
A parting in the crowd brought him face to face with someone who might share his interest in this problem. Charlie Trinkam was carefully convoying two full glasses through the mob.
“What are you doing here?” asked Thatcher before the implications of the second glass registered. “Oh, I suppose you’re squiring somebody.”
Charlie grinned. “That isn’t the way I’d put it myself. I think I’m being squired. But anyway, I’m with the TV crew.”
“Good God, don’t you see enough advertising people in PR?”
“This isn’t the advertising bunch. This is educational television. They’re shooting some footage for one of their documentaries.”
The ramifications of Charlie’s extracurricular life never ceased to bemuse his colleagues. But at the moment Thatcher had other preoccupations. He retailed the Brooklyn Museum melodrama and put his own question.
“Everyone else seems to be having personnel troubles these days.” Scrupulously he supported his statement with the list—colleges, hospitals, museums. Even the White House was not without its staff problems. “Is there something wrong with us?”
Charlie had his own explanation. “No, it’s just that the new breed never considers working for a bank. If you want to keep in touch, John, come and meet Sonia.”
Sonia was dressed in a flowing caftan, her dark hair was knotted into one long braid, and she was fighting the good fight before the introductions were completed.
“. . . and, John, this is Mrs. Libby,” Charlie was saying.
“M-z-z-z!” she interrupted fiercely.
“All right. M-z-z Libby,” Charlie obligingly buzzed back.
Well, that settled it, thought Thatcher. The woman was going to be you as far as he was concerned. Nobody was committing him to a word that didn’t have a vowel.
Charlie continued his pacification program. “John is one of the Dreyer trustees, handing over the vase.”
He had struck a spark. Sonia Libby’s gaze, conning the horizon for worthier entertainment, suddenly swiveled back to her companions.
“We could use you,” she announced in a voice blending surprise and self-congratulation. So might a sultan have spoken who had come to examine the latest consignment of houris without high hopes. She nodded to herself, then without warning aimed a single shriek into the crowd. “Craig!”
The call produced not one, but two, additions to their party. Craig Phibbs, complete with light meter, was accompanied by Dr. Umberto Mercado.
“Yes?” he asked impatiently.
It was Sonia’s hour.
“I’ve got the face you were looking for. Look at those lines,” she urged. “Think of the shadows we can get with the right lighting.”
A slow, remorseless scrutiny began. For no reason at all, Thatcher found himself fighting the temptation to blink. Dr. Mercado watched indulgently. Charlie Trinkam had clearly decided to let the storm rage where it would.
After moments of suspense, Phibbs made his decision. “I like it.” He addressed Thatcher. “This documentary is going to shake up the whole country. It’s called Greed, and we’ll be using you in one of the symbolic sequences.”
Thatcher was under no illusion as to exactly what he was going to symbolize.
“I see it all.” Phibbs was gripped by creative ecstasy. “We open with a facial study of you. You’re introduced as a banker. Then we zoom in on the vase. You’re toying with it callously. Your indifferent hands don’t recognize its inherent worth.”
Thatcher stiffened at this preposterous statement. Say what you will about bankers, they do not toy carelessly with breakables having an insurance cover of over a million dollars.
“Go on,” he said evenly.
“Then you hand the vase to Dr. Mercado, here. He accepts it reverently, almost humbly. Meanwhile the sound-track is carrying your voice. You’re talking about money. With this unique work of art in front of you, you can’t see it, you’re blind to it. It has no meaning for you. Instead you’re reading the check Dr. Mercado has given you, thanking him for the $200,000 but—”
“$225,000,” Dr. Mercado corrected amiably.
It took more than facts to throw Craig Phibbs off stride. “These details don’t matter. The important thing is that then we see Dr. Mercado’s hands—fine, sensitive, tapering fingers caressing the curves of the vase, lingering over the swell of its body, feeling the rich glaze . . .”
His voice died away, seduced by his imagery. He was not the only one affected. Dr. Mercado had raised his squat, hairy hands and was examining them with deep interest. Then he shuddered.
“You don’t catch me touching that thing,” he said firmly. “What if I break it?”
Over the years Craig Phibbs had often encountered recalcitrance. He always did better ignoring it than reasoning with it.
“It’s a lucky thing that you speak English so well. It would be a crying shame to have to dub on a masterpiece like this.”
Even Italian amiability has its limits. “Why shouldn’t I speak English well? I went to Rensselaer Polytech.”
For an instant, Phibbs was shaken. He preferred his sensitive Continentals to have learned their English at Oxford. But he made an immediate recovery. “We don’t have to mention it,” he said.
Battle was joined on an unlikely issue. “Why shouldn’t we mention it? Rensselaer is a first-class engineering school.”
Thatcher was pleased to see that the Phibbs insulation was not entirely impenetrable.
“Look, we’re pushing the fact that you’re an artist, that you appreciate the intrinsic greatness of the vase, you respond instinctively. Why bring engineering into it?” Phibbs was almost shouting.
“I’m not an artist. I’m a capitalist.”
There was a shocked silence. Four-letter abuse was common in Phibbs’ circles, and in his films. but there were still words that he reacted to like a maiden aunt. Of course, he didn’t hear them often.
“I thought you said you were Dr. Mercado,” he said suspiciously.
“I am.”
“What are you a doctor of?”
“I’m a doctor of electrical engineering. I make cathode ray tubes for TV sets.”
Phibbs’ world was crashing around his ears, but he was still fighting. “You should have said so at the beginning. Here, I’ve been thinking you were a professor or a curator. It’s a good thing we found out in time.”
“I just told you,” Mercado remarked.
But Phibbs preferred to think he had unmasked an impostor. “I’m afraid you won’t do for Greed,” he said curtly.
Thatcher felt the time was ripe to announce his own retirement from the cast. “I’m not the man you want at all. I have nothing to do with the presentation itself. You want to talk to Howard Vandevanter, over there. He’s in charge at the Dreyer end.”
Phibbs glanced over to the corner where Vandevanter had completed his duties by one set of television cameras.
“The fair-haired one?” Phibbs dismissed him out of hand. “No, I don’t like the way he photographs. Yours is the face I want.”
Thatcher was perversely annoyed. Why was he supposed to represent greed so much more compellingly than Vandevanter?
“Well, you can’t have it. Maybe Vandevanter is more photogenic than you think.”
Phibbs shook his head stubbornly. “No, he’s the one I was telling the police about yesterday. They wanted to know about his fight with that guy who got murdered. I know what he looks like on camera.”
A less self-
centered man might have noticed the sudden stillness that enveloped their little group in the midst of the bustle about them. Glasses were tinkling, women were laughing, but Charlie Trinkam and John Thatcher had both frozen.
“What fight?” Thatcher asked at last.
A great artist learns that other people do not see the same essentials that he does. Phibbs knew that the world was filled with lesser men, distracted by the minutiae of life, failing to see the constant truths. When he wanted something, he could descend to their level.
“Just before the murder,” he humored his listeners. “Sonia and I saw them on the seventh floor. We didn’t pay any attention to what they were saying. But I was interested in their expressions.”
“We just caught sight of them as we passed the end of their corridor,” Sonia volunteered. “Craig said it was just the kind of vignette we wanted.”
“Then you don’t know exactly when you saw them?” Thatcher prodded.
Phibbs was bored, but still tolerant. “You understand I wasn’t interested in them as people, only as plastic expressions of an emotion. But I snapped a view of them. It’s the way I work.”
His acolyte recognized her cue. “Craig takes stills as working notes. Just the way a painter does sketches, or a sculptor does models. He has whole files that he can consult when he’s planning a creation.” She sounded awestruck. “It was just an accident that this one included the clock.”
John Thatcher and Charlie Trinkam were awestruck, too. This gave Phibbs his opportunity to end the digression. “So I know that Vandevanter won’t do at all. He doesn’t have the right planes.”
Automatically, Thatcher fended off the renewed attack. It took some time to convince Craig Phibbs that Greed would have to be filmed without active assistance from the Sloan Guaranty Trust.
“You should have foisted him onto Yeoman,” Charlie complained when they were alone. He had been champing at the bit for the last five minutes.
“I don’t want him tying up Yeoman now,” Thatcher retorted. “I want the field free and clear.”
