by Emma Lathen
“Are you going to tell Yeoman about this?”
“No, I merely want to find out when Vandevanter arrived in New York. If he’s been here all weekend . . .”
Charlie nodded comprehendingly. “Phibbs told his story to the cops yesterday. They would have tried to check with Vandevanter right away. If he was available and he got through a third degree okay, then Phibbs is blowing this up out of proportion. But if the police haven’t seen Vandevanter yet, then anything may happen.”
Thatcher agreed but felt constrained to add: “While I dislike saying a good word for Phibbs, you have to admit that he is certainly not trying to inflate the importance of his information.”
“Hell, he doesn’t even realize the importance of it,” Charlie rejoined.
“I wonder why the police haven’t had Phibbs’ information before,” Thatcher mused.
“I can think of a lot of good reasons. But one’ll get you three that Phibbs forgot those stills until they were developed and turned up on his desk.”
Agreeing, Thatcher maintained a steady course toward the buffet, where he was surprised to find Yeoman and the governor still at it.
“What do you think is keeping them together?” asked Charlie, ever curious. “The governor’s art collection?”
“More likely Yeoman is demanding action on Shaw’s murder.”
They were both wrong. It was the Republican Party that was exercising these two politicians.
Thatcher held his interruption to a bare minimum, with one question.
“Howard?” Yeoman was undisturbed. “Have you been looking for him? He came here direct from the airport. And I’m afraid you’ve missed him. He left a couple of minutes ago.”
“Well, that’s that,” Charlie summed up. “Let’s have one more drink and then find dinner somewhere while we’re waiting for the axe to fall.”
But they barely reached the bar. This time it was Yeoman who came in search of them.
“Thatcher, I just had a call from Howard. The police were waiting for him at his hotel.” His eyes were blank with shock. “My God, they’ve arrested the president of Dreyer!”
Chapter 20
President Gets Arrested
“When I think of those articles I’ve read about how the law discriminates against the poor,” Charlie was saying 24 hours later, “I’m tempted to dash something off myself.”
Walter Bowman was always willing to keep the ball in play. “You mean something like—Getting Arrested Ain’t Fun Even If You’re Rich?”
“That’s right.”
“The only trouble,” said Walter, the specialist, “is that Howard Vandevanter isn’t really rich—”
“Rich enough,” Charlie interrupted firmly. “And he’s the president of the Dreyer Chocolate Company. That makes a nice contrast with the poor slob who can’t afford to hire a lawyer.”
Since this was indisputable, there ensued a few moments during which Thatcher idly reflected on his subordinates and their fortes. Bowman always stood ready to brandish statistics about income distribution and asset ownership in the United States; Charlie invariably took experience, assimilated it, and used it to enrich his already eclectic philosophy of life.
Still, there were times when somebody had to keep them on track.
“Don’t forget,” Thatcher said, “today’s Columbus Day. That’s been a contributing factor to Vandevanter’s troubles.”
“How could I?” Charlie replied with cause.
Other Americans might associate Columbus Day with parades, or closing cottages in the Berkshires, or breakdowns on the thruway of their choice. It was going to be a good many years before Thatcher and Charlie could equate it with anything but the heroics required to spring Howard Vandevanter, president of the Dreyer Chocolate Company, from the jug.
Yesterday’s dash between the Museum of Modern Art and the lockup had been a miracle of speedy transport, but still a nightmare. At the time, as well as in retrospect, the nightmare had been largely of Curtis Yeoman’s making.
“Howard getting himself arrested for murder!” he had repeated, first in confusion, then in fury. “My God, John, do you know what this is going to do to Dreyer? If you’d told me six months ago that any of this could have happened to us, I’d have called you a liar to your face. It’s insanity, that’s what it is.”
Thatcher did not have time to ask if the governor was thinking ahead to possible legal defenses. At the precinct house, other questions took higher priority.
Howard Vandevanter had not been charged with murder. He had been booked, and was being held, for questioning.
The desk sergeant was courteous but unyielding.
‘The only one who gets to see Vandevanter, Mr
. . . . er . . . Youmans—”
“Yeoman!” Yeoman snapped. “I’ve already explained—”
“Yeoman.” The sergeant would have agreed to anything. He was not even pretending to care. “You’re not Vandevanter’s lawyer, are you? Because he’s the only one Captain Bruce told me to let in . . .”
Before Yeoman could try bearing down again, Thatcher interjected himself.
“Would it be possible for us to talk to the officer in charge?” he asked.
The calm, incurious inspector turned to him. Then: “Today’s Sunday. And tomorrow’s Columbus Day.”
At the time, Thatcher had been too intent on deflecting Yeoman to take in the full significance of this. A clatter had made him turn to see what he knew in his bones must be the first of the press.
“Of course the police aren’t taking the holiday off,” he said sharply to Yeoman, who was still fulminating after being hustled outside.
“Presumably, they are busy—trying to question Vandevanter, among other things.”
“Escobedo and Miranda,” crooned Charlie with a nice, tango beat.
“What we should do,” said Thatcher, wondering why he had to say this to Yeoman, “is get hold of Vandevanter’s lawyer.”
This terminated Yeoman’s first reaction to the arrest, which had struck Thatcher as more like a self-defeating tantrum than the response of a seasoned politician.
“Yes, of course,” said Yeoman, glancing at his watch. “Let’s go back to my hotel and get on the phone.”
During the ride to the Waldorf, Charlie spotted a small ray of sunshine. “At least they haven’t charged him with murder.”
“The damned fool!” Yeoman ejaculated.
Charlie glanced at Thatcher and opted for silence. Frustration, anxiety, and fear can make one man say this of another, even where there is also affection and respect. Thatcher had heard fathers call their sons damned fools, and mean it for the moment—just because of the terrible depth of their concern and involvement. But Yeoman’s bitterness was bleak. Thatcher had known he did not like Howard Vandevanter. He had not realized he hated him.
“If he was stupid enough to lie about that picture,” Yeoman said harshly, “he’s stupid enough to do anything.”
“The sooner we get Vandevanter’s lawyer, the better,” Thatcher repeated.
It was easier said than done.
There was nobody at the Vandevanter home in Dreyer.
“That’s fine,” said Yeoman, jamming the receiver down.
“Vandevanter’s in jail and his family’s out—”
“It’s a holiday,” Charlie reminded him shortly. “And Vandevanter’s family didn’t expect him to get arrested on this trip to New York. It’s going to be a big shock when they read about it.”
It took much to strain Charlie’s large tolerance for his fellow man, but Yeoman was managing to do it.
“Try Dreyer’s lawyer,” Thatcher ordered.
Yeoman’s face tightened. His professed ignorance of Vandevanter’s personal attorney had already cost time in this abortive call to Mrs. Vandevanter. Now they were getting to the heart of the matter.
“Under the circumstances,” he said stubbornly, “I don’t think it would be proper for Dreyer’s counsel to represent Vandevanter.”
; Thatcher had begun to suspect that something like this was coming.
Charlie put it all in one pithy word.
“BS,” he said, without smiling.
Hastily, while the color mounted in Yeoman’s cheeks, Thatcher amplified this, without blunting its thrust. “There may be a legitimate question about who should represent Vandevanter in any future legal actions,” he said. “But at the moment, he is the president of the Dreyer Chocolate Company. Those are the circumstances under which we are operating, Yeoman.”
He was not smiling either.
“I can’t agree—”
Thatcher had never pretended to possess the lawyer’s art of arguing ad infinitum. “If you are unwilling to cooperate,” he said crisply, “I shall myself contact every member of the board of directors.”
Under threat of force majeure, Yeoman yielded. He did so with bad grace. “Very well,” he said, angrily reaching for the phone.
Once again, Columbus Day defeated them. Luther H. Barnett, Esq., counsel to the Dreyer Chocolate Company, was not at his home. There was, however, a voice.
Thatcher and Charlie afterward compared notes about the side of the conversation available to them. Thatcher’s Version, that Yeoman was talking for effect, was milder and probably less accurate than Charlie’s: “He was faking it.”
What Yeoman said was: “. . . out? Yes . . . yes. Well, will you tell him that Governor Yeoman will be calling him then? Fine.” Downing the receiver, he explained: “The girl says that Barnett is away for the day. He’s expected back tonight.”
The fractional pause might have been taken as defiance. When Thatcher held his tongue, Yeoman continued: “I think the wisest course of action is for me to get up to Dreyer so I can talk directly to him.”
“Fine,” said Thatcher neutrally.
For all his experience, Yeoman could not keep a spark of triumph from his eyes. “Yes, that’s the best idea. I think I’ll go and get Barnett lined up. That should be the best way to satisfy our immediate needs.”
Charlie nearly spoiled the whole thing by trying to nail him down. ‘“Do you intend to call John, or me, once you get hold of Barnett?” he asked.
“Certainly,” said Yeoman, with dignity. “And now . . .”
They had barely reached the lobby before Charlie overflowed.
“I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for that call, would you, John?”
“No,” said Thatcher. “But I think we might make more progress getting hold of somebody to help Vandevanter, with Yeoman off our hands.”
They might have proceeded to a full discussion of Yeoman’s behavior and the reasons for it but, at that moment, a burly man deposited the familiar bundle on the glass-topped newsstand. Thatcher and Charlie coincided with the wire cutter.
The Post, starved almost to emaciation by the holiday news shortage, had done what it could with what it had. There was only one hard fact—but it was set in a fat, black headline: DREYER PREXY ARRESTED.
“Come on,” said Thatcher, heading for a telephone of his own.
The following hours were an eye-opener.
“My God!” said Charlie at one point. “Is the whole New York Bar on Fire Island?”
If they were not, they were on Martlia’s Vineyard. By the time Thatcher had gotten as far down his list as Stanton Carruthers, whose specialty was trusts and estates, he was heartily sick of offshore property from Georgia to Casco Bay.
“I should have foreseen it,” he said irascibly. “With every Sloan lawyer apparently on Nantucket, it was only to be expected that Carruthers would be holed up on some piece of rock in the North Atlantic.”
Charlie got up, stretched, and completed his arrangements to rendezvous with Thatcher next morning, before leaving on a sweet-and-sour note. “Just thank God that Irene Jackson likes the mountains,” he advised.
Paul Jackson, a trial lawyer, was available in the sense that he was on the mainland. Getting his number in Sugar Hill, New Hampshire, then getting him, had proved arduous but worthwhile. He was going to be on tap first thing in the morning.
“Which reminds me,” said Charlie, “our pal Yeoman didn’t call, did he? What do you want to bet that he couldn’t get in touch with Barnett, after all?”
“Right now,” said Thatcher, “I’m not willing to bet on anything.”
But bright and early Columbus Day, Paul Jackson arrived, the first tonic to come Thatcher’s way since Dr. Mercado. Despite his ensemble, which he, his wife, or Pierre Cardin thought suitable for northern New England, he was not resentful about being called back to town. Far from it, he was grateful.
“Sure, they’ve got mountains,” he said, with the Bronx boy’s live-and-let-live acceptance of non-urban topography, “but they’ve got a lot of people from Boston, too. Okay, here I am. Give me whatever I haven’t read.”
Since Jackson was action oriented, Thatcher let Charlie fill him in on the taxi ride. He himself felt obliged to hold the fort, in case Howard Vandevanter needed more reinforcements. Before he could accustom himself to the unnatural silence at the Sloan, it was broken. Walter Bowman came padding in.
“What are you doing here?”
The simultaneous question flushed much information on both sides.
Walter tried, unconvincingly, to pretend that something new in the great Union Funding debacle required his holiday presence. By the time they got to the truth, Mrs. Bowman’s brother, sister-in-law, and five nieces were visiting from Cedar Rapids, and lightly touched on Howard Vandevanter’s plight, Charlie Trinkam was back.
“That was fast,” Walter commented.
“Even when he’s wearing baby blue pants, Paul doesn’t fool around,” Charlie replied. “He had Vandevanter out in six minutes.”
“Not bad for a Columbus Day morning,” said Walter. “Where are they now?”
“As I understand it,” said Charlie, pretending to be more innocent than the Sloan would have tolerated, “Paul wanted to talk to Vandevanter about a few things. They were heading for Paul’s office.”
“Well,” said Walter, “that settles whether Paul has been hired. Don’t look at me like that, Charlie. You know how Paul strikes some people—especially when he’s wearing everything color-coded to match his eyes.”
“Vandevanter looked as if he was in pretty bad shape,” said Charlie seriously.
“Jail,” Walter commented sadly, “is always something that happens to other guys.” Possibly he was thinking of Union Funding, possibly of more historic institutions.
“He said,” Charlie reported, “that once he finished up with Paul, he wanted to get back to Dreyer.”
“Very reasonable,” said Thatcher, without asking about movements from one jurisdiction to another. He could trust Paul Jackson to have that taped.
“I’ve brought you the papers, in case you didn’t get them.” Charlie tossed them on the desk.
Even the prolix New York Times could not old much to the terse statement by the police department. Their redoubtable files, however, had yielded too much information about Amory Shaw and Dick Frohlich. The headline was suitably sober, but in many ways more deadly than the Post: DREYER TROUBLES GROW.
Chapter 21
John Putnam Thatcher Figures It Out
Miss Corsa had long since proved herself immune to the frailty that makes so many Monday mornings a penance. Even the Tuesday after a long weekend was child’s play for her.
“Did you have a pleasant holiday?” Thatcher inquired when he arrived at the Sloan.
Despite a noticeably sunburned nose, Miss Corsa had put frivolity behind her. A bank, in her opinion, was no place to describe family barbecues. Instead, she set about making up for lost time.
“You have a letter on your desk from Ziprodt and Ziprodt,” she reported. “They also called just before you came in, Mr. Thatcher, to ask when you’ll be able to make a pretrial deposition.”
Thanks to his recent exertions, mention of any law firm sent Thatcher’s thoughts scudding in one direction.
&
nbsp; “Pretrial deposition?” he exclaimed, halting on the threshold of his own office. “Vandevanter wasn’t even charged.”
Like the rest of the world, Miss Corsa had read all about Howard Vandevanter. But the plight of the Dreyer Chocolate Company and its president was interesting to her only because of its inextricable linkage, through the Leonard Dreyer Trust, to Mr. Thatcher. Accordingly, she might have been accusing him of nameless crimes as she replied:
“This is not about Mr. Vandevanter. It’s a suit by a Mr. Gary Hunneman against the Checker Cab Company, and Avis.”
Observing that this did not jog his memory, she helpfully added: “Mr. Sims wants you to return his call about the accident.”
That, of course, did it. Thatcher recalled the consultation with Bartlett Sims, about the Leonard Dreyer Trust, that had culminated in leaking antifreeze and an unpaid cabby. Mr. Gary Hunneman, presumably, was the one who had been exercising his God-given right to drive a rented car in the heart of Manhattan. Not content with precipitating a rear-end collision, he was now proposing to make legal history.
Thatcher resolved to let the Sloan’s law department deal with this triumph of egocentricity and, if possible, to avoid Bartlett Sims. But he was not destined to rival Miss Corsa’s assiduous attention to duty. Before he could get to the material about furniture stripping franchises on his desk, another potential lawsuit rose up to smite him.
Fred Nagle’s wrath made him impossible to decipher when Miss Corsa put him through. Fortunately, Helen Nagle was used to serving as simultaneous interpreter.
“I nagged Fred into calling you, John,” she said frankly.
Thatcher replied that he was always happy to hear from the Nagles. This was still true, despite disjointed cries of ferocity from the other extension.
“Just wait a minute, Fred,” Helen said. “Let me explain it to John—”
“After 45 years!”
“—so he can talk some sense to you. John, Fred wants to sue Dreyer.”
Thatcher did not vent the first thought that surfaced—namely, that there seemed to be an epidemic of litigiousness abroad. Deliberately he said, “Don’t I recall you telling me that Dreyer was a good outfit to deal with? I know Arrow Jobbers has been doing business with them for a long time—”
