by Emma Lathen
Mr. Elliman, Head of Sloan travel department seeking to broaden the horizons of Sloan executives business travels by including sightseeing, and usually failing.
Characters only in Murder to Go
Maitland, in Commercial Credit of the Sloan, had lent Chicken Tonight $12 million to buy an insurance company, Southeastern Insurance.
Frank Hedstrom, CEO of Chicken Tonight, the automated franchise, who wants to take over Southeastern Insurance.
Joan Hedstrom, Frank’s wife.
Vernon Akers, owned the Chicken Tonight franchise in Willoughby, New Jersey. Dodie his wife handled the books.
Buell Ogilvie, President of Southeastern, a major stockholder but a figurehead in the operations.
Pelham Brown, On the Southeastern Board and a prime mover in the merger, Tony his wife.
Morgan Ogilvie, EVP of Southeastern and the real head, as was John Putnam Thatcher at the Sloan. Margo, his wife was a horse woman, owning a winner, Nagrom at the Garden State Park.
Ted Young, junior partner with Hedstrom and a high school classmate of his.
Iris, Ted Young’s wife, first fiddle in school, second fiddle now, and didn’t like it.
Dr. Mosby, Head of the FDA, shuts down Chicken Tonight due to poisonings.
Mr. Denton from the FDA who pinpoints the time and method of poisoning the chickens.
Captain Johnson of the State Police handling the first murder.
Clyde Sweeney, fired Chicken Tonight driver who is accused of poisoning and was apparently paid by someone else to do the dirty work.
Mrs. Menotti, Clyde’s landlord and the police’s best source of information about his doings.
Sue Akers, daughter of Vern and Dodie, said Clyde asked to date her but was really interested in looking around the parking lot.
Captain Stotz, in charge of the second murder investigation.
Dougherty, Captain Johnson’s investigator on the ground.
Emma Lathen Political Mysteries
As R. B. Dominic
31. Murder Sunny Side Up 1968. Agriculture.
32. Murder in High Place 1969. Overseas Travelers.
33. There is No Justice 1971. Supreme Court.
34. Epitaph for a Lobbyist 1974. Lobbyists.
35. Murder Out of Commission 1976. Nuke Plants.
36. The Attending Physician 1980. Health Care.
37. Unexpected Developments 1983. Military.
Tom Walker Mysteries
Patricia Highsmith Style
Deaver Brown, Author
01. 18. Football, Superbowl & Business
02. Abduct. Sexual Misconduct.
03. Body. Planned Eliminations for Money.
04. Comfortable. Avoiding Consequences.
05. Death. Wrong Place at the Wrong Time.
06. Enthusiast. Opportunity Murder.
07. Fraud. Taking Your Chances.
08. Greed. Heirs Who Know Better.
09. Heat. Heir Arrogance.
10. Island. Startup.
A similarly popular Simply Media mystery series.
Financial & Other Facts
Emma Lathen and Tom Walker
are about money and emotion.
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Thank you for reading our series.
Enjoy and prosper!
Deaver Brown, Publisher & Editor.
www.simplymedia.com
CHAPTER 1
PREPARE FOR COOKING
WALL STREET is the financial nerve center of the world. Million-dollar transactions are almost commonplace in dozens of institutions dotted from the Battery to Foley Square. Rich men in opulent board rooms finance new products, new communications media, new worlds. At the same time, high-school graduates earn modest salaries in the back rooms of brokerage houses, shuffling stock certificates worth a king’s ransom. One way or the other, Wall Streeters from senior partner to uniformed messenger deal with sums that stagger the imagination.
This has earned Wall Street censure, and worse, from some quarters. There are men and even nations for whom Wall Street is the enemy; in many tongues and idioms they accuse Wall Street’s bankers, lawyers, brokers and traders of confusing money with value in the larger sense. Robber barons, they claim, stalk down Exchange Place and up Pine Street, intent on defrauding widows, robbing orphans and trampling upon the poor.
None of these activities is exceptionally profitable in a century of affluence. Moreover, Wall Street knows full well that there are things other than money important to man: beauty and truth, autonomy and commitment. After all, Wall Street can read, too.
John Putnam Thatcher had long felt that Wall Street’s view of money did not differ markedly from that of mankind at large. On the contrary. The oddity was that Wall Street’s dealings in billions of dollars, pounds and liras did not immunize it from irritation with petty sums.
John Putnam Thatcher was the senior vice-president of the Sloan Guaranty Trust. The Sloan Guaranty Trust is the third-largest bank in the world. Thatcher’s particular concerns, the Trust and Investment divisions, routinely handled seven-figure transactions. At the moment, they were tied in knots by a rancorous disagreement over twenty-five dollars.
“I’m not altogether sure I follow you, Miss Corsa,” said Thatcher to his secretary.
Miss Corsa patiently explained financial details to Mr. Thatcher once again.
“Well,” she said, “the Committee agreed that it wouldn’t be fair to assess everybody the same amount. So Mr. Bowman suggested a different system. Everybody on the clerical roll would contribute what they wanted. Then everybody else”—this was one way to describe his stable of highly skilled professionals, thought Thatcher—“would be asked to contribute twenty-five dollars. But Miss Prettyman objects . . .”
Miss Corsa proceeded to outline a financial proposal that would not have disgraced many a small electronics firm. Thatcher repressed his smile, for this was no laughing matter. His comfort had been increasingly impaired by Miss Corsa’s attendance at what was known throughout the Sloan as The Committee. (And the Senate Foreign Relations Committee was, comparatively speaking, small potatoes.)
At issue was Charles Trinkam’s forthcoming anniversary, twenty years at the bank. Charlie was Thatcher’s second-in-command, a resilient bachelor who yoked an exuberant private life with outstanding ability as a banker. In a casual, offhand manner Charlie Trinkam supervised the Utilities Section with notable success; in the same way, he commanded affection and respect from his colleagues.
All of Charlie’s colleagues certainly wanted to do the right thing by him. A dinner, a briefcase, a contribution—fine! What had put the fat into the fire was Charlie’s immense popularity with the rank and file. The Sloan’s secretaries, file clerks, messengers and elevator operators did not feel, it developed, that Mr. Trinkam could be fobbed off with the standard: a dollar from each secretary, twenty per trust officer and whatever else necessary coughed up by the top brass. Not for a minute. Every single member of the Trust Division, from Miss Lelyveld (Statistical Typing) to Sheldon the messenger boy, was determined to do the thing brilliantly. (Thatcher’s Miss Corsa, who carried calmness to unnatural lengths, was not involved in the roiling passions. But as the days progressed, she decided that Mr. Thatcher’s presence must be made felt, and, acting as Mr. Thatcher’s presence, Miss Corsa could outdo any zealot.) The net result was a committee, instead of one secretary passing the hat. Creation of a committee had flushed other personnel from all parts of the great Sloan family who wished to be associated with the festivities.
For some weeks the Committee had been mulling over various proposals concerning contributions and contributors. Once these weighty questions were settled, Thatcher feared, the problem of what to buy Charlie with the extravagant funds on hand could occupy Sheldon, Miss Lelyveld, Miss Corsa and many others for a long time indeed.
The only member of the staff not being inconvenienced wa
s, predictably enough, Charlie Trinkam.
Fortunately, he strolled into Thatcher’s office. This cut off Miss Corsa’s meticulous account of Miss Prettyman’s suggested pro-rata contributions system based on take-home pay.
“Say, John,” said Charlie after Miss Corsa withdrew, “what’s this about the twelve million dollars that Commercial Credit is playing games with?”
Thatcher did not require repetition here. “What twelve million dollars?” he asked crisply. Nor did he have to ask about Commercial Credit; it was the Sloan division concerned with advancing short-term loans to business. As such, it was not in Thatcher’s immediate purview. But he was keeping a weather eye on it. In the last two years, Commercial Credit had shown a tendency to finance businesses that the Trust and Investment divisions would not touch with a ten-foot pole.
Charlie, who knew and appreciated the delicacy of the situation, grinned.
“The twelve million that Maitland anted up for one of those franchise operations. This one delivers chicken dinners to your door.”
Thatcher almost groaned as he reflected on the reports of Walter Bowman’s research staff. For the most part they dealt scathingly with the current rash of franchises for coin-operated car washes, big-name cleaning establishments, Wild West Bar-B-Cues and Teen-Age Night Clubs.
“I suppose,” he said wearily, “that Maitland has just read one of those come-on brochures, and got swept off his feet.”
Charlie nodded instant understanding.
“I know the sort of thing you mean. They explain how you—and the little woman—can own your own business by investing fifteen to twenty thousand bucks. Then you just sit back and rake in the money. Betty’s Baked Beans will train you, they will big-brother you so you don’t do anything wrong, they’ll advertise twenty-four hours a day. You’re practically guaranteed a fortune.”
There is a sucker born every minute, and Thatcher had learned to live with the fact. Nevertheless, he did regret that one of them was in charge of an important Sloan division.
“Tell me, do you think anybody told Maitland about the rate of failure, about the mistakes in location—for that matter, did anybody tell him about the sharp dealers who are getting onto this merry-go-round?” he asked irately.
Charlie was reassuring. “It’s not as bad as that. Trust Bowman. When Maitland discovered franchises three months ago, Walter kept an eye on him. So this loan wasn’t to one of the dogs. Far from it. The twelve million went to Chicken Tonight. That’s Frank Hedstrom’s outfit.”
“Ah!” Thatcher relaxed.
“Yes, the boy wonder himself.”
Charlie’s ironic tone made Thatcher reconsider the silver lining. No one on Wall Street was issuing anything but glowing reports on Frank Hedstrom these days. Like a comet, he had shot up through the ranks of other franchisers. Most of the innovations were his; most of the problems were his competitors’. Chicken Tonight had automated more than cooking. By the time Frank Hedstrom was done, a congenital idiot would be able to operate one of his franchises—profitably.
“All right, Charlie,” Thatcher asked cautiously, “what’s the catch?”
A gleam of sheer deviltry swept over Charlie Trinkam’s face.
“Maitland went ahead and okayed a take-over by Hedstrom.”
Thatcher sat bolt upright.
“A take-over? Who does he want to take over?” he demanded.
Charlie’s smile broadened. “Southeastern Insurance. It’s a small company in Philadelphia and—”
But Thatcher shook his head impatiently. “I know,” he said and sank back into thought.
It is one thing to lend twelve million dollars to a profitable enterprise which is daily growing more profitable. It is another thing to finance diversification into an alien field.
“How far has this thing gone?” he finally asked.
“Too far,” Charlie said bluntly. “The formal bid has been made, Southeastern has called an extraordinary stockholders’ meeting and the proxies have been mailed. The reason I know anything about it is that one of the bright youngsters working for me owns a couple of shares of Southeastern. He showed me the proxy statement. Here, have a look.”
Trinkam tossed one of the familiar statements on the desk. Expertly Thatcher flipped to the material he wanted. There it was, in black and white.
“Two for one,” he murmured. “It sounds good. Have you checked the figures?”
“Sure. It’s a real buy for Southeastern’s stockholders. And they’ll be getting glamour stock too. Everybody wants a piece of Hedstrom these days.”
“We’re going to have to find out more about this,” Thatcher said decisively. “And a lot more about Hedstrom too.”
Charlie came up with another ray of light. “That shouldn’t be too hard. I hear that our old buddy Robichaux is handling Southeastern’s end of the deal.”
“Oh, he is, is he? Well, that at least gives us our first step.” Thatcher buzzed the intercom. “Miss Corsa, will you get me Mr. Robichaux, please?”
With Tom Robichaux, any step at all required lunch. A friend of Thatcher’s since their first encounter in Harvard Yard many years ago, he was a partner in Robichaux & Devane, investment brokers, and a man of far-flung interests.
“So I said to McBride that the next thing you know, they’ll be proposing cost-of-living clauses in these damned alimony settlements. Talk about inflation!”
Thatcher was briefly worried. They were in Fraunces Tavern, and his plan to extract information was going to flounder if it developed, as it so often did, that Robichaux was in the throes of marital upheaval. But as Robichaux rumbled on, it developed that his liaison with the current Mrs. Robichaux—a Loël, Thatcher seemed to recall—was reasonably secure. He and McBride had simply been discussing common interests: McBride was the well-known divorce lawyer, and God knew how much of Robichaux’s large income was earmarked by various courts for enterprising ladies. Still, this might be a straw in the wind. Thatcher reminded himself to be watchful and firmly steered the conversation back to productive lines.
“Chicken Tonight!” said Robichaux when the headwaiter seated them. “John, Chicken Tonight has been the surprise franchise success of the last two years. Hedstrom’s already got four hundred Chicken Tonights from New York to California—and they’re all coining money. He’s opening at least twenty-five new shops every six months. He’s got customers beating down the doors—or the telephone—for these meals he delivers. You know, it isn’t just fried chicken. He’s got over thirty different kinds of—Eh? What’s that? Oh, yes. I’ll start with oysters. Then, let’s see—oh, I’ll try the duck today, yes, just olive oil and vinegar on the salad . . .”
Tom’s ordering, protracted as it was by precise instructions to the kitchen, came to an end, and he returned to the subject at hand. “What was I saying?”
“You were saying,” Thatcher said with mild sarcasm, “that Chicken Tonight’s twenty-five varieties of chicken were all delicious.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Robichaux protested. “I was saying that they sold!”
Thatcher managed to order roast beef and potatoes, then indicated that he had already received a rundown on Chicken Tonight’s spectacular past from Maitland down in Commercial Credit. It was, he reminded Robichaux, the future he was interested in.
“I’ve already gathered that you—and Maitland—think that Chicken Tonight is a gold mine,” he began
Robichaux blew out his cheeks, every inch a Colonel Blimp.
“Think?” he interrupted, heatedly taking up the defense. “I know it. Let me tell you, Frank Hedstrom’s got the golden touch! Do you know what he’s done? He’s virtually automated the entire process of handling these chickens. It’s really amazing. . . .”
Thatcher listened carefully. Tom Robichaux was not a man to go overboard about young men on the make. “John,” he was saying earnestly, “Hedstrom is a born money-maker if ever I saw one.”
Thatcher did not dispute the reading. “What do you think
about him—as a man?”
Robichaux, who recognized his own weakness, expostulated. “Hell, how should I know?”
Thatcher persisted. He knew that Robichaux was not the man to supply a perceptive character study—as witness his marital career. Still, Robichaux & Devane were in this up to their necks. Robichaux could at least supply some salient characteristics.
Pressed, Tom did his best. Frank Hedstrom was very young—“Oh, around thirty, I’d say. Looks like a kid. From someplace out in Illinois—Oak Park or Park Oak or River Forest or River Grove or one of those damfool places.” Hedstrom had started with one small diner, then moved into the take-out business. Then, using borrowed money—“and a lot of savvy”—he had launched into the franchise business. And in two short years . . .
“No, no,” said Thatcher hastily. “I know he’s got good inventory control. I know he’s automated chicken cooking—whatever that means. I want to know what kind of man Frank Hedstrom is, Tom.”
Over oysters, Robichaux was resentful. “What kind of—Oh, for God’s sake! Doesn’t say much, knows his business . . .”
“And knows how to make money,” Thatcher summarized for him.
Robichaux suspected mockery. Downing a fork, he looked around Fraunces Tavern for financial spies, then reiterated the main point as he saw it.
“Look, John, don’t think this take-over business came easy to the people down in Philadelphia. Their management had us check Hedstrom and Chicken Tonight backwards and forwards. They were dying to find a good, solid reason to put up a fight. But we couldn’t find a thing. Hedstrom’s a natural.”
“Still, Southeastern’s management was against the merger,” Thatcher said. This was the kind of information he had hoped for. And more was coming.
“Use your head, John. Why do you think Southeastern has always stayed so small and conservative? Because of its management! Most of them are living back before World War One. Hell! Some of them are over seventy-five. They were surprised that there are chicken franchisers, let alone chicken franchisers big enough to take control of an insurance outfit!”
