by Emma Lathen
Particularly now, when he was very worried about one of them.
In his grave, measured way, he said, “Perhaps we can discuss this later, Uncle Buell—”
At that moment his secretary emerged. “Oh, are you still here, Mr. Ogilvie? There’s a Mr. Robichaux on the line from New York. I told him I thought you might have left.”
“Put him through, put him through!” Uncle Buell trumpeted.
Cursing his luck, Morgan Ogilvie, who wanted to be elsewhere, was forced to converse with Robichaux under his uncle’s unwavering eye.
“Yes indeed, Robichaux. No, I’m afraid you caught me just as I was leaving. . . . Yes, I agree we should have a serious talk about the merger. Naturally you see our difficulties. We’ve always been a conservative firm. . . . What? Well, obviously, there’s something seriously wrong at Chicken Tonight when somebody will sabotage their operations for a paltry few thousand dollars. We want to know what’s behind it. . . . Yes. . . . Yes, we’re giving the whole situation our undivided attention.” Here Ogilvie carefully fixed his eyes on the portrait of a forbearer safely dead instead of the simmering relative at hand. “Absolutely. I agree, we don’t want to be hasty. Possibly we can talk about this later in the week, after our thinking has jelled. Yes. . . . yes. . . .”
He was irritated to find that he was perspiring slightly when he finished.
Uncle Buell eyed him coldly.
“Sometimes I wonder, Morgan. Sometimes I wonder. Let me recommend that you do some thinking—and soon. It looks to me as if you’ve nearly made a very serious mistake.”
When Morgan Ogilvie finally made good his escape he was in a thoroughly troubled frame of mind. This despite the fact that he was not hurrying to a business appointment, but to the opulent quarters of the Jockey Club at the Garden State Race Track, in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, where the first horse ever to wear the Ogilvie colors was running today in the Garden State Futurity. If Ogilvie, unlike his wife, was only moderately interested in horse flesh, he thoroughly enjoyed the camaraderie of the Jockey Club, where the owners mingled with members in an atmosphere of unobtrusive luxury and cushioned comfort, far from the run-of-the-mill two-dollar bettors. His place in this kind of world was as dear to Ogilvie as Southeastern Insurance; in many ways, they were one to him.
Shortly after three o’clock, when he reached the entrance to the Jockey Club, a slight mist had given way to brilliant sunshine. Upstairs, the Jockey Club was thronged. There were tanned, handsome men, mostly lean and fit from lives of sport, outdoor exercise and expensive living. Their women, all tastefully turned out, were also lean and fit, although on the whole looking rather less pleased with their lot than did their consorts. Men and women alike, however, had what Ogilvie. felt was the unmistakable hallmark of good breeding. He had been more affected by his wife’s interest in stables than he knew.
He sighted many acquaintances from Philadelphia, from Baltimore, even from Princeton. Ogilvie looked around for his wife. Instead, he came upon Pelham Browne, resplendent in a vibrating plaid. In an instant Ogilvie’s contentment dissipated as his worries crowded back.
Browne, hallooing greetings to friends, edged his way over.
“Hi, there! Good to see you, Morgan,” he said heartily, very much the country squire rather than the poultry entrepreneur.
For some reason, this piqued Ogilvie.
“For God’s sake,” he muttered.
Browne shed his role. “Come over here, Morgan, and let’s sit down,” he said quickly, leading the way to a small table near the window overlooking the track. “Now tell me, how are things going?” This question was made with an urgency that had nothing of the country squire about it.
Ogilvie recovered his self-control.
“Everything’s in a state of flux,” he said coldly. “What did you expect? At the moment, we’re still committed to that merger with Chicken Tonight. But I’m afraid we may have to take action. There’s a good deal of opposition—”
But this was not what interested Pelham Browne. “What’s Hedstrom’s position?” he interrupted to ask bluntly. “Do you think he’s going to go under? Do you have any idea how long he can hold out?”
Ogilvie was looking unseeingly down at the graceful oval where entries in the third race were just beginning their long approach to the starting gate. He gave no sign of having heard Browne.
“Frankly, Pel, I’m very worried.”
This was a tone of voice that no one on Broad Street, and very few people at Southeastern Insurance Company, heard from Ogilvie. Gone was the businessman, the Philadelphia civic leader. But Ogilvie’s summer place was fifteen miles from Pelham Browne’s lordly establishment on Chesapeake Bay. Ogilvie’s wife, like Browne’s, hunted with the Chesapeake Hunt. It would be too much to say that Morgan Ogilvie regarded Pelham Browne as an intimate. He accepted him as one of his own kind.
Browne was beckoning for a second drink.
“You know, I’m in a helluva position,” he said. “I’ve got to make a decision one way or the other. Either I go on producing for Chicken Tonight or I don’t. It’s a risky proposition. That contract is the real backbone of Browne Poultry . . .”
In short, he had not listened to Ogilvie, either.
This mutual inattentiveness seemed perfectly normal to both men; their universe had a healthy respect for self-interest. They sat in silence amidst the sounds of merriment behind them. Browne was still weighing sales to Chicken Tonight. Ogilvie was thinking about Southeastern Insurance and its problematical merger. Finally the common denominator emerged.
“The key is Hedstrom,” said Ogilvie heavily.
“Always has been,” said Browne.
“No, I mean the key to the future. Look here, Pel, what do you suppose is behind this? After all, somebody deliberately set out to poison Chicken Tonight. Have you thought of why?”
Pel Browne was not much of a theorist. “God knows,” he said shrugging bulky shoulders. “Probably some nut with a grudge—”
He broke off as the bell signaled that the starters had opened the gate. A group of spectators moved closer to the windows as the horses pounded out of the chute and onto the straightaway.
Ogilvie ignored the spectacle. “If it’s just that, Hedstrom is lucky,” he said. “But I’ve been thinking. What do we know about Hedstrom?”
Browne was being towed beyond his depth. “What do we know about—? Hell, Morgan, what are you talking about?”
The horses were rounding the far turn, and from beyond the insulating windowpanes came an uproar like distant thunder.
Ogilvie pulled at his lower lip. “What I mean is this. Here’s Frank Hedstrom, a nobody who suddenly appears from someplace in Illinois. The next thing we know, he’s built up a million-dollar business—almost overnight. And he has the Sloan Guaranty Trust financing him. He’s big enough to buy all your broilers, to take over my insurance company. And God knows what other plans he has! I understand he was getting ready to go into broiler production on his own, before he was struck by lightning.”
The horses pounded across the finish line, the favorite winning by a nose. Glancing idly down, Ogilvie missed the unguarded emotion on Pelham Browne’s face. He returned his attention and said, “Now, look at it this way. Hedstrom is something of a mystery man. We don’t really know where he came from, or how he became so important. He could have a connection with the underworld.”
This time he saw the emotion on Browne’s face. Browne was gaping.
“Look here, Morgan, are you saying that Hedstrom is just a front?”
Whatever Ogilvie was going to say was forestalled.
“Well, there you two are! Margo told me to be sure to get you down to watch them saddling up.”
Antonia Browne’s public manner consisted of a sustained brilliant smile. It did not falter when her husband and Ogilvie, although dutifully rising, did not respond with their usual heavy playfulness. “Come on down,” she coaxed.
But as they rode the escalator down to the padd
ock area, where horses were being saddled under the watchful eye of track officials, where jockeys were receiving instructions from trainers, where grooms were checking equipment and rich owners were beaming impartially, she hissed in her husband’s ear, “What on earth is the matter, Pel? You look sick!”
“I’ll tell you later, Tony,” he said, conscious of hundreds of eyes upon them. Horses, jockeys, owners, guests, all were part of the strange spectacle that fascinated the average man, and the fence held back hundreds of average men and women looking at the show with wonder.
Mrs. Browne was concerned, but maintained her smile as she joined Mr. and Mrs. Morgan Ogilvie outside stall six.
Mrs. Ogilvie, a large-boned woman with a deep tan and smart white hair, was more interested in her horse, Nagrom, than in her husband’s frame of mind. Her penetrating eyes were fixed on the aged trainer who was whispering something to the jockey.
“Jockeys up!” commanded the loudspeaker.
In eight stalls, undersized riders were swung aboard thoroughbreds to become part of a powerful muscular machine. The red-coated starter began the long slow amble under the grandstand, onto the track. The horses, their grooms riding beside them, fell into line. Stepping carefully, the owners, their friends and relatives departed to watch the race.
“Well, Morgan,” said Mrs. Ogilvie in a deep voice. “Did you have a good day?”
“Yes, dear,” said Ogilvie.
“Ben says Nagrom is ready,” she told him, leading the way to the escalator that would deliver the party back to the Jockey Club.
From the track, the bugler signaled the horses coming out. In the grandstand, bettors began studying forms, watching odds, heading to the tellers’ windows.
“Make your bets early,” the loudspeaker advised. “The horses are coming onto the track for the fifth race, the Garden State Futurity. Ticket windows are now open. Make your bets early!”
Tony Browne and Margo Ogilvie, scanning their programs, were ahead of their husbands.
“Were you joking?” Pelham Browne asked in a husky undertone.
“I was never more serious in my life,” Ogilvie replied. “Somehow or other I’ve gotten a very strange impression about Hedstrom, and I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Browne. “My God, Morgan, do you realize what this could mean for us?”
“The horses will reach the starting gate in five minutes. . . . The horses will reach the starting gate in five minutes. . . .”
It is one of the customs of privileged persons to show pleasure at the small triumphs of their peers. This is why the weddings, debutante parties and other celebrations of the rich are frequently merrier than the occasion warrants.
“Here, Morgan!” yodeled a tall red-faced man. “Let’s drink to Nagrom as if she had a real chance. C’mon over, Perry.”
“But do you realize what that could mean for us?” Browne pressed.
It was unlikely that Ogilvie heard him. A crowd of well-wishers had surrounded both Ogilvies with dutiful hilarity. Other hopeful horse owners, with their respective claques, occupied other outposts of the Jockey Club.
“The horses will reach the post in two minutes. . . . The horses will reach the post in two minutes. . . .”
“Pel! What is it?” Emotion was rare with the Brownes; it was all the more unnerving when it appeared.
Pel looked down at his wife, at a loss. The substance of his anxiety had suddenly become too disconcerting to put into words—to her, at least. Fortunately, he was released by the surge toward the windows.
“They’re off!”
Nagrom started in fifth position, moved up to three at the far turn, made her bid on the back stretch, matched strides with Greengirl at the clubhouse turn and, five lengths from the finish line, loosed a tremendous last-minute spurt that winged her home ahead of the pack.
And Pelham Browne lost his opportunity to buttonhole Morgan Ogilvie for the day.
The Ogilvies were swept down to the winner’s circle, almost on the shoulders of exhilarated friends, certainly in a happy cloud of bourbon and congratulations. They were helpless against the tide, yet somehow they ended up in the winner’s circle, to be photographed with the garlanded Nagrom and the mud-splattered jockey. Mrs. Ogilvie was lost to sight behind an enormous bouquet of roses; beside her, Morgan Ogilvie looked very dignified indeed.
Pelham Browne, meanwhile, watched the other races with lackluster eyes, while Tony Browne watched him.
“But what’s the matter?” she asked during the long drive back to Maryland.
“Nothing,” said Pelham Browne, intent on the road. “I had a touch of indigestion, that’s all. I’m fine now. Just fine.”
Uncertainly she inspected him. His words were faintly slurred—but that meant little. Pel prided himself on being able to hold his liquor, and Tony agreed that he could.
“You’re sure . . .?”
“Oh for God’s sake, Tony!” he snarled. “Just leave it alone, will you?”
Astonished, she relapsed into hurt silence.
She remained ostentatiously silent at the breakfast table next morning.
“Here’s a picture of Morgan and their horse,” he said, signaling a cease-fire. “Seems that Nagrom broke the track record yesterday. That’s pretty nice going.”
“I’ll ring them up and congratulate them,” she responded.
But she could not keep her glance from his face. Pelham Browne was studying the photograph of Morgan Ogilvie with attention.
And there was something in his attention that almost frightened his wife.
CHAPTER 10
TIE IN A BUNCH
THE JOCKEY CLUB at the Garden State Race Track embodied one form of togetherness. There are others.
Americans are passionate believers in organization, so much so that it is virtually impossible for more than six of them to share any interest without hankering after weekly sociability and instruction. They lecture each other remorselessly. They give prizes to each other. They eat and dance with each other.
The great family of Chicken Tonight was no exception. In happier days it had regional banquets and annual clambakes; it had suggestion competitions and guest lecturers. News of all flock activities was broadcast by the house organ, Chicken Feed, which arrived at each franchise on the first of the month. There its smudged mimeographed pages were devoured eagerly. One spouse would read aloud to the other items such as:
Congratulations to Jack and Anne Owen, who served their one-millionth order in Cedar Rapids last week! To commemorate the occasion Jack added a bottle of champagne for the lucky customers!
In Pennsylvania Bob and Ginny Meyers are facing a second-generation threat. Their son, Tommy, whose wedding we announced last spring, has just opened a CT franchise in McKeesport. “Dad and I are planning to have a friendly competition,” Tommy said as he cut the ribbon. Father Bob will have to look to his laurels!
Al and Marge Pecek are shown receiving a check for one hundred dollars from Regional Manager Glen Davidson in Tucson, Arizona. Marge’s suggestion for cleaning the Chicken Kabob pump won the Southwest area competition.
“Fire fighting was never like this,” said Jerry Flynn as he announced plans to open his second CT franchise in the New Hampshire ski area. Jerry was a retired fireman from Saugus, Massachusetts, when he started his first operation in North Conway in 1962. He has made a specialty of delivering orders to ski tow lines. Readers in Vermont and Colorado take note!
Dodie Akers was always the first to grab Chicken Feed from the mailbox. After dealing with the front-page features and letters to the editor, which currently seethed with indignation about the poisoning (“As an old CT hand in Seattle I would like to extend my sympathy and encouragement to our friends back East . . .”), she turned her attention to the classified ads. Running a finger down the column, she said, “I don’t see anything that would do for us. There are some uniforms for sale. If we stay in business, we’ll need some. They have six of
them, all size thirty-eight. They must have hired all skinny boys last year and hefty ones this year. I don’t suppose so. It’s hard enough getting help without tying ourselves to stringbeans. . . Oh, look, Vern. There’s going to be a meeting.”
Vern was philosophical. “Meetings, always meetings,” he muttered.
“But this is different. Headquarters isn’t calling it. It says here it’s addressed to franchise operators in the Northeast adversely affected by the poisoning.”
“And do they suppose it did anybody a lot of good?”
“Vern, maybe we should go. They say it’s to take action.”
“Let’s see.” Vern stretched out a hand for the paper and became absorbed.
“What do you think?” Dodie asked when he lifted his head.
“It doesn’t say who’s calling the meeting,” Vern replied thoughtfully. “Two bits it’s that troublemaker Gatto.”
Mentally, Dodie reviewed her image of Joe Gatto, a CT operator forty-five miles north. For a moment her enthusiasm dwindled. Then she shook her head decisively.
“Well, what difference does that make?” she demanded. “Just because he’s called the meeting doesn’t mean he’ll run the show.”
“A loudmouth, a guy who likes the sound of his own voice,” Vern summarized dispassionately. “Aside from that, he’s got a chip on his shoulder a mile wide. He’s probably real glad he’s finally got someone else to blame for his lousy operation.”
Dodie had made up her mind.
“All the more reason for us to go,” she announced. “After all, you’re not sure that Gatto is behind this meeting. And even if he is, there’ll be plenty of people who honestly want to know what to do.”
“I suppose so,” Vern said unenthusiastically. “Let’s see. It’s on Tuesday.”
“Then that’s settled. We’re going.”
Vern let the paper fall with a gesture of defeat. “All right. I hate to say it, but even if it is a waste of time, we don’t have anything better to do with ourselves.”
