Murder to Go

by Emma Lathen

  Out of the mouths of babes. Or drunks, Thatcher amended ruefully. Because Browne’s whisky-powered insight hit the nail on the head. They could discuss Clyde Sweeney disinterestedly. What was he but a greedy fool, hired for dirty work and possibly murdered for his stupidity? His life, and now his death, had inconvenienced, if not endangered, everyone in the room, but in the larger sense the Clyde Sweeneys of the world did not matter.

  No, the ghost in the woodwork of Hedstrom’s expensive new home was not Clyde Sweeney. It was the man behind him. The man who gave him money to introduce poison into Chicken Tonight’s deliveries. The man who wanted to destroy Chicken Tonight. The man who had taken a scarf . . .

  Thatcher braked his overactive imagination.

  “It is my opinion,” Ogilvie was saying with gravity, “that Sweeney must have come down here to Maryland in order to speak to you, Hedstrom.”

  Hedstrom looked startled. Ted Young certainly was. “What?” Ted exclaimed blankly. “What did you say?”

  Ogilvie was no Tom Robichaux. He hastened to eliminate the flavor of accusation from his words. “No, I mean that he probably came down here to give himself up. He probably thought that you were the right man to approach.”

  Tom Robichaux did not help him much.

  “Why not go to the nearest police station?” he asked, reasonably enough. “That’s what I would do. Unless, of course, the fellow just wanted to do a little traveling before he was put away.”

  Thatcher beat down the temptation to enlarge upon his sudden vision of Robichaux as errant fugitive-tourist.

  “You’d be surprised at how stupid some of these people can be,” Ogilvie retorted.

  “The problem,” Thatcher thought aloud, “is to determine the exact form their stupidity takes.”

  Ogilvie, together with Hedstrom and Young, looked at him curiously, but Thatcher was not inclined to pursue the issue. He did not intend to develop a line of thought that would inevitably culminate in another accusation, veiled or not. There were many reasons for Clyde Sweeney to descend upon the Eastern Shore, Ogilvie’s implausible theory apart.

  There was blackmail, for example. There was information to sell. There was help to solicit. There was even pure chance.

  “Well, well,” Ogilvie said heavily. “The whole situation is extremely unfortunate.”

  A snort from Pelham Browne did not deflect him.

  “I just wanted to tell you personally how distressed I am, Hedstrom. And Mrs. Ogilvie is, as well. . . .”

  As Ogilvie got going on a lofty statement with overtones of condolence, Thatcher pondered the many varieties of tactlessness. No doubt, Ogilvie’s intentions were good. He explicitly expressed his profound hope that this latest development would not exacerbate the Chicken Tonight crisis. He promised to use his best offices to insure decorous police behavior, citing local politicians and civic pull. He urged everybody to remain optimistic and promised unspecified improvements.

  Under the circumstances, Thatcher decided, good intentions were not enough. Ogilvie’s benevolence was a mistake. It suggested Frank Hedstrom needed help—and badly.

  Of course, anybody who chose to make courtesy calls accompanied by Pelham Browne could not be thin-skinned. Unless, Thatcher thought, observing Browne’s glassy eyes, Browne had simply foisted himself on Ogilvie. On the whole, that seemed more probable. It presented, however, another small puzzle: why had Browne come?

  Ogilvie at last had risen to leave. “. . . after the uproar dies down. And I still think that Chicken Tonight has a great future. I don’t see any reason why this should hurt you a bit.”

  It took time and effort to transport Pelham Browne out to the car and to convince him that Morgan Ogilvie should do the driving.

  Tom Robichaux, partner of Robichaux & Devane, considered his departing client and favored the world with a professional opinion.

  “Trouble with Ogilvie is that he won’t face facts,” he rumbled over his third drink. “Don’t want to offend you, Hedstrom, but—”

  Frank Hedstrom did believe in facing facts. Without resentment, he finished Robichaux’s sentence for him.

  “But the survival of Chicken Tonight looks pretty shaky right now. Any idiot can see that.”

  “We’ll pull through,” said Ted Young from the bar.

  Just then the ladies rejoined them. Under cover of the desultory conversation that ensued, Robichaux transmitted a personal opinion to Thatcher.

  “And we’ve only got to put in, let’s see”—he peered at his Accutron—“twelve more hours in this hellhole. What do you say to that?”

  “What is there to say?” Thatcher replied. “Except amen!”

  CHAPTER 14

  STEAM IN DOUBLE BOILER

  BUT FATE had yet another blow in store for Tom Robichaux, to whom the dinner hour was sacred.

  “We’re going to have to put dinner back a couple of hours,” Mrs. Hedstrom announced uncompromisingly.

  “I’m getting a little hungry, believe it or not,” said Hedstrom, voicing the sentiments of every man in the room.

  Joan Hedstrom was unsurprised. Like every wife, she knew that no catastrophe in the world could diminish a husband’s need for three large meals each day.

  “Veronica,” she continued “is upset.”

  “That’s torn it,” muttered Robichaux, who knew what this meant.

  She ignored him. “The police have been in the kitchen all afternoon.”

  “Probably stuffing themselves,” Robichaux said resentfully.

  Mrs. Hedstrom shouldered her domestic obligations. “Would anybody,” she asked, “like some crackers?”

  “I think,” said Robichaux with considerable dignity, “that I’ll go upstairs and rest before dinner, if you don’t mind.”

  Thatcher was not unsympathetic to Tom’s plight. He was hungry himself. But he was, in many ways, a more prudent man than Robichaux. He delayed his own departure until the appearance of a dish of saltines.

  “I’ve brought you something to eat,” he called out as he entered their suite. “Dinner’s coming in an hour and a half, according to Mrs. Hedstrom.”

  Robichaux, mouth full, tried to make the best of things. “Well, that means it won’t be a TV dinner, at least.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. Veronica, I gather, is an excellent cook,” said Thatcher.

  He had gone too far.

  “No woman,” said Robichaux, disappearing into the bathroom, “really knows how to cook.” There had been Alphonses, Pierres and Étiennes in the Robichaux kitchens to match the Amandas, Glorias and Brendas in the drawing room.

  “Well, I’m going to while away this interval with alcohol,” said Thatcher, turning to leave. “Sure you won’t join us?”

  Robichaux spoke from the nursery bathroom. Thatcher could distinguish only four words: “. . . own flask . . . tomorrow morning . . .”

  Thatcher grinned to himself. There is, after all, something admirable about a relentlessly hopeful approach to life. Tom was simply rising above momentary discomforts and concentrating upon the coming moment of release, tomorrow morning. With Thatcher it was otherwise. Despite a reasonably optimistic nature, once he found himself inextricably mired in disaster, he developed a certain technical interest in its dimensions. It was this characteristic that steered him downstairs while Robichaux cravenly loitered amidst the spirit of stuffed animals and music-box lamps yet to come.

  Fortunately, Thatcher could not foresee what he was letting himself in for.

  Not that he was foolishly sanguine. Too much was conspiring against that. Modern architecture, for instance.

  The new Hedstrom house, while large, really consisted of one spacious common room and assorted bedrooms, serviced by tiny utility areas. This meant that Thatcher’s alternatives were a function of the construction plans: siege conditions with Robichaux and flask, or fraternization with everybody else. Well, he had opted for the latter and could not complain when he found the entire cast still assembled.

  Frank H
edstrom sprawled in a large chair, legs stretched out. His head was tilted back and he was studying the ceiling. Ted Young was, once again, busy at the bar. Joan Hedstrom had curled up on the sofa and was knitting with demonic rapidity. Iris Young was just switching off the television.

  “Any news?” Thatcher inquired dutifully.

  There was no news, in the hard sense. Police inquiries were continuing, public cooperation was being solicited, but progress was scanty. This had not kept local and national pundits from an orgy of speculation about Clyde Sweeney, about Chicken Tonight and about every personality remotely concerned with either.

  The conversation Thatcher had interrupted was resumed. Not unexpectedly, it centered on Clyde Sweeney. This was the price that Robichaux refused to pay. But, sybarite or no, if Robichaux & Devane instead of the Sloan had twelve million dollars riding on Chicken Tonight, Tom would have led the charge into the living room. Reminding himself to have a brutally frank talk with Maitland in Commercial Credit, Thatcher settled down to listen.

  “No, I don’t like it, Ted,” said Hedstrom.

  “Who does?” Young replied, adjusting his drink. “Naturally the networks are going to harp on the fact that we found the body. Everybody knows about Sweeney and Chicken Tonight.”

  “That’s not what I mean. What I don’t like is that our ideas about Sweeney were all wrong.”

  “Why were they wrong?” Young objected. “We know somebody hired Sweeney to sabotage us. Now somebody has killed Sweeney because the pressure went on. Hell, it’s simple enough! Sweeney got to be too dangerous for the guy who hired him.”

  Hedstrom was shaking his head. “No, that’s not good enough. Think of everything the police over in New Jersey dug up about Sweeney. Sweeney was planning to blow town for just six months. Then he was coming back. He talked about a little easy money. You know what the police told us, Ted. Everybody says Sweeney didn’t know what he was doing—the Akerses, that landlady, and all Sweeney’s cronies.”

  Thatcher, unlike Young, saw what Hedstrom was driving at. Logically, Sweeney’s own ignorance should have protected him from murder.

  “So he was a patsy,” Ted Young retorted. “The brains behind this probably planned to kill him all along.”

  “That doesn’t make sense, Ted,” Hedstrom replied. “Remember, it was a stranger who hired Sweeney. He had to describe himself over the phone. Do you think he was handing out his real name and address? When he was planning to poison two hundred people? Why do you think Sweeney got his final payoff through the mail?”

  Thatcher recalled the registered letter Sweeney had received the day of the poisoning. “Did the police find that it came from John Doe in Chicago?” he asked.

  Hedstrom grinned briefly. “No, John Smith in New York.”

  There was an interval during which the click of knitting needles was the only sound in the room. Then, Hedstrom returned to his argument:

  “And another thing, Ted. You say the brains planned to kill Sweeney all along, so it didn’t make any difference if Sweeney knew who hired him. But that doesn’t hold water. That way, Sweeney would have been killed right off the bat.”

  As Young still looked unconvinced, Thatcher weighed in. “Obviously, the critical point for Sweeney must have come when the headlines told him that he had been tricked into committing a serious crime. That was over a week ago. Whatever Sweeney did to get himself murdered, he should have done then.”

  “OK,” said Young, “maybe you’re right. But what difference does it make when Sweeney got murdered?”

  Frank Hedstrom was suddenly impatient. “For God’s sake,” he snapped. “It makes a lot of difference. Sweeney came down here to contact somebody. He must have had a good reason. As for coming to me to give himself up—” He broke off contemptuously.

  Ted Young could be mulish. “Don’t be too fast, Frank,” he advised. “Ogilvie was nuts, sure. But that doesn’t mean a damned thing. Say Sweeney did come down here to contact you. No, not to turn himself in—that’s crap. But what if Sweeney was ready to spill the beans? About who hired him, and why. Then it was pretty reasonable of him to head down here. He figured he’d tell you everything—at a damned good price. And whoever hired him figured out what he was doing, followed him down, and murdered him.”

  Outdoors, a storm was brewing. Somewhere in the distance there were dim flashes of lightning. Soon there would be thunder.

  “But why should Sweeney try to contact Hedstrom here?” Thatcher objected. “Why not call your New York office? Sweeney was less likely to be spotted in a big city than down here. After all, he was the object of a highly publicized manhunt.”

  Hedstrom supported this view emphatically.

  “Ted’s theory is as bad as Ogilvie’s. How did Sweeney know I was here? The office wasn’t giving out our whereabouts. For that matter, nobody but Angie knew—”

  “Plenty of people knew,” Young insisted.

  “Come on, Ted,” Hedstrom said bluntly. “Sweeney came down here to meet the guy who hired him—and you know it!”

  “What do you mean by that?” Iris Young, who had been listening hungrily, trembled with emotion. Thatcher, like Hedstrom and Young, had forgotten the women. The brittle voice startled him.

  Hedstrom was the first to recover. “I mean something funny’s going on, Iris. That’s what the police think. That’s what we all think. Hell, that’s what we’re trying to cover.”

  “Nobody’s covering anything,” Iris shot back. “We all told the police everything we know!”

  Here Frank Hedstrom made the first obvious mistake that Thatcher had witnessed. He tried to cajole her.

  “Well, we didn’t overburden them with details,” he said with a smile, ready to dismiss the subject. Joan Hedstrom, her eyes on her knitting, seconded his efforts.

  “I know I told Captain Stotz everything I knew about that scarf.”

  With a sharp gesture, Iris Young waved away these attempts to deflect her.

  “Oh, no you don’t!” she rasped. “I see what you’re doing.” She leaned forward, staring at Hedstrom. “Do you think you can get away with this? Or do you think you can justify letting Stotz go after Ted? Why didn’t you do something?”

  “Iris!” Both Joan Hedstrom and Ted were protesting, but Frank Hedstrom, stung, ignored them.

  “How the hell could I do anything?” he asked roughly. “I never knew he met Sweeney in Trenton. Once that came out, there wasn’t anything I could do. God, I went along when he pretended not to recognize Sweeney—”

  “Hey!” Young shouted. “What do you mean, pretended?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Ted,” said Hedstrom almost desperately. “Have it your own way. I didn’t know whether you recognized him or not. I didn’t care.”

  This may have mollified Ted. Iris, however, was derisive.

  “Oh, you’re clever,” she almost crooned at Hedstrom. “First you let Stotz single Ted out. Now you come up with a theory that Sweeney came down here to get in touch with someone. Someone. When are you going to come right out with it? When are you going to tell us you think Ted hired him?”

  Whatever Hedstrom had been expecting, it was not this. For that matter, Thatcher himself was jolted.

  “Iris!” Again the cry of warning from Joan Hedstrom went unheeded.

  “Iris,” said Frank Hedstrom, “have you gone crazy? Why the hell should Ted hire Sweeney?”

  “Oh, sure! I’m crazy. Because I can see what you’re up to. I can see what that rotten little mind of yours is scheming. Well, Frank, you’re the one who’s crazy—crazy like a fox!”

  Iris had gripped the arms of her chair. Her head was thrust forward. The fine-boned face was suddenly pointed, vulpine.

  Ted Young half rose, but Hedstrom waved him back to his chair. “No, let’s hear this out. What am I supposed to be scheming at, Iris?”

  She smiled unpleasantly at him. “You want an excuse to get rid of Ted. You always have. Oh, sure, you make a big thing of being old buddies. But you’re s
cared. Scared rotten! You know Ted’s ready to step into your shoes. And that’s really gotten to you, hasn’t it, Frank? He’s worth ten of you. You know people can see through you these days. You’ve lost the old magic.”

  “Can’t we stop this?” Joan Hedstrom’s placid suggestion was hurled back in her face.

  “No, we can’t!” Iris Young spat.

  Hedstrom muttered something indistinguishable about getting it out of her system, and Iris pounced.

  “Medical advice! From you? Don’t you dare!” She looked briefly at her husband, slumped into white-faced misery. When she went on, her voice was broken. “Ted’s done everything. He’s slaved night and day for you—and for Chicken Tonight. And where do you think you’d be without him? Where? I’ll tell you where. You’d be nowhere—”

  “Iris,” her husband began, but she swept on.

  “And now you’re scheming against him, because you’re scared. Well I’m not standing for it—just you remember that, Frank Hedstrom! You can fool the rest of the world, but you can’t fool me. I’ve known you too long. You’re not using Ted as a scapegoat. Not as long as I’m alive. For all we know, you killed Sweeney yourself! You probably arranged everything! You’re the one—”

  “Iris!” Ted Young finally surged to his feet. “Iris, cut this out!”

  “No!” she screamed. “Don’t you try to stop me, Ted. You’ve got to listen, too. You’ve been brainwashed. You don’t want to see what he’s doing to you.”

  She too leaped to her feet and stood there, swaying almost drunkenly. Dramatically, she pointed at Hedstrom. “He’s be-behind all of the trouble! Can’t you see it? It’s so obvious that it makes me laugh!”

  Then, with terrible emphasis, she did begin to laugh. First it was an actress’s mockery, then it became shrill, uncontrolled. As Young moved swiftly to her side, she broke into painful spasms of coughing. He grasped her shoulders and shook hard. For a moment this had no effect. Then, suddenly, Iris opened her eyes wide and gulped. Intelligence returned. She looked into Ted’s face searchingly. Then she collapsed against his shoulder in tears.