Murder to Go

by Emma Lathen

  He glanced at his companion. Hedstrom, in the window seat, was working his way through lunch in silence. He might be analyzing his interview with the Akerses, particularly with reference to Iris Young. Or again, he might be planning his strategy with Pelham Browne.

  The plane began to circle. Thatcher rejected a pseudo pastry and told himself that Frank Hedstrom might well be pondering the subject of precooked food. Surely the expert in him must be roused by what Eastern Airlines had the effrontery to offer its passengers.

  Reminding himself that he really should sample Chicken Tonight’s menu one of these days, Thatcher appraised Hedstrom. What kind of man was he? Robichaux’s answer, he recalled, was simple: a money-maker.

  Thatcher leaned back, closing his eyes against a demented smile from the stewardess. What did this morning add to Robichaux’s summation? Hedstrom was straightforward—and devious. Witness his handling of the Akerses, and his tactics with Pelham Browne. That guileless look of youth was deceiving—no doubt about that. At the moment, for instance, Thatcher would not willingly go bail for what Hedstrom was thinking as he gazed down at the dense cloud cover.

  And that, Thatcher reflected, was one reason to let himself get lassoed into bizarre expeditions.

  “Are we bearding Browne at the poultry plant?” he inquired as they were taxiing into the landing area.

  Hedstrom was assembling his belongings. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Browne’s got an efficient manager running the show. He doesn’t spend much time on it himself.”

  One question answered, Thatcher told himself. Pelham Browne had not struck him as a man who kept his nose to the grindstone. And Frank Hedstrom knew it, and knew about that efficient manager as well.

  If nothing else, Frank Hedstrom was a man who valued efficiency. This trip proved it. Hedstrom’s office could deal with jump starts, to judge from the smoothness with which transport had been arranged at two airports. Within a commendably short time after touchdown, Thatcher and Hedstrom were heading back to the Eastern Shore in a chauffeur-driven limousine.

  Hedstrom decided he had been incomplete. “Browne handles the over-all business,” he said to Thatcher. “His manager supervises the actual poultry production. So Browne does most of his work out of his own house. I think that’s probably the best place to catch him.”

  “I see,” said Thatcher. And in a very short time he did. Journey’s end, Pelham Browne’s home, was nothing like Hedstrom’s sprawling new country place, some thirty miles farther south. Nor did it suggest work, in the strict sense of the word.

  The chauffeur swung off the highway to a dirt road, then onto grounds protected by cross-barred white fencing. Respectfully the car crept up a tree-lined alley to a Southern Georgian mansion, complete with antebellum columns. The circular lawn before the house was manicured within an inch of its life, but, beyond the driveway, field grass stretched down to the bay.

  Stepping out of the car, Thatcher took a closer look at Pelham Browne’s working quarters. There were hitching posts in the driveway, careful rattan chairs on the veranda, and two well-placed magnolia trees at the cutoff to the stables. There was a Land Rover pulled alongside the house.

  There was also a trimly uniformed maid at the door. Before she could announce them, Browne himself came hurrying down the stairs. He did not seem ruffled by their presence.

  “Come on in!” he shouted athletically as he swung himself around the newel post, every inch the gentleman farmer. His bulky frame had been crammed into trim jodhpurs; his weatherbeaten face emerged from a bright-red turtleneck. In his hand he carried a riding crop and a green tweed jacket.

  “Glad you dropped by,” he said vaguely. “But you’re too late, you know.”

  Hedstrom showed no emotion as they were ushered toward the rear of the house. “I’m sorry about that,” he said easily, “but it never hurts to talk things over.”

  Had some competitor nipped in and secured the future output of Browne’s poultry operation? If so, it was quick work. Thatcher reminded himself to have a talk with the Sloan’s recruitment officer. Why, he would ask, are all the bright young men going into chicken franchises while we get left with the dummies?

  He had drawn the wrong conclusion. He discovered his mistake when a figure rose from a chair on the sun porch. It was Morgan Ogilvie.

  “Morgan and I just got back,” Browne explained during the handshaking. “He’s waiting for Margo to be through in the stables. But it’s all over. The board voted against you.”

  “The board?” When Frank Hedstrom wrote off a project, he did so completely. “Oh! Southeastern!”

  Browne was indignant. “Well, what did you think I was talking about? The vote was nine to one, if you want to know. Morgan stayed with you right to the bitter end.”

  “That’s nice.” Hedstrom was clearly marking time; he had been thrown off balance by the unexpected reminder of the merger. Now he tried to look appreciative. “You did more than I had any reason to expect, Ogilvie. Your board must have been pretty leery of me already. Sweeney’s murder must have been the finishing touch.”

  “You can say that again!” Pelham Browne was relieved by Hedstrom’s attitude. “Most of our directors thought the vote was just a formality. Even Morgan couldn’t find a word to say in favor of the merger. As for me,” he took a deep breath and looked his guest in the eye, “I say, business is business! You may as well know that I told them that I wasn’t too happy at being tied up with Chicken Tonight already. That I’ve got too much riding on you as it is.”

  Morgan Ogilvie stirred unhappily. He was not used to these artless disclosures about board discussions. “Pel is leaning over backward to give you a picture of his position. Actually he did not speak up until after the vote had been taken. And I think that’s all that would really interest you about our meeting. In fact, it did turn into a mere formality. I’m sincerely sorry about this, Hedstrom. I think we might have worked well together.”

  Thatcher was amused to see that, for one brief moment, Hedstrom’s composure threatened to crack. Buying out Southeastern Insurance had never, in the planning of Frank Hedstrom and Ted Young, entailed working with Morgan Ogilvie. Thatcher had already heard Young’s views on the subject of the archaic management which had made Southeastern ripe for the plucking. A modest pension and a dignified early retirement would have been more like it. Frank Hedstrom escaped the need to frame a diplomatic reply.

  “I would have said it before the vote, if I’d had to,” Browne said stubbornly.

  “I don’t blame you.” Hedstrom was eager to develop the theme. “This is no time for a merger. But I hope I can make you feel better about your contract with Chicken Tonight. Really, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  Browne was openly alarmed.

  “The contract? Look, you’ve got almost four weeks left to go. At a rate of thirty thousand birds. It’s all cut and dried.”

  “Not that contract.”

  “Then what contract?”

  Morgan Ogilvie cleared his throat loudly. He seemed relieved at the change of subject. Attempts to save Browne from the results of his own rough-edged candor had been made and had failed. Now Ogilvie could leave the field with honor.

  “You won’t need me for this,” he said rising, “and I’m anxious to get home. So, if you don’t mind, Pel, I’ll go down to the stables and see what’s keeping Margo.”

  Pelham Browne’s slightly protuberant eyes rolled in entreaty, but Ogilvie was adamant. Pausing only for brisk farewells, he departed.

  “I’ve got to hand it to Ogilvie,” Browne began rapidly, all innocent admiration, “the way he voted today. Of course, it didn’t do any good. Nothing could. But everyone noticed. Hell, his uncle told him he was crazy to be so loyal to you. Said that in business, when someone’s in a mess, the healthy thing is to put distance between you and him. That’s old Buell Ogilvie, his uncle,” Browne concluded in a doomed attempt to spark genealogical interest.

  “I came to ask you
about a six-month contract,” Hedstrom announced remorselessly.

  Browne shied. “Oh, now, I don’t know about that.”

  “That would be six months starting from the termination date of the contract we’ve got now,” Hedstrom continued without pause. “It would mean a guaranteed market for your total output.”

  “I thought you were supposed to be in trouble,” Browne said sullenly. “And here you are, offering better terms than anyone else in the business. It sounds fishy to me. What protection have I got?”

  “That’s why I asked Thatcher to come with me. I thought you’d like to know that the Sloan is financing me.” A half-smile twisted Hedstrom’s lips. “That means that the money is there.”

  Pelham Browne regarded Thatcher doubtfully. Again Thatcher took up his cue. He recited the terms of the Sloan’s loan agreement, adding that Hedstrom had already signed an amendment restricting Chicken Tonight to the franchise business. Its outlays were limited to those necessary for normal operations. Surely Mr. Browne must see that poultry purchases would rank high on the list of such outlays.

  “It sounds all right.” Presumably Browne was in a quandary. The only visible sign was a look of sadness.

  Frank Hedstrom started to play his fish.

  “Of course,” he said slowly, “I know that there are other things you can do. You don’t have to stay tied up with Chicken Tonight. You’ll want to think about this from your point of view. Maybe you’d like to try working with some other franchise outfit. Naturally, this isn’t a very good time to approach them. With chicken sales off, they’re taking a beating on the suppliers they’ve already got. So maybe that isn’t a very good idea. Then there are the city markets. You’ve got a big layout here. You might have to hustle a bit. But I know you wouldn’t mind that. Even if you couldn’t unload entirely in one place, you’ve got an ideal location. By pressing a little, you could cover New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington. Hell, you might even be able to take in Boston. On the other hand, you might not like the idea of heading into November without a sure customer.”

  If Pelham Browne had been sad at the beginning of this cunning speech, he was looking downright suicidal by its end. For a man averse to “hustling a bit,” the program Hedstrom unfolded was anathema. Even more important, Browne liked to know where his income was coming from. Wildly, he bleated about other possibilities.

  Nothing loath, Hedstrom launched into a systematic review of the disadvantages attaching to a Browne alliance with any big canner or freezer. By the time he finished (with pressed-chicken-breast rolls), Browne had been bludgeoned into regarding Chicken Tonight as his one salvation.

  “But look here, this six-months business. I don’t go for that!” Peevishly he swished his crop against a boot.

  The gesture gave Thatcher a clue to at least one of Browne’s dilemmas. Pelham Browne thought he was dealing with a man on the way out, a man struggling for survival. Under the circumstances, any business done should be a benefit conferred by Browne. He wanted to crack the whip, but he had hoped for at least some cooperation from his victim. He wasn’t getting it.

  “What don’t you like about six months, Mr. Browne?” Thatcher asked kindly.

  “Anything can happen to the market. Poultry prices might shoot up.”

  “Naturally, we’ve included a sliding scale,” Hedstrom said briskly. “It’s tied to market prices on the East Coast. That way, you’re protected against any rises. And, let me say it for you, we’re protected against drops.”

  “Hell, prices can’t go lower. They’ve got no place to go to. Do you know,” Browne said hotly, turning to Thatcher, “that even before this whole poisoning mess started, you could buy a beautiful bird, over three pounds, for under a dollar in any supermarket? When steak’s selling for around a dollar-fifty a pound?”

  Browne leaned back, defying Thatcher to cope with the shock of this revelation. Since broilers could be sold cheaply only because of giant producers like Browne—and, conversely, giants could sell their huge output only at low prices—Thatcher was shocked all right, if not the way Browne intended. Did this highly educated simpleton understand the amount of breeding effort behind today’s hybrid broiler? Did he know it constituted a major technical breakthrough? Did he realize that his day-old chicks arrived complete with metabolism designed to work overtime for fifty-six days, from the first peck through the shell to the last beautiful moment?

  Or, more probably, was this Abercrombie-Fitch rustic merely trying to allay suspicion?

  If so, Thatcher wanted to know what that suspicion was. He glanced over to see if Hedstrom shared his reaction. But the younger man was about to land his catch.

  Hedstrom had produced two copies of a contract. He was directing Browne’s fretful attention to several clauses. Patiently, question after question was answered. Then, setting a good example, Hedstrom produced a pen from his breast pocket almost casually.

  Mesmerized, Browne followed suit. His pen was actually hovering over the signature line when he looked up.

  “And after the six months? What happens then?” he asked.

  Hedstrom was thrown off stride. His energies were directed toward staying alive for six months. He had not really looked beyond.

  “What do you mean?” He stared at Browne. “More contracts and more chickens, I suppose. You mean, now you want a longer contract?”

  “No.” Browne paused to summon resolution. “I heard you were planning to go into broiler production yourself,” he blurted. “So, what if everything pans out? What if you live down this Sweeney mess? Do I get the boot then?”

  Once the problem became apparent, Hedstrom addressed himself to it wholeheartedly. He did not make the error of looking at pen or contract. He did not rush into improbable denials.

  “Sure, I’ve been thinking about it,” he admitted seriously. “I was meaning to talk to you, if we got the idea off the planning board. But there wasn’t any sense talking when the roof fell in on me. I won’t be doing anything like that for a year at least now.”

  “And then the boot?” Browne pressed.

  Hedstrom’s air of confusion was, in Thatcher’s opinion, a work of art.

  “The boot?” Comprehension was allowed to dawn. “For God’s sake! What do you think I plan to do? Buy a hundred thousand day-old chicks and try to hand-raise them? Ask Joanie to get out the medicine dropper? I was thinking of amalgamating with you! Then, if it worked out, we could think about taking over broiler outfits in other sections of the country. We’d be integrated right down the line!”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me this before?” Browne demanded, his ready color rising.

  “It doesn’t seem like a very good time to talk to you about mergers with Chicken Tonight.” Hedstrom was neatly sarcastic. “You told us yourself today how you feel about that. Would you have raised the subject in my place?”

  He’ll have Browne apologizing before he’s done, Thatcher thought to himself.

  And that was exactly what Frank Hedstrom did. Having thrown Pelham Browne into confusion, he adopted the air of a man resentful at having honest intentions misinterpreted. He demanded to know how long Browne had distrusted him. How long had suspicion been tainting their relations?

  “So that was why you were avoiding me at the club!” he exclaimed.

  He informed Browne that a little openness on Browne’s part would have cleared up this misunderstanding at inception. Then he softened. He generously conceded that Browne had some cause for concern. Particularly if he could trust his sources of information. Hedstrom even admitted that if he had been in Browne’s shoes, then maybe . . .

  Frank Hedstrom got more than Browne’s apology. By the time he left, he also had a contract duly signed “Pelham Caldwell Browne.”

  “But there’s one thing I didn’t get,” Hedstrom observed as they were flying back to New York. “I didn’t get the name of his source.”

  “Does that worry you?” Thatcher asked.

  “It sure does!
The whole idea of Chicken Tonight going into broiler production was under wraps. Nobody outside our head office should have known about it.”

  Thatcher reminded him that Wall Street made a living out of picking up these snippets of news. Tom Robichaux might well know of Hedstrom’s plans. Even Walter Bowman might have heard something.

  “I doubt it. Your people pick up things when a move is made, not before. This was still in the casual conversation stage. And I don’t have anybody in my office who’s making a sideline of peddling information.” Hedstrom was very positive. Then he relaxed enough to add, “I’m not big enough yet. Give me another two or three years, and I will have someone.”

  Thatcher encouraged this realism. “Then I don’t think you have very far to look for a source, do you? Ogilvie and Browne seem to live in each other’s pocket. And Ogilvie has just subjected your company to a very close scrutiny. He probably found out about your plans. After all, Southeastern had a vital interest in your future activities because of the merger.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Hedstrom discontentedly. “But I’m not sure. Either Ogilvie was picking up more information about Chicken Tonight than I ever thought or Browne has got better contacts than you’d expect.”

  Now was Thatcher’s moment.

  “Tell me, has Browne always played this game of being a rough diamond who’s not up to subtlety? I found all that innocence about the retail price of broilers a little excessive.”

  “The price of chicken is a specific fact,” Hedstrom said simply. “Browne doesn’t know many.”

  Thatcher was unconvinced. “And he hasn’t deduced that his way of life on the Eastern Shore is dependent on that fact?”

  “I doubt it. Of course, he plays other games too. All that business with his clothes, for instance.”

  “You mean red turtlenecks?” Thatcher’s previous view of Pelham Browne had been at the Calvert Hunt Club, where he had been rumpled but formally attired.

  “You haven’t seen the half of it,” Hedstrom replied. “He comes up to conferences in New York in work shoes and tweeds. Hell, once he was wearing a cap.” A reminiscent chuckle was forced from Hedstrom. “Ted went wild about that cap, for some reason. And Ogilvie tells me he turns up at the clubhouse at the Garden State Race Track in plaids that have to be seen to be believed. But, like you said, it’s a game. It’s a funny way to show that he went to Princeton, but that’s the way he does it.”