by Emma Lathen
“About the merger! I know that!” Uncle Buell snapped while Ogilvie looked deprecatory. “But that’s ancient history, even if you can’t get it out of your head, Morgan!”
“Well, that’s one of the good things about getting older,” Robichaux confided after Uncle Buell had been led away. “You start outliving some of them—Oh, hello there, Hedstrom. Mrs. Hedstrom—”
To Thatcher’s genuine admiration, Tom Robichaux’s savoir-faire did not falter when the crowd parted to let Ted and Iris Young join them. “Ah, yes,” he said meaninglessly. “Well, it all seems to be cut and dried, doesn’t it?”
“Let’s hope so,” Young remarked dully. “I don’t see what good they hope to accomplish. No, we are not giving interviews!”
This last was addressed to a reporter thrusting himself forward.
“Hold it,” said Frank Hedstrom. “Sure, we’ll give you a statement. You can say we’re following the hearings with interest. And, of course, Chicken Tonight not only has nothing to hide . . .”
“Come on, Tom,” said Thatcher, suddenly oppressed.
Robichaux showed no inclination to linger in the vicinity of Iris Young. He followed Thatcher back into the hearing room. Mrs. Hedstrom and Mrs. Young, Thatcher noted during his hasty farewells, both wore the fixed painful smiles of political wives.
“And now,” said Mr. Levin, frowning at latecomers, “we’ll proceed to Mr. Frank Hedstrom.”
There was an expectant hush.
“Mr. Hedstrom?” Levin raised his voice and there was an answering hum throughout the room.
“Frank Hedstrom!” called a second man loudly.
Heads at the front table were raised from folders and charts. For the first time, Thatcher located Mr. Denton, eyes bright and watchful as a squirrel’s.
And that large man in the corner, watching with sleepy interest? Johnson? Jackson? A policeman, whatever his name.
He was not the only policeman present.
“Frank Heds—”
“Here!”
The youthful voice from the back of the room cut confidently through the mounting tension. “Sorry to be late. I got caught . . .”
He hurried down the aisle to the front of the room while his wife and the Youngs hovered uncertainly in the doorway until people started making room for them in the last row of seats.
Thatcher was leaning forward. The proceedings he had come to see were beginning.
“Mr. Hedstrom,” Levin began, “you are the president and chief stockholder of Chicken Tonight?”
“I am,” said Hedstrom. But Thatcher gave him full marks for a sensitive ear. He had flicked a look toward Young at Levin’s unusual identification.
Mr. Levin consulted a note. “I wonder, Mr. Hedstrom, if you would tell us something about your background.”
“My background?” Hedstrom repeated blankly. His lawyers, in the front row, stirred.
“Your business background, of course,” Mr. Levin said encouragingly.
After hesitating, Hedstrom complied with a brief outline of his career, from the first take-out restaurant in Oak Park, Illinois, to the expansion that had culminated in a nationwide chain. His voice remained steady.
“That’s word for word from his publicity releases,” Robichaux said.
“I know,” said Thatcher absently.
“Fine, fine,” said Mr. Levin, not sounding as if it were fine at all. “Now just a few additional points, Mr. Hedstrom . . .”
He then put Hedstrom through a series of questions about the organizational structure of Chicken Tonight, its financial situation and current prospects, that would not have disgraced a Wall Street banker.
Thatcher wondered how many spectators could sense Mr. Levin’s basic unfamiliarity with the terms he was using so fluently. Not many, he thought, glancing around. It was the human confrontation that captured attention.
Frank Hedstrom passed rapidly from wariness to hostility.
“I don’t think that’s a question I should be asked,” he protested to a query about personal finances.
“Of course,” Mr. Levin soothed, “if you do not wish to cooperate—”
“Dammit, I am cooperating!” Hedstrom exploded.
Abruptly, proceedings were interrupted by a conference at the front of the room between Hedstrom and his lawyers.
“At least things are livening up,” Robichaux observed. “Still, those are strange questions. For the Public Health, that is.”
He was going to hear stranger questions.
The exchange between Levin and Hedstrom resumed, with Hedstrom barely able to control his temper.
“No,” he finally snarled. “Chicken Tonight was not in financial difficulties! It has never been in financial difficulties! It is not now in financial difficulties!”
“There’s an optimist for you,” commented Robichaux.
“Thank you, Mr. Hedstrom. Next, Mr. Theodore Young, please.”
Young walked up the aisle, paused for a whispered word that drew a grin from Hedstrom, then composedly proceeded. He was confident, Thatcher thought, because he had all the details at his fingertips.
The question, when it came, was not what he had expected. “Mr. Young, what is your precise official title at Chicken Tonight?”
“Senior vice-president,” said Young, wondering what was coming.
“And would you please describe to us your exact duties?” Mr. Levin sounded disingenuous.
He continued to be patient as Ted Young, frowning, described an array of duties far too extensive for any single man or job. Then Levin paraphrased. “I see. In reality, you are Mr. Hedstrom’s assistant, aren’t you?”
Thatcher was happy not to be sitting next to Iris Young.
“That’s one way to put it,” said Young, reddening slightly. Then, glancing to the back of the room, he added, “In a way, almost everybody at Chicken Tonight is an assistant—to Mr. Hedstrom.”
“Yes indeed,” said Mr. Levin, dismissing the comment. “Now, in connection with your responsibilities in personnel training, I understand that you frequently give courses to introduce new methods when, for example, new cost-cutting techniques are begun?”
“I do,” said Young, through stiff lips. He was not the only one in the room recalling that training course in Trenton with Clyde Sweeney.
For another ten minutes, Levin conducted Young through the labyrinth of Chicken Tonight. Whether by accident or by design, one unmistakable theme emerged: there was nothing at Chicken Tonight, from poultry purchases to truck deliveries, in which Young did not take a hand.
And, somehow, Mr. Levin managed to make that sound very incriminating.
Young was floundering when Levin indicated that he was satisfied. Mr. Levin himself was showing signs of fatigue. First he sipped a glass of water. Then he coughed unconvincingly once or twice. Finally he bent down for a whispered colloquy with his colleagues. As a result, two things happened simultaneously: the Public Health sent in Mr. Denton as pinch hitter and the clerk called the next witness:
“Mr. Thomas Robichaux.”
Once his initial gobbling was over, Robichaux proved a seasoned and responsive witness. Due, Thatcher had no doubt, to the body of experience accumulated in one divorce court or another. He admitted that he was a partner of Robichaux & Devane, investment bankers. He further admitted that Robichaux & Devane had been party to negotiations aimed at promoting a merger between his client, Southeastern Insurance, and Chicken Tonight.
In fact, Robichaux had barely hit his stride, and was leaning back comfortably waiting for more, when Mr. Denton said quietly, “Thank you very much. Next. Mr. Morgan Ogilvie.”
Ogilvie was looking harassed. Small wonder, Thatcher reflected. The combination of Uncle Buell, on the one hand, and the random-shot pattern of the Public Health, on the other, was enough to perplex less conventional men.
Pelham Browne, he saw from the corner of his eye, was goggling.
Ogilvie identified himself as executive vice-president of Southeast
ern Insurance Company, of Philadelphia, and agreed that the firm had once contemplated merging with Chicken Tonight.
“Unfortunately,” Ogilvie offered, unsolicited, “the merger came to nothing. Due, let me hasten to add, to purely . . . er . . . technical financial considerations. We still regard Chicken Tonight as an outstanding firm, one which has conducted its business with uniquely high standards . . .”
A snort from the front row spoiled his effect.
“Yes indeed,” said Mr. Denton, consulting notes more attentively than Mr. Levin had done. “Now, perhaps we could go back, Mr. Ogilvie, to your investigations of Chicken Tonight during the proposed merger. Could you tell us . . .?”
Like Frank Hedstrom, and Ted Young before him, Morgan Ogilvie was not completely happy with the line of questioning.
“Tell you? Well, let me see . . . I’m not sure . . . When Robichaux and Devane broached the possibility of the Chicken Tonight merger, we felt we had to undertake a thorough investigation—as we knew very little about the firm.”
“What did that investigation reveal?” Mr. Denton had pounced, sounding rather like Uncle Buell.
Ogilvie was firm. “We assured ourselves that Chicken Tonight was an opportunity not to be missed. A first-rate organization. Not only was it an excellent financial prospect, it was an exceptionally up-to-date business operation.”
He sounded stubborn, and Robichaux leaned over. “Sticks to his guns,” he whispered. “You have to hand it to him.”
Mr. Denton too seemed impressed by Ogilvie’s fervor in the cause of Chicken Tonight.
“And no one was more surprised than you, then, when Chicken Tonight fell victim to the terrible events about which I need not remind you?”
“I was very surprised indeed,” said Morgan Ogilvie.
“And nothing uncovered by your investigation hinted at laxity or negligence?”
Mr. Denton might have thought that Morgan Ogilvie was, for some reason, protesting too much.
“On the contrary.” Ogilvie’s voice rang with sincerity. “I was very much impressed by their exceptionally rigorous security methods.”
“Oh, you were?” said Mr. Denton. “Well, thank you, Mr. Ogilvie.”
With the air of a man satisfied by his own performance, Ogilvie rejoined Uncle Buell, who had, Thatcher saw over intervening heads, quite a lot to say.
By now, the Public Health had baffled everybody present. There must be a pattern to these hit-or-miss questions, but it was a pattern that was eluding almost everyone. As a result, there was a good deal of informal talk, curious in most areas, anxious in some. Mr. Denton smiled benevolently at the assembly and, in a voice pregnant with significance, said, “Next we will be calling Mr. Giles Bly!”
“And who the hell is Giles Bly?” Robichaux demanded indignantly.
Thatcher was genuinely curious. “You mean you don’t remember him?”
“Why should I?”
“Listen!”
“Mr. Bly, you are the senior partner of Bly Associates, are you not?”
“I am,” said Mr. Bly with pride. He went on to describe Bly Associates as a firm of industrial consultants. This, Thatcher knew, was euphemism with a vengeance. Bly Associates was a firm of industrial detectives. Their customers wanted information; they provided it.
“. . . an analysis of Chicken Tonight, for purposes of determining whether a merger was in the best interest,” Mr. Bly read.
Mr. Denton was also consulting documentation.
“Fine,” he said. “Now, Mr. Bly, we would like to hear about the areas of Chicken Tonight to which you paid particular attention.”
Mr. Bly shot a cuff and delivered a speech about thoroughgoing study of the whole panorama. Bly Associates were well known—
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Denton hastily. “But surely you addressed more than usual attention to certain areas, in view of the special needs of your client.”
Mr. Bly looked wise. When it came to mergers, he confided, the financial structure came first. “We want to be absolutely sure that financial resources exist.”
“And?” Mr. Denton prodded.
“And,” said Mr. Bly, “operating procedures. We ascertain if, for example, Chicken Tonight is a stable business with a real future.” He beamed at the thought. “That’s one thing we’re very very careful about.”
Mr. Denton was nodding frenetically. “I see,” he said, taking a turn around the table.
“And, Mr. Bly, what did you determine about Chicken Tonight?”
Mr. Bly might have been reporting to a client. “Our survey revealed that Chicken Tonight is a well-managed, stable firm. It has excellent internal controls, a more than adequate research and development program, and exceptionally promising growth potential. After long consideration, Bly Associates judged it to be an excellent partner in any proposed merger.”
The Chicken Tonight franchisees buzzed happily. Not so Mr. Denton. He rocked back on his heels and contemplated Mr. Bly.
“That’s very interesting, Mr. Bly. But perhaps you can explain the grounds for your conclusion in everyday language. Those of us who aren’t as expert as you find it astonishing that this paragon of a company should have become involved in poisoning and a financial crisis that destroyed all hopes of merger—so soon after your thorough investigation.”
Professional pride struggled with discretion in Bly’s breast. Then, as Thatcher had hoped, he bit.
“We had plenty of grounds for our conclusions,” he retorted hotly. “We gave Chicken Tonight the full treatment.”
Mr. Denton was outdoing himself. “Er, what exactly is the full treatment, in layman’s terms?”
Mr. Bly was unconscious of his audience. The audience, however, hung on every word.
“I had men at their franchises,” he rapped out. “I had men in the warehouses. I knew every machine they bought. They didn’t hire anybody or fire anybody that I didn’t know all about. Listen, there are guys at Chicken Tonight who haven’t told their wives they’re going to quit—and I can give you their name, rank and serial number.”
Mr. Denton was purring now. “Very impressive,” he said. “You must have compiled volumes of data.”
“You’re damned right I did!” Bly replied. “When I tell a client something, I back it up with cold, hard facts. If I say a cost-cutting program works—I can show him the personnel files on the guys who got bounced, and just how much salary is being saved. I can—”
Mr. Denton’s voice had changed. “You studied cost-cutting in Trenton, didn’t you? You got data on discharged truck drivers, didn’t you? You found out about Clyde Sweeney, didn’t you?”
If Mr. Denton had seen the Promised Land, Mr. Bly had seen something else. “But—” he began a protest, then broke off. Helplessly he searched for one face in the audience.
Mr. Denton was remorseless.
“Do you want to tell us to whom you passed this information, Mr. Bly? Who learned about Clyde Sweeney—from you?”
His answer came in an unexpected form. Suddenly there was a confused scuffle in one corner of the room. On all sides, people rose, craning to see. They were too late. The side door slammed behind a frantic, hurrying figure.
Once again an elderly voice took charge.
“Always knew he was a damned fool,” said Buell Ogilvie bitterly.
Thatcher was inclined to agree.
CHAPTER 23
TAKE A DISJOINTED TAIL
“MORGAN OGILVIE, eh?” Tom Robichaux growled indignantly. “So he’s the one responsible for all this!” He examined his surroundings with burning reproach.
Thatcher’s reply was diplomacy itself. “Yes, it was Ogilvie who first hired Clyde Sweeney to poison chicken Mexicali and then murdered him.”
This was not what was exercising Tom, as Thatcher knew all too well. It was a bare two hours since Morgan Ogilvie’s dramatic exodus from the Public Health hearing. But in that brief period his earlier crimes had been eclipsed, at least in Robichaux’s opinion, by subsequent a
trocities.
Ogilvie’s flight had left the hearing in pandemonium. Mr. Samuel B. Levin had pounded his gavel, the press had streaked for telephones, bailiffs had arrived from nowhere to bar the doors. Women had screamed. The turmoil had continued unabated until word filtered back that Morgan Ogilvie had been arrested in the parking lot. Thereupon Mr. Levin wisely adjourned the hearing for a week. Thatcher and Frank Hedstrom paused only long enough to thank the elated Mr. Denton. Then the whole party had strolled out in high spirits.
The festive mood had dissipated rapidly when they learned the consequences of Morgan Ogilvie’s abortive escape. He had seized Frank Hedstrom’s car and sped into the arms of the waiting police. More precisely, he had crashed into the Sloan’s limousine.
“I can have them both ready to roll by seven-thirty or eight,” the garage man had said uncompromisingly. “Not a minute sooner.”
Everybody had huddled deeper into his collar. An icy rain was falling, driven by winds of gale force. The two courses open to them were unappealing. They could commandeer transport from the Chicken Tonight warehouse in Trenton and go home. But that would leave four cars out of place. Alternatively, they could endure several dreary hours and retrieve their cars.
Two factors influenced the final decision. Vern and Dodie Akers, hearing of the predicament, offered hospitality in Willoughby’s own Chicken Tonight.
And John Thatcher remembered that seven-thirty would hear the opening guns of the Trinkam Anniversary Celebration. In the chair would be George C. Lancer, chairman of the board; in the wings would be personnel from the Parke-Bernet Galleries standing guard over the Table on Which Washington Had Drafted His Farewell Address; and in the offing would be speeches, sentiment and, inevitably, hurt feelings. At first the resentments would be institutional. The Accounting Department would feel slighted. It always did and, for that matter, it always was. The Investment Division would know that it had been shouldered aside by the Trust Division. But, as time and liquor flowed on, the personal element would intrude. Someone would imply that a file clerk was no better than she should be. The girl would threaten to resign. Someone else would suggest that a stenographer was still a virgin. She would threaten to burn the whole bank down. Several junior trust officers would act in a manner unworthy of their high calling—God willing, with secretaries other than their own.
