“Speak for yourself, Boyd,” she fired back, not amused.
“Well, he does account for a damn sight more than half our billings,” Lake responded with a wave of the hand.
“But he did accept your proposal for this outdoor sports campaign?” Wolfe, bless his heart, was trying to steer the discussion back on track.
“True,” Sara conceded, “but only after grumbling about it and indulging in his usual nit-picking.”
Lake shrugged. “For him, that performance was actually pretty mild, wouldn’t you say, Rod?”
“Indeed. Mr. Wolfe, Acker Foreman is a legend in the soft drink business; a self-made millionaire from Oklahoma, he’s part Cherokee, or so he claims, which is where the name of the drink comes from. He’s in his late seventies, and he’s eccentric, to say the least. In recent years, he’s become something of a recluse, but the guy’s done damn near everything in his life, including oil wildcatting and construction. He even started an airline in the Southwest back in the forties, which he later sold to one of the big guys and made a fortune. The problem is, he’s also a legend as a tough client, as Sara says. He can be hell to deal with, and he hates to spend money on advertising. As big as his brand is, it’s woefully underadvertised, which we think has hurt it against AmeriCherry. Like every other agency he’s had, we’ve tried to get him to spend more, but he just thinks all ad agencies are reckless and money-hungry. But then, we knew all that about him going in when we got the Cherr-o-key business two years ago.”
“And seeing his major competitor come out with TV spots a lot like the ones he’d already okayed hasn’t improved his disposition any,” Lake offered. He and Mills exchanged a look I couldn’t quite translate.
“Didn’t I see Mr. Foreman’s photograph in one of the newspapers—the Gazette, I believe—last week?”
“You did,” Mills replied, finishing his Scotch. “He and one of his jerky sons were in court testifying. Some guy had brought suit claiming he had come up with a name similar to ‘Cherr-o-key’ for a soft drink years ago, but it was thrown out. It was really a nuisance suit, from the sound of it.”
“How similar to your advertising was the work done for the competitor?” Wolfe asked.
Mills glanced at Sara. “Startlingly,” he said. “Boyd just described our outdoor sports campaign. We had begun shooting the spots when AmeriCherry, they’re the competitors, aired a one-minute commercial that showed a bunch of young men and women playing volleyball while a soft-rock group sang about ‘the AmeriCherry crew—’”
“‘They’re just like me and you,’” Sara sarcastically finished the couplet while Wolfe shuddered at the syntax.
“The lyrics exemplified the spot,” Lake said. “It wasn’t technically a very good piece of work. It looked like it had been thrown together.”
“Hell, of course it was thrown together.” Sara’s face was white. “It had to be to beat us on the air. But it blew our campaign clean out of the water.”
“Might this have been coincidental?” Wolfe asked.
Mills took a deep breath and crossed his long legs. “Unlikely, but conceivable—if this had happened only once. But as you know, there was a second time.”
“This really cinched it,” Lake said, picking up the narrative. “In October, we hit on a sweepstakes idea, we called it the ‘Cherr-o-key Spree.’ Now sweepstakes aren’t exactly original, but this had a spin to it—it put us on the side of the angels, so to speak. Or rather, it would have if it had got off the ground.”
“Just tell the story, Boyd,” Sara grumbled.
“I’m getting to it, this takes time. Like most soft drinks, Cherr-o-key comes in cans, disposable bottles, and returnable bottles. We decided to score points with the environmentalists by making the returnable bottles more attractive to the consumer. Our sweepstakes vehicle was to have been the bottle caps on the returnable bottles only. You know, peel off the cork and win a prize—everything from a deck of playing cards or a case of Cherr-o-key to a new Buick or a trip to Aruba, that kind of thing.
“But,” Lake said, pounding a fist into a fleshy palm, “we were going to make a big deal out of how we were stressing the use of our returnable bottles. And, Cherr-o-key, with much fanfare, was going to contribute a nickel to one of the major environmental organizations for every returnable bottle sold.”
“Did Mr. Foreman like this plan?” Wolfe asked, draining his second beer.
“He was … lukewarm,” Rod Mills said. “I think the idea of coughing up all that cash for both the prizes and the environment hit him in the gut. But we kept stressing how good it would make Cherr-o-key look. With categories like soft drinks, where there’s really no appreciable product difference, you’ve got to work to find an edge.”
“He finally bought the program,” Sara Ryman said, “but it was too late.”
“You’ve got that right,” Lake said, the American slang sounding strange piggy-backed onto his English accent. “Damned if AmeriCherry didn’t come out with a bottle-cap game of its own while we were still on the drawing board—we hadn’t even firmed things up with the environmental group yet. Their bottle caps had pictures of endangered species underneath the cork, and by collecting a full set, one could win prizes similar to the ones we’d planned, and also have a contribution made in their name to a wildlife fund. Needless to say, Foreman killed our campaign. God, he was livid.”
Mills nodded glumly. “He summoned us to his office in Midtown and raised hell in the conference room for an hour. Said if we didn’t find the ‘goddamn leak,’ as he called it, we were finished as his agency. Mr. Wolfe, we know there’s a leak, but we haven’t been able to find it. That’s why we’re here.”
“Yet Mr. Foreman let you spend what apparently was a great deal of money on the extravagant commercial described to me by Mr. Goodwin?”
“The Super Bowl spot, yes. We did that in part to redeem ourselves with him.”
“Were you successful?”
“So it seems,” Mills said. “I haven’t talked to Foreman since the spot ran—which was only yesterday—but I understand from one of his underlings that he was pleased. That doesn’t let us off the hook, though. Just because AmeriCherry didn’t steal our Super Bowl idea doesn’t mean our leak has gone away. Or that Foreman has gotten soft.”
“It may simply mean that he liked the creative.”
“The creative what?” Wolfe asked.
“In advertising, creative can be a noun as well as a modifier,” Mills explained.
Wolfe made a face at this desecration of the language. “Has Cherr-o-key’s competitive position been damaged by the apparent pilfering of commercial ideas?”
Mills shook his head. “If you’re asking if sales have suffered vis-à-vis AmeriCherry, it’s really too early to tell. And we really may never know. Because of the huge volume each brand does, it’s almost impossible to attribute rises and falls in sales to any single factor. Foreman’s pride is hurt, though, to say nothing of his competitive nature. He hates AmeriCherry, and he hates to lose.”
“And to say nothing of our competitive nature,” Sara put in. “We hate Colmar and Conn, and we hate to lose, too.”
“Hear, hear,” Lake said, clapping twice.
Wolfe ignored the breast-beating. “When you begin planning a commercial or any other kind of advertising, how many people know the details?” he asked.
“That varies. At the beginning, maybe only three or four on the creative team are developing the strategy. But as the process moves along, the number by necessity increases. If it’s a major campaign, and in our shop everything to do with Cherr-o-key is major, all the employees pitch in, including the clerical staff. Then with TV, there are all the suppliers. For instance, an outside production house actually shoots the spot. And there’s the talent, of course—that’s the actors and actresses—plus representatives of the client who show up on the set during the shooting and generally do nothing more than get in the way.”
Wolfe frowned. “In other words,
an army.”
“Of sorts,” Mills said, grinning sheepishly.
“Who from Cherr-o-key attends these shootings?”
“Usually the old man and at least one of his sons, both of whom work for him and both of whom are frankly pains in the gluteus maximus.”
“Why is that?”
“Basically because they’re asses—Arnold is loud and crude, Stephen is less loud, and sullen. Plus they don’t know squat about advertising, and they’ve never made the effort to learn. It’s Dad’s company, though, so if he doesn’t object to their being around, who are we to complain? Especially because—barring a hostile takeover, which is unlikely given how closely held the operation is—those two clowns will be running the place some day.”
“Not that it matters to us,” Lake said wryly. “Before Old Acker departs this life, he’ll probably have changed agencies at least three more times.”
“True,” Mills said, nodding. “We’re just another in a long parade. And even if we were to outlast the old man, the sons would probably can us in a minute, the way we’ve gotten along with them.”
“I take it there is animus between you?”
Sara moved uneasily in her seat. Mills laughed. “To put it mildly. Both of them—particularly Arnold—sound off when we make presentations. As I said before, they don’t know a damn thing about advertising, but that doesn’t stop them. Hell, a few months ago, when Boyd was showing Acker and sons storyboards for a proposed new TV spot, Arnold jumped up and said ‘Dad, this stuff stinks.’”
“Now Rod, you’re cleaning up Arnold’s language,” Sara chided with a tight smile.
“Okay, so he didn’t say ‘stinks,’” Mills answered. “But that brought Boyd out of the trenches and he told Arnold to stuff it.”
“Things were a little tense that day,” Lake chimed in. “I’m not sorry I popped off, though. After all, it resulted in Arnold storming out of the room in a funk. Acker didn’t make any effort to stop him, though, and we ended up getting the commercial approved.”
“Back to the business at hand; neither you nor your partners here have any idea who might be the conduit to the rival advertising agency?” Wolfe asked.
“God knows we’ve talked enough about it.” Lake stroked his beard and toyed with his maroon knit tie. “And we’ve called in every one of our employees—we’ve got fifty-two in all, including ourselves—and grilled them as much as we could without totally undermining morale. Maybe I’m a Pollyanna, but I refuse to believe it’s anyone on our payroll.”
“Of course you’re a Pollyanna, Boyd,” Sara said with a hard-edged laugh, giving me a good look at her profile, which was worth a good look. “But admit it, as I’ve been saying for days, the mole almost has to be someone in the house. We used different outside contractors and talent for the two campaigns. The only people who knew how we were proceeding from the beginning on each of them were our own.”
Wolfe readjusted his bulk and contemplated the two beer bottles and the empty glass in front of him. “It has been some weeks since Mr. Foreman issued his ultimatum, yet he continues to employ your agency. Has he regained some measure of equanimity?”
“Not really,” Mills said, rubbing his chin. “It’s just that even for him, it’s a pain to change shops, although as you’ve heard, he’s done that often enough through the years. He’s still on our case—and on me particularly—to find the leak. In the meantime, though, we’re expected to keep on generating creative for Cherr-o-key.”
“And you are?”
“Mr. Wolfe,” Mills said, “as I told Archie Goodwin, that damn drink is responsible for roughly five-eighths of our billings—sixty-three percent, to be exact. Our media billings for last year—what it costs to put advertising on the air and into print—were around thirty million, and something over eighteen mil of that is for Cherr-o-key. Likewise, they account for about five-eighths of our gross income, or almost three million of the four and a half million we brought in. We lose the account, and we start firing people up and down the line, to say nothing of what it would do to our image. Right now, we’re working like crazy—particularly Boyd and Sara here—to develop a fresh new campaign. It’s more than a little difficult to do that and to hunt down a spy in our midst at the same time.”
“Has word of these two idea-thefts reached the press?” Wolfe asked.
“Amazingly, no,” Mills replied, looking at his partners. “We’ve all been terrified for weeks that one of the trade papers or the Times or the Gazette would find out about it.”
“They still might,” Sara murmured darkly. “It would be one hell of a story.”
“Another question,” Wolfe said, eyeing the wall clock which told him his afternoon playtime with the orchids was only six minutes away. “How was the other agency able to produce its simulacra so quickly?”
“It wasn’t so much that they were fast,” Lake said, “but that we were working at a relatively leisurely pace. We had no reason to hurry, other than Foreman’s usual impatience. After all, we didn’t realize we were about to have our ideas lifted. Even after the TV commercial, which some of us thought was a coincidence, we weren’t fully on our guard.”
“I was,” Sara retorted.
“All right, Sara, let the record show you were immediately suspicious,” Lake said, snorting loudly and rolling his eyes. “You’ve reminded Rod and me of it often enough. Anyway, Mr. Wolfe, after round two, the bottle-cap fiasco, even those of us who are slower-witted and less perceptive than Ms. Ryman here realized that something nasty was going on.”
“Have you now instituted internal security measures?” Wolfe asked.
“Well,” Mills said, squaring his shoulders. “Here’s what we’re—”
“Pardon me, sir,” Wolfe cut in, holding up a palm, “but I have an engagement. However, Mr. Goodwin will discuss this matter further with you.”
“But … we haven’t talked about fees or any other specifics—”
Wolfe was on his feet now, and moving around the desk. “Mr. Goodwin and I will confer later, and you will be apprised of my decision. Good afternoon.”
All of them watched in puzzled silence as Wolfe propelled himself out of the office and into the hall, where his elevator awaited.
“That’s it?” Mills said. “That’s the end of our audience?”
“Hey, you’ve still got yours truly here,” I grinned. “And believe me, I’m one hell of a good listener, a thorough interrogator, and a superlative note-taker. Now let’s talk some more about what you’re doing to find your Benedict Arnold.”
FOUR
“IS THAT STANDARD BEHAVIOR FOR your employer?” Lake asked after we got resettled and they all had turned down an offer of liquid refreshments.
“Where my employer is concerned, there’s no such thing as standard behavior. If you’re asking if he’s eccentric, the answer is a resounding yes—but then, all geniuses are eccentric, or so I’ve been led to believe. And with Mr. Wolfe, what you’re buying is nothing less than genius.”
“But we apparently haven’t bought anything yet, given Wolfe’s comment on the way out.” Mills’s forehead looked like a mountain range on one of those topographical maps. The fretfulness he had carried on Super Bowl Sunday had clearly settled on him again. This was one very troubled man.
“Let me worry about that. If I were a betting man, I’d give six-to-one that he’ll take you on. I know him well enough to tell when he’s interested.”
“Hmm. He sure didn’t seem all that interested to me.” Sara Ryman folded her arms and tilted her chin up.
“Trust me. And tell me what you’ve done so far to find the leak and prevent further ones. For starters you mentioned that you called in your employees.”
They both turned toward Mills. The adman shifted in the red leather chair, cleared his throat, and pondered Wolfe’s desk blotter before replying. “Well, that sure as the devil wasn’t very productive. Like Boyd said, we brought all forty-nine others in—one at a time—and talked to them.
There were always two partners in various combinations in the room during the conversations, and we tried to make the talks nonthreatening.”
“How?”
“The three of us rehearsed it ahead of time, because we were so concerned about undermining morale. We told everyone, from secretaries to creative directors, the same thing: that we knew there had to be some kind of conduit, to use Mr. Wolfe’s term, to Colmar and Conn, but that it didn’t necessarily have to be an employee—it could be one of our suppliers. Which is in fact true.”
“But unlikely,” Sara put in crisply. I was beginning to like the lady, but I wished she weren’t so shy about voicing her opinions.
“Not necessarily,” Mills said. “As I’ve told you before, I tend to agree with Boyd that the spy isn’t one of our own folks.”
“You still really believe that?” Sara snapped.
“Look, for the moment, let’s just stay with your meetings with the staff,” I said to Sara, then turned back to Mills. “From the way you’re talking, I assume none of them aroused your suspicions.”
“Correct. We never came out with anything as bald as ‘Did you leak our spots to C and C?’ What we did was to ask each of them if they had any inkling whatever about who else—either with the agency or a supplier—might have done it. And no one had even the slightest idea.”
“Or so they said,” Sara injected.
“Miss Ryman, since you are obviously skeptical about the innocence of all of the agency’s employees, do you care to nominate a culprit?” I asked.
She shook her head vigorously. “No, Mr. Goodwin, but the point I’m trying to make is that I don’t think we’ve been exactly thorough in our own investigation. By the way, it’s Ms. Ryman.”
“Sara, that is precisely why we’re here,” Lake said through clenched teeth. “To seek the aid of experts in this sort of thing. We’re simply a bunch of tinhorns when it comes to interrogation.”
“Greenhorns, Boyd,” Sara corrected, smirking.
Fade to Black (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 5) Page 3
