Accounting for Murder

by Emma Lathen

  He carried the two periodicals back with him and spread them out on his desk. The Times had a two column headline below the fold. Very decent, all things considered. Nevertheless, he thought with growing dissatisfaction, he remembered a day when that august journal did not recognize the existence of crime. Standards were slipping everywhere.

  NOTED ACCOUNTANT SLAIN

  ON MADISON AVENUE

  CLARENCE FORTINBRAS

  STRANGLED AT

  NATIONAL CALCULATING

  November 8, New York.—The body of Clarence Fortinbras, a prominent certified public accountant, was discovered in the accounting department of National Calculating Corporation at 375 Madison Avenue this afternoon. Mr. Fortinbras had been strangled with an electrical cord during the lunch hour. The victim was conducting an examination of the financial accounts of National Calculating as representative of a stockholders’ group which has been dissatisfied with the management of the corporation and has secured a court order to conduct the audit.

  There followed an exhaustive analysis of the litigation between Clarence Fortinbras and Charles Mason, including extended quotations from the text of the court order, and a lengthy biography of Fortinbras. Thatcher was interested to discover that Fortinbras had been called in during the Tucker liquidation and for the reorganization at Inland Steel. The article concluded with statements by everybody at National Calculating.

  “National Calculating is shocked and appalled,” said Charles Mason, president of National Calculating. “We are convinced that some personal enemy of Mr. Fortinbras made his way onto the premises and committed this crime. The police shall receive every assistance from my staff.” Jay Rutledge had contented himself with remarking that it was a terrible tragedy, and National Calculating was at a loss to explain the occurrence. Morris Richter had said that everybody was displaying commendable calm, Harry Blaney said that Fortinbras was a sad loss to the accounting profession, and Dr. Margaret Cobb had refused to comment.

  Thatcher was sorry to see that the calm institutional reserve of these statements did not extend to the intemperate release issued by the National Calculating Stockholders’ Protest Committee in the person of its sole surviving officer, Regina Plout. Even the judicious paraphrasing of the Times could not obscure the tenor of Mrs. Plout’s pronouncements: National Calculating was a hotbed of assassins.

  Gloomily Thatcher turned to the other paper. There was a noticeable air of excitement to its first page. The Journal’s staff very rarely came to grips with a murder, and they were making the most of their opportunity. Tradition had been broken, and the story was carried in the upper right-hand comer. A snappy little article on the future of dehydrated frozen foods had been mercilessly relegated to page three while the Journal settled down to explain, in suitably confidential tones, the financial and business implications of the murder. Fortinbras’s name did not appear in the headline.

  NATIONAL CALCULATING

  COPES WITH MURDER

  SLAYING AT

  COMPUTER COMPANY

  November 8, Special to the Wall Street Journal: The computer industry has had to face many problems during the last five years. These have included customer dissatisfaction with performance, union resistance to automation, and costly service difficulties. But National Calculating Company has been the first to deal with a murder in its offices.

  Clarence Fortinbras, leader of the minority shareholder group which obtained a court order last month to review the books of National Calculating, was found murdered yesterday afternoon in the home office of that corporation on Madison Avenue. Hard-hitting Charles Mason has steered his computer company through many shoals since the Korean War but informed sources on the Street are wondering if Clarence Fortinbras may have won a final victory by the manner of his death.

  “I expect the price to slide five to eight points in the next week,” said the senior partner of a large brokerage firm, “and I’m advising my customers to unload now.” The same advice was being given in other houses. “Unless Chip Mason can come up with some yearend figures that restore confidence in National Calculating, he can look forward to a rough time at his annual meeting in the spring. Already it is rumored that outside interests are ready to step into Fortinbras’s shoes for a proxy battle that will pave the way to a take-over.”

  “We don’t intend to take this lying down,” said Mason, a one-time Harvard football great. “Our program will be carried to the stockholders and I know we can count on the support of everybody except the crackpot fringe.”

  The Journal went on to detail possible maneuvers in the hypothetical take-over battle. It was not until the final paragraph that the manner of death was mentioned, and the information on Fortinbras was very skimpy.

  Thatcher brushed the papers aside disgustedly. He was sick of the whole mess. Let somebody else worry about it. He drew forward the pile of mail on his desk, selected the items which had been coded by Miss Corsa as requiring his immediate and personal attention, and succeeded in immersing himself in the unsatisfactory condition of the Sloan’s relations with its correspondent bank in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

  So refreshing was this experience that he incautiously accepted a phone call an hour later from Les Thomas, the man at the Sloan who now had the unenviable distinction of keeping an eye on the Bank’s investments in National Calculating.

  “I’m worried, John. The run has already started.”

  “Well, so is everybody else who hold National,” replied Thatcher sourly.

  “You know, John,” prodded Thomas anxiously, “the word on the Street is that Fortinbras was about to uncover real dirt.”

  “It’s the word everywhere, Les. We’ll just have to grin and bear it.”

  “But, look, maybe we could . . .”

  “Sorry, Les, I’ve got to run. Have an appointment with Withers,” explained Thatcher untruthfully. “Send me a memo!”

  Hanging up with a crisp precision that cut off his subordinate’s protests, Thatcher decided that, if the world refused to allow him to radiate sweetness and light, he should turn his mind to tasks where a taciturn inflexibility could be used to some profit. To think of inflexibility was to think of Everett Gabler. Thatcher brightened instantly and buzzed for Miss Corsa’s presence.

  “Memo to Mr. Gabler,” he informed her as she poised her pencil over her shorthand book. “And a copy to Mr. Trinkam.” Collecting his thoughts for a moment, he prepared to compose a communication couched in the rolling periods so dear to Everett’s heart.

  In connection with the disposition and budgetary allocation of Kenneth Nicolls’ time, I have reviewed the requirements of your own department and that of Charles Trinkam. You have informed me that the present demands of Mr. Trinkam’s department and the irregular calls on Mr. Nicolls have created a situation which is unsatisfactory. As you are aware, the personnel schedule for the forthcoming year has already been approved by the Internal Expenditure Committee and—

  As Thatcher settled down to the highly satisfactory task of explaining to Gabler that his, Thatcher’s deliberations had resulted in the removal of a man from Gabler’s department rather than the hoped for addition, the phone rang in the suitably muted tones which it assumed in executive offices. Miss Corsa immediately suspended her other activities, and reached for the extension on the side table.

  “Good morning. Mr. Thatcher’s office. Miss Corsa speaking.” There was a subdued roaring noise from the phone. “Oh, yes, Mr. Robichaux. He’s here. Just a moment and I’ll put you through.”

  “Hello . . . John?” bellowed Robichaux amiably.

  “Yes?” Thatcher’s tone would have deflated most people.

  “Say, I just got a call from Chip Mason.” Robichaux’s tone dropped to an insinuating rumble.

  “Bad cess to him.”

  “Now, John,” reproved Robichaux, “Mason’s got plenty of troubles right now. It’s only right to give him a helping hand.”

  “Just what did you have in mind, Tom?” Thatcher was genui
nely curious. Charitable Robichaux might be in private life. He was certainly not extending a helping hand, qua investment banker.

  “It’s about Cartwright.”

  Thatcher remained unencouragingly silent.

  “You see,” confided Tom, “they’ve still got the police in their ears over at National and Mason wants Cartwright off the scene. I thought,” He suggested cozily, “we might take him to lunch.”

  “Me go to lunch with Cartwright? Good God, no! Take the General to meet somebody else. It will be a change for him to see someone unconnected with that mess.”

  “Well, now—”

  “No, absolutely not. Good-bye, Tom.”

  Thatcher turned back to his dictation bitterly. Tom could make a life’s work out of succoring Mason if he wanted to. Unless the interests of the Sloan demanded Thatcher’s intervention, he would have no further part in it. His thoughts were interrupted by Miss Corsa.

  “He’s so handsome,” she said dreamily.

  Thatcher was incredulous.

  “Who? Mr. Robichaux?”

  “No. General Cartwright.”

  This was a new aspect of Miss Corsa. Thatcher stared.

  “He was on the cover of Time magazine,” she explained. “He’s only forty-seven and a four-star general. He is the chief proponent of conventional armament,” she quoted dutifully.

  “He is also,” Thatcher rejoined, “National Calculating’s biggest customer.”

  Miss Corsa turned back to her book. She was not interested in National Calculating, only in handsome men.

  “You were just saying ‘As you are aware, the personnel schedule. . .”

  The phone rang.

  “Wait a minute,” cried Thatcher, arresting Miss Corsa’s hand in midair. “I’m out. Gone for the day. You don’t know where to reach me. And in order to lend some truthfulness to that statement, I’m going.”

  He grabbed up his hat and coat and strode to the door followed by Miss Corsa’s bemused stare and her sedate tones saying, “Mr. Thatcher’s out. Gone for the day.”

  Chapter 9

  Alarums and Excursions

  Simply leaving the Sloan was not enough to shield John Thatcher from the dislocations caused by the murder of Clarence Fortinbras. Every corner he passed was mined with screaming headlines: “BIZ EXECS QUIZZED,” “NAT STOCK COLLAPSE,” “EXCHANGE IN UPROAR.”

  At the corner of Broadway, he hesitated. A moment of reflection was enough to convince him that the University Club, the Bankers Club, and the Harvard Club would be no better. There was the danger of encountering Tom Robichaux, or Francis Devane—or even worse, one of their justly incensed customers. He made a quick calculation: National Calculating Corporation had 500,000 shares outstanding, and, at a guess, 10,000 stockholders. Numbered among that unfortunate group were many of John Thatcher’s friends and acquaintances. No, the University Club would not do.

  This left him with only one course of action; he would take himself and his briefcase home, pausing only to issue firm directives to the reception desk, and resolutely ignoring the telephone for the rest of the day. Looking really formidable, Thatcher hailed a taxi: a secretary who had been planning to pinch it from beneath his nose took one look at his expression and retreated.

  Fortunately, Thatcher’s determination to disentangle himself from National Calculating received a powerful assist. In his waiting mail, he found a communication from Consolidated Edison. He extracted the machine-chewed card that was his bill from an envelope fat with utility whimsy. “Want to cut winter’s chills and bills, Neighbor?” It would go, via Thatcher’s briefcase, to Miss Corsa, who presided over his bill paying with her customary efficiency. Idly he glanced at it. There was the usual single chaste line concerning kilowatts. In addition, directly below that line, there was a block of angular printed information:

  CHIBOWA-MOD. 38473859At8

  14½ elec. v.g. CN 7467

  For a moment Thatcher studied this, then he let his eye drift to the right and downward.

  “$46.32.”

  Consolidated Edison was billing him $46.32 for a CHIBOWA. He knew, of course, that it was some sort of billing error. Thatcher’s household purchases were affected for him by a variety of efficient persons connected with the housekeeping department of the Devonshire or its Mrs. Anson who administered the movement of food in and out of his refrigerator, and the transport of goods to and from laundries and cleaners. If any of these competent and well-paid people felt that Mr. Thatcher required a $46.32 CHIBOWA, he would have been presented with what might be termed noncommercial paper; an advertising brochure or a clipping from a newspaper stapled to a businesslike memorandum beginning: “To J. Thatcher, 4B.”

  But, as he settled himself at his desk and spread the Research Department Preliminary Budget Allocation Study before him, Walter Bowman wanted to hire another statistician, Thatcher found himself speculating. Mistake or no, what could a CHIBOWA be?

  “Chicken Bone Warmer?” he asked aloud, automatically putting a question mark next to Walter Bowman’s glowing description of a new publication he was proposing. Like all Research Departments, the Sloan’s thirsted to see itself in print. Thatcher drew up a memo pad and jotted notes, critical notes, on the subject. At the same time, however, he considered the CHIBOWA. On the whole, Chicken Bone Warmer seemed unlikely. Chicago-Boston Washer, perhaps.

  Now, on the reverse of its much-punched card, Consolidated Edison has thoughtfully tried to spare its patrons just this sort of concern. A telephone number is carefully printed between perforations. Any customer so lost to decency as to question the billing is urged to make use of it.

  And the telephone was at John Thatcher’s elbow. But as his late wife had frequently pointed out, he had a terrible weakness for puzzles. John Thatcher would no more call Consolidated Edison to learn the precise nature of a CHIBOWA than he would use a dictionary to solve a crossword puzzle. Briskly composing a riposte to Walter Bowman with one part of his mind, he turned the other part to the CHIBOWA. A waxer of some sort. Say, a China Bowl Waxer.

  Thatcher spent a productive evening without once wondering what the police were uncovering at National Calculating Corporation. After an undisturbed night’s sleep, he arrived at the sixth floor of the Sloan the next morning, in the best of spirits.

  “No, I’ll read the papers later, Miss Corsa.” The papers, he already knew, were screaming that the police were pressing their investigation of the murder of Clarence Fortinbras. And no more. “And, Miss Corsa, send Bowman a list of every publication that emanates from this bank. No, nothing else, just the list. And I’ll be busy for the next half-hour . . . er, private business.”

  He had the grace to feel guilty when the door shut behind her. It was Miss Corsa’s task and pleasure to deal with such outsiders as Consolidated Edison except, of course, when it was a question of bond issues or annual meetings. But if Miss Corsa dealt with the billing error, John Thatcher might remain unenlightened about the CHIBOWA. He had bet himself ten dollars that it was a China Bowl Waxer, and another five dollars that he could find this out without direct inquiry. Loss meant donation to the Salvation Army.

  Drawing out the bill, he dialed. And in her office, Miss Corsa looked at the green light on her phone with disapproval. It was never a good sign when Mr. Thatcher did his own dialing.

  Thatcher first reached a voice inquiring about his needs. No sooner had he mentioned the word “bill” than he was routed forward.

  “Good morning! This is Miss Goodfellow. How may I help you?” The voice could be described only as seductive.

  “Well, you see . . .”

  Miss Goodfellow broke in to plead. “Could I have your name and address?”

  Thatcher supplied them.

  “Thank you,” Miss Goodfellow breathed warmly. “Now, would you mind waiting just for a second?”

  There was a pause during which Miss Goodfellow consulted a file. At her return, Thatcher began, “I have received a bill . . .”

  “Oh, I do so
hope you have it there with you,” said Miss Goodfellow. “It makes everything so much easier.”

  Thatcher admitted that he did have his bill before him.

  “Good. Now, just what is our trouble?”

  Speaking carefully, Thatcher pointed out that he had been billed $46.32 by error. He added that he would appreciate rectification, then waited hopefully.

  Miss Goodfellow gave vent to little cries of distress, then again retreated to her files. When she returned there was a merry bubble in her voice.

  “I see that our records do show delivery of this item, Mr. Thatcher. But do you know what I think? I think that Mrs. Thatcher ordered it, and forgot to tell hubby. Don’t you think that’s a possibility?”

  “I do not,” said Thatcher quellingly, but Miss Good-fellow swept on.

  “After all, how many mornings do you go into the kitchen to watch Baby’s food being prepared?”

  Thatcher removed the receiver from his ear and stared at it. Getting competent help is not easy, but surely Consolidated Edison was not . . . Miss Goodfellow was still speaking.

  “So, what do those doctors know! Cold food! Why, I was really shocked! When you think of how a good hot meal feels. That’s why the Child’s Bottle Warmer is such a popular product. And Mr. Thatcher, believe me, you will find it well worth the money . . .”

  Thatcher stabbed the button for Miss Corsa. “Just one minute, Miss Goodfellow. . . . Miss Corsa, will you please handle this?” He handed her Con Ed’s bill. “They’re trying to charge me for a bottle warmer.”

  Miss Corsa clucked and returned to her desk just as Charlie Trinkam sauntered past her into his chief’s office. “Bottle warmers? Oh, hot rum toddies. Well, put those pleasant thoughts from your mind, John, and brace yourself. The Exchange has just suspended trading in National calculating. All hell is breaking loose.”

  Trinkam was perfectly accurate. Murder normally unleashes a whirlwind of activity: police inquiries into the whereabouts of interested parties, meticulous examinations of the premises where the body was found, and interviews with relatives and acquaintances. But murder in a large corporation has financial overtones. Even as the New York City Police Department was pursuing its massive attempt to discover who murdered Clarence Fortinbras, the New York financial community began its effort to keep National Calculating Corporation from becoming the second victim.