by Emma Lathen
“How could Fortinbras have been killed that way?” Addison wanted to know.
As befits a man on the staff of the Police Department, Cohen was knowledgeable. “Well,” he said, absentmindedly pouring himself another cup of coffee, “it would have been fairly easy. If somebody was, say, peering over his shoulder, they could have looped that cord around his neck in just a minute . . .”
“Wouldn’t he shout? Or fight back. I should think it would take a really strong man to do it.”
“No,” Cohen said authoritatively. “Remember, he was an old man. The shock would probably immobilize him. And of course he couldn’t make a noise with that cord biting into his neck. He’d probably just sag, then it would be a question of finishing the job in a minute or two . . .”
Stanley was chilled.
“Of course he was flamboyant,” Addison commented thoughtfully. “First-rate man but flamboyant methods.” His tone suggested that Clarence Fortinbras’s surprising death was not altogether out of keeping with his daring methods of cost accounting.
“Let’s hope that nobody around here is a compulsive accountant killer.”
“Do you think that there’s any danger?” Stanley could not keep from demanding. He was wide-eyed, not with fright, but with the thrill of living dangerously.
“No.”
“Do the police . . .?”
“I don’t know what the police think,” Cohen said so smoothly that it was obvious it was a much-used formula “I’m just an accountant.”
Stanley flushed, and Addison took pity on him. “You have an interesting set-up here,” he said kindly. “I’ve been running up some inventory estimates for Commercial Sales this morning, and comparing them with what the Controller’s office has from Government Sales.”
“That isn’t much, is it? I don’t think we’re going to find much about Government Sales until we move into it.”
“Mr. Rutledge presents an independent summary,” Stanley explained. “It’s incorporated into the financial report, of course, but the running summaries are prepared in his office. That’s why the Controller won’t have much information from Government Contracts until the six months’ statement is being prepared.”
“Yes,” Addison said. He had already ascertained all this and more, but he wanted to encourage Stanley. “It’s got some justification because keeping the most profitable division clear means that you do show up any weaknesses in Commercial Sales, as well as R & D, but I’m not convinced that it’s the soundest accounting practice.”
“Well, I talked to Harry Blaney yesterday,” said Cohen lazily, “and as far as I can see, he’s reason enough to explain why Commercial Sales is doing badly. I needn’t say, Stanley, that this is in confidence?”
Absently Stanley assured Cohen that he would not repeat the indiscretion. His attention had wandered to a slight problem of his own. The fiscal month was drawing to a close, and it was time for him to present the totals on Petty Cash and Expense Accounts. And he still hadn’t got Mrs. Cobb’s statement or cleared up that luncheon bill with Mr. Rutledge. What would these men say if they knew how he was letting his own work slide in the excitement of recent events! It was time he buckled down and put his own house into that apple-pie order so highly recommended by Clarence Fortinbras.
“I think I’ll go down to my office, if you gentlemen don’t need me,” he suggested.
They watched him go.
“Nice boy,” Cohen remarked.
“Mmm,” Addison agreed. With Stanley’s departure, he was not indisposed for a spot of professional gossip.
“Did he tell you about the fuss Fortinbras raised?”
“Fuss?” asked Cohen innocently. Actually, Stanley had told them both, but Cohen was by nature cautious.
“About Fortinbras’s story that somebody stole papers from his office,” Addison explained. He did not resent Cohen’s caution but respected it.
A short silence reigned.
“I don’t think that there’s much doubt that somebody did loot that office,” Addison said, after a pause. “I’ve been checking through the records for Commercial Sales. Unless I’m mistaken”—and Cohen smiled at this absurdity—“unless I’m mistaken, several months’ records are missing. And I’ve already seen Fortinbras’s rough outline. He had them when he started working. That means the papers were in that office at one time. They aren’t there now.”
“That’s interesting,” Cohen said quietly. “There are some big gaps in the Expense Accounts too. I have a feeling that we’ll find other holes as we go on. But we won’t know about that for a few days.”
“It’s a funny combination of papers to be missing.”
Another thoughtful pause.
“I suppose it’s possible that Fortinbras took them home to work on. I don’t see why . . .”
“Fortinbras didn’t take any papers home,” Cohen said. “Lieutenant Cortell checked. I think I’ll just mention this to him. Of course we’ll have to tell Mason too.”
“And if you don’t have any objection,” Addison replied courteously, “I think I’ll report that fact to Mr. Thatcher. At the moment, I don’t see any sense in stealing these items, but it’s interesting. It does confirm Fortinbras’s claims.”
“Shows how innocent some people are,” said Cohen with a chuckle. “As if any of them could have kept Fortinbras from finding what he wanted.”
The accountants smiled grimly.
Then they got back to work, pausing only to dictate a joint memorandum to Charles Mason on the subject of missing financial records.
This document, arriving at the presidential office not many hours later, merely added to the prevailing gloom In his own quarters, Mason abandoned his public aplomb for profound self-pity. He read the memorandum with lackluster eye.
“What can I do about this?” he demanded querulously “I’m about at the end of my tether.”
Mary Sullivan, much tried during the past few days and fresh from an irritating encounter with Allen Hammond, bit back the retort that sprang to mind about the shortness of Mr. Mason’s tether.
Thatcher expelled his breath softly as Addison came to the end of his report. “There’s no doubt about this, I take it?”
Addison shook his head. “No. Of course, we can’t make a complete schedule of what’s missing. But there’s no doubt that somebody got his hands on Fortinbras’s material. Exactly as he claimed.”
“Is this going to hold you up?”
“No. We won’t be able to tell exactly what’s been taken until we finish the audit. Even then we won’t know for sure.”
Thatcher rubbed his jaw for a moment. Then he asked: “What about the scene that Fortinbras made after the looting? Did he mention anything specific?”
“It’s hard to find out without making inquiries,” Addison replied. “All Cohen and I have heard is the general gossip. Draper, that’s the boy who was helping Fortinbras, might be able to help us. But we didn’t want to make this public until you and Lieutenant Cortell had been filled in.”
Thatcher nodded hasty agreement. “Of course not. You say you sent a memo to Mason. Well, he won’t be able to help, but some of the others might remember something.”
“I don’t know,” said Addison doubtfully. “The way I heard it, they more or less drifted in piecemeal. Richter and Hammond came back in the middle of the row, Blaney just walked out on the whole business, and Rutledge was entertaining General Cartwright so he missed the fight. I tell you what, though. Miss Sullivan was there and frankly—” Addison paused delicately.
Thatcher grinned at this unspoken commentary on the front office of National Calculating. “You think she has more sense than the rest of them put together?”
“Well, one thing’s sure. She’s likely to have been more detached than anyone else there. As I understand it, everybody else went right up into the air at the mere suggestion that someone had stolen a bunch of papers. Nobody paid much attention to the details of Fortinbras’s complaint. But she might remem
ber if he mentioned anything specific.”
Thatcher was inclined to agree with Addison. He made a mental note to have a quiet word with Mary Sullivan. In the meantime, he turned his attention to the tentative list the accountants had prepared.
“It doesn’t seem to make much sense, does it? Commercial Sales Records and then some Expense Account items.”
“No, it doesn’t. Particularly as Cohen and I got the impression that there are other gaps too, some capital improvement items from Research, and some cost items from Government Contracts. Of course, expense accounts are always tricky when a full-scale investigation starts.”
Thatcher snorted. “It would take more than a little juggling of expense accounts to explain the situation at that company.” He paused for a moment. “But you’re right, somebody may have gone into a panic about some minor padding after Fortinbras was killed. I take it that’s what you’re suggesting?”
Addison smiled. “Precisely.”
“Well, I think we can safely let Robichaux talk to Mason about this.” He buzzed his intercom, and within seconds Miss Corsa was busy with the switchboard at Robichaux and Devane.
Tom Robichaux was only too willing to talk to Chip Mason about this latest evidence of skullduggery at National. His tone of voice, irresistibly suggestive of a testy hippopotamus to Thatcher, evoked a more powerful image to Chip Mason not many minutes later. A lion balked of his prey, for instance.
“Now Tom . . . Yes, I know, I’ve just seen that memo from those damned accountants . . . What’s that? . . . You can’t do this to us. It’ll crucify us. . . . Just a few little expense account items . . . Please, Tom, for old times sake . . .”
Putting her receiver noiselessly back on its cradle, Mary Sullivan considered the incredible oddity of the masculine character. Then, with a sigh, she went to the refrigerator in the closet. Now, if ever, was the time for milk.
Chapter 11
Distant Revelry
Chip Mason did not plead in vain. As a result, given Tom Robichaux’s highly idiosyncratic system of logic, John Putnam Thatcher found himself, late that evening hunched in the corner of a taxicab bearing him swiftly to the Greenwich Village apartment of Morris Richter. He surveyed his companion with exasperation. What idiot idea had possessed Robichaux? To decide to descend on Richter unannounced and question him about the missing expense accounts! In the middle of the night too. Thatcher sighed heavily. It was all the fault of old Barnwell at Barnwell and McBridge. They might be good lawyers, but they were not realists. On second thought, Thatcher, always fair-minded, admitted to himself that they must be good lawyers—considering the number of divorces from which Tom had emerged relatively unscathed. No, the real trouble was Tom. Deprived of wifely consortium and debarred from forbidden fruit, he was at a loss for social occupation. Come to think of it, one always did see a lot of him during these periods of adjustment.
The taxi came to a halt on Christopher Street before a remodeled brownstone from which sounds of music and laughter emanated.
“Well,” said Robichaux cheerily, “It looks as if we’ve stumbled onto a party.”
“This is absurd,” said Thatcher tartly. “We can’t go up and question the man about National Calculating if he’s entertaining.”
Robichaux instantly paid the cabbie, and waved him away briskly. “Now that’s where you’re wrong, John,” he said persuasively. “We couldn’t ask for anything better. Perfect cover, you know.” He halted under the streetlamp and stared owlishly down at Thatcher. “Everyone will think we’re guests.”
“Bah! What do you think we are, Tom? OSS men in Casablanca? We’re here to ask the man a few simple questions which anyone in his right mind would do tomorrow morning in the office.”
Robichaux’s coaxing hand steered him into the lobby of the building. “But it’s not as if we were deliberately intruding. Mason’s asked us to have a talk with Richter, and the other Division Managers, so we’ve come here where we can be private. Of course, if Richter finds it inconvenient to see us right now, why then we . . . Er—” here Robichaux sketched an airy gesture, “Why, we’ll just leave, that’s all,” he concluded triumphantly.
“Very handsome of us.” In spite of himself, Thatcher laughed. “You mean we won’t put him to the trouble of throwing us out forcibly. You know, Tom, it would serve you right if he did just that.”
But Thatcher’s hopes died stillborn. Morris Richter, although surprised, was apparently delighted to see them.
“Come in, come in,” he invited. “What’s that? Something about National Calculating? Yes, of course. But first let me get you a drink. Josie and I are having some friends from Columbia in for the evening.” Richter’s voice was raised in a genial shout to penetrate the din which had accompanied him to the doorway. “Just pile your coats on the chest and join the crowd. I won’t be a minute.”
Their host disappeared through an archway to the right of the entrance hall while the two men obeyed his instructions.
“You know,” said Thatcher, lowering his voice to a sibilant whisper, “I can’t decide whether he’s just buttering up the Sloan as a matter of principle or whether he’s really too dewy-eyed to realize that our being here is quite extraordinary.”
“Neither,” said Robichaux firmly, “He’s simply giving a party.”
Upon reflection, Thatcher was inclined to agree. From the little he had seen, Richter was still young enough to be constantly assuming poses of one sort or another. Tonight he was playing the part of host, and his actions automatically adjusted to the role. If two firemen axed their way through the front door bearing a large hose, Richter would greet them with cries of enthusiasm and offers of refreshment.
Thatcher paused to take stock of his surroundings. Robichaux and he were standing on the threshold of a high ceilinged room which was enormous by present-day standards. All details, however, were obliterated by a solid wall of humanity which was standing, smoking, laughing, drinking, screeching, and—yes, by heaven—even singing it appeared. He taxed their host with the last phenomenon upon his reappearance carrying two glasses of brandy.
“Georgi,” replied Richter with dignity, “is singing Albanian folk songs.”
“Indeed,” murmured Thatcher politely.
Richter warmed to his subject. “There’s quite a fad for them now. You may not know it, but—”
Thatcher interrupted firmly. He had not come here to be instructed about quaint Balkan customs. “Indeed I do. A very interesting field, I have long felt.”
“Well then, you’ll want to meet Georgi. Just a second. It’ll be easier if I bring him,” said Richter, plunging once again into the mob.
“Albanian folk songs!”
“What’s that?” Robichaux was sipping his brandy thoughtfully. “Not bad at all,” he summed up judiciously. ‘“Usually at an artsy-craftsy shindig like this, you’re lucky not to get some hellish punch.”
Thatcher was frankly incredulous. “Oh, come off it, Tom. When was the last time you were at a party like this? When you were young and innocent?”
“Now, there’s where you’re wrong,” said Robichaux without heat. “It was when I was still with Helena.” He paused reminiscently. “She was interested in literature.”
“Here we are!” Richter had reemerged accompanied by two striking figures. “This is Georgi Borof, who sings.” He clapped an affectionate hand on the shoulder of a hulking, bearded giant, whose left hand engulfed an absurdly fragile balalaika. “And this is Katrina Tametz, who records for Folkways. Katrina, this is John Thatcher and Tom Robichaux.”
Built on generous lines, Katrina was deep-bosomed and long-legged, with a mass of Titian-colored hair in the midst of which gleamed long copper earrings as she turned her head to follow the introductions. She favored Robichaux with a long, thoughtful gaze. He brightened instantly.
“My songs, they are simple but very beautiful,” said Georgi, addressing himself to Thatcher. “I sing of our mountains, our rocks and our Skanderbeg.” He sighe
d deeply.
“Er—quite so.”
“It is very sad to an Albanian to be distant from his home. When I am sad, I sing. Presently I shall sing for you.”
“That will be delightful,” said Thatcher, dismayed. Morris Richter hovered nearby, watching indulgently much as a parent watches the beginning of a nice children’s party.
“But first,” said Georgi suggestively, “in order to sing, I must drink. It is always so.”
“Of course,” soothed Richter. “Just help yourself. You know where the bar is.”
“I go now, but I shall return,” Georgi promised Thatcher, making him a deep and unsteady bow. “You are of those who have the soul to appreciate.”
“You’ve made a great hit with Georgi,” congratulated Richter. “He doesn’t take to many people.”
“Now, listen, Richter,” said Thatcher, a note of desperation in his voice, “I don’t want to butt in on your party. There are just a few questions. It won’t take a minute. Perhaps we could go somewhere—” Thatcher looked helplessly about him.
“Afraid the party’s flowed into every room,” replied Richter proudly, “but nobody will take any notice of us here.”
“Very well. Mason has asked Robichaux and me to try and find out a few things quietly. Tom—” Thatcher looked over his shoulder. Robichaux had disappeared. He continued resignedly. “The point is, the accountants have discovered that a batch of papers are missing from Fortinbras’s files.”
Richter whistled softly. Thatcher was relieved to find that the young man appreciated the situation without elaboration. After a few days of dealing with Mason, Thatcher had begun to develop an explanatory technique which bordered on the offensive. He went on to outline the absence of expense account vouchers and Mason’s belief that this was no more than a cover for routine padding.
“Absolute nonsense,” said Richter with surprising firmness.
“What’s absolute nonsense?” asked a jovial voice. Robichaux had returned, hospitably bearing a tray of drinks and still accompanied by Katrina Tametz, who was laughing richly. She had very white teeth.
