Accounting for Murder

by Emma Lathen

  “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time, Blaney. I imagine that you have a lot to do,” said Thatcher, rightly taking this reference to Mason as a subtle hint.

  “Yes, I want to get all packed this afternoon. And Mason will want all the current information on Commercial Sales.” He chuckled for a moment. “Hammond’s been so busy with his politics for the last two or three weeks, that he hasn’t paid much attention to the division. He’s going to have to buckle down to some hard work for a change.”

  “For a man who has just written a touching encomium to the management of this company, you don’t seem to have much personal affection for them,” said Thatcher with some tartness.

  Blaney waved vaguely. “You’ve got to be able to get along with anybody and everybody in business. And I can. But that doesn’t mean you have to like them. Look at this company. Not a really decent human being in the place. That is, with the exception of Margaret Cobb. I’ll admit that she is a really nice person. Look at the way she’s been calling the hospital about young Draper. But what has she gotten out of it? Having a miserable little runt like Richter run in on top of her. Pah! Anyway, that reminds me. I want to say goodbye to Margaret. If you’re going, I’ll come down the corridor with you. Her office is right after the receptionist.”

  Thatcher, after a momentary hesitation, allowed himself to be swept along by Blaney’s enthusiasm. Mrs. Cobb was a very elusive person, and it was high time that he had a talk with her. Just as well that he could be ushered in under cover of Blaney’s news. She might well know a good deal more about the hidden affairs of National Calculating than anybody realized.

  Whether she could be induced to part with this information was something else again.

  Chapter 17

  Warlike Volley

  Every firm has its old regulars. There are one or two to be found even in those corporations most addicted to entrusting the guidance of their affairs to more conspicuous talents. And while the old regulars do not achieve the same status or the same financial rewards as their virtuosi brethren, they do have a way of digging themselves in and surrounding themselves with creature comforts—they get the office copy of the Wall Street Journal earlier than anybody else, their secretaries bring them home-brewed coffee in china cups instead of drugstore coffee in cardboard mugs, and staff dinners are held on Thursday nights because they have made it known that Wednesday is inconvenient for them.

  As Thatcher entered Mrs. Cobb’s office for the first time, he instinctively catalogued her as a very special sort of old regular. Her office was second in size only to that of Chip Mason. Its decoration differed just enough from that of the remainder of the executive suite to make a distinctive and suitable background for her thin, erect figure clad in a soft beige suit. The walls were covered with grass cloth, and several pieces of furniture in a honey-colored wood stood on a carpet of old gold. A small table by her desk held a spray of flowers and a cigarette box of French china.

  It was not until they had actually advanced into the room in order to allow Harry Blaney to take a fond farewell of Mrs. Cobb and a heartily insincere farewell of Jay Rutledge, who was ensconced in a deep chair on the other side of the desk, that Thatcher received his second impression. He and Blaney had interrupted a quarrel. Or perhaps difference of opinion would better describe the disagreement which seemed to have arisen between the two most reserved personalities in the front office of National Calculating. This was apparent, during Blaney’s short stay, only from the punctilious formality of their references to each other. They both avoided direct address.

  “So you’re leaving, Harry. Well, that’s a shame,” drawled Rutledge, “but this deal you’ve got at Southern Midwest sounds too good to pass up. I’m sure Margaret agrees.”

  “Commercial Sales won’t be the same without you, Harry,” sighed Mrs. Cobb. “We’ll miss you. I know Jay feels the same.”

  “You haven’t told Chip yet? It will be a body blow to him. This is a ticklish time to give Hammond more authority, but he won’t have any choice. Someone has to run the division. Margaret’s always said that Chip didn’t realize Hammond had his eye on the presidency, and not by inheritance either.”

  Mrs. Cobb was not to be outdone in these pretty shows of deference. “Allen’s been thinking along these lines for a long time. But he knows it won’t work without Jay. And Jay can’t be pressured because he doesn’t have to side with anyone. His position is a lot more solid than anybody else’s.”

  And so the ritual rhythm of response and antiphon continued until Blaney remembered that he still had to see Mason, and rushed off with parting words of encouragement and advice about the big management struggle which his resignation would surely trigger. The diversion over, Rutledge and Mrs. Cobb returned to the main issue so quickly that Thatcher had no opportunity to apologize for his continued presence.

  “You know I don’t like to complain, Margaret,” rumbled Rutledge, settling down to complain at length. “But when I asked Chip to lift some of the load of entertaining Cartwright, I thought I was going to be helped.”

  He paused meaningfully.

  Mrs. Cobb raised an eyebrow.

  It was apparent that they were both beyond recalling Thatcher.

  “And you don’t feel that my entertaining General Cartwright has been a help?”

  “Just the opposite,” said Rutledge bluntly.

  Mrs. Cobb’s lips tightened. She raised her eyes from the pad on which she was doodling a complicated pattern, and looked at her colleague coldly.

  “You know, Jay, you haven’t yet told me exactly what it is you’re complaining about. Do you think you could overcome your well-known dislike of complaining to that extent?”

  Rutledge ignored this provocation. “Now Margaret,” he said placatingly, “let’s not get upset about this. I don’t really like to bring it up, but Cartwright is an important customer, and we’re all concerned that he’s handled properly.”

  Mrs. Cobb’s voice took on a steely quality. Thatcher began to understand how she had managed to maintain her position at National Calculating. It would not be at all easy for a Morris Richter to win a round from Margaret Cobb. He bent forward with interest. It might even be beyond the powers of a Jay Rutledge.

  “I’m waiting for you to tell me exactly how I handled him improperly.”

  “All right,” said Rutledge grimly. “Since you insist on it. You were supposed to take Cartwright out, help him relax, show him some hospitality. You weren’t supposed to give him your ideas on how my division should be run.”

  Poor Cartwright! If this was Rutledge’s reaction, how must the General feel about it, thought Thatcher. All day spent getting Rutledge’s views on National Calculating, then all night getting Mrs. Cobb’s. Before he had finished his stay in New York, he would be looking back to the Battle of the Bulge as a halcyon period of rest and repose.

  “Stop overstating things, Jay” said Margaret Cobb in distinct rebuke. The remark was calculated to annoy, and it succeeded.

  “Don’t take that tone with me,” he said sharply. “You should know better than to intrude into areas where you’re not professionally competent. You’re in R & D, not in production.”

  “Not professionally competent! I know more about laminated circuits than you’ll ever know.”

  Thatcher was entranced. He had wondered if there were any possibility of breaking through Margaret Cobb’s icy reserve, and it looked as if the job was going to be done for him. The lady was not far from shouting with rage.

  “On a drawing board, maybe,” admitted Rutledge slowly, looking apologetically toward Thatcher. He obviously regretted stinging himself and his colleague into an open display of hostility before the banker. “But not,” he concluded stubbornly, “not on a production line. Look here, Margaret, I didn’t mean to offend you. But you know perfectly well that this is no time to be throwing difficulties in the way of the new contract. Cartwright’s already been shocked at the situation here. Stockholder suits, outside au
dits, and then Fortinbras’s death.”

  The olive branch was summarily rejected. No scientist likes to be told that their competence lies in the world of the abstract, that when harsh reality must be confronted he should go away with his toys and let the adults cope with the situation.

  “I don’t care what you meant! What you’re saying is that I don’t know enough to talk to General Cartwright about circuits that were developed under my direction. If you think for one minute that I’ll permit you to exercise this kind of control over my activities you’re in for a big surprise. I will say and do precisely what I please! You can run your tame general through hoops if you want to, but you’ll have to keep him on a leash if you intend to protect him from my professional incompetence. And we’ll take that right up to Mason, Cartwright, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff if you want to make an issue of it!” Mrs. Cobb’s voice was now a thoroughly alarming basso profundo that rocked the room with its vehemence. She had risen to her feet and was facing Rutledge over her desk defiantly.

  “I do not want to make an issue of it!” said Rutledge with patent sincerity. “But I’m hot going to have a seventy-million-dollar contract whistled down the wind just because you can’t control your tongue.”

  “I can control anything I want to, including my job,” retorted his old friend. “You’re not doing such a good job of selling Cartwright if you’re this nervous. This is the first time you’ve even mentioned losing the contract. Up to now, you’ve been telling us there was nothing to worry about. It was as good as signed. If you ask me, you don’t think you’re going to be able to sell Cartwright, and you’re looking for a whipping boy. Where would you be without this contract?”

  “I never had any trouble selling this contract until you started butting in! And, by God, I’m beginning to wonder if it was so accidental. Have you thrown in with Richter and Hammond? I’ll warn you right now, you won’t be able to edge me out.” Rutledge had sobered himself out of his rage and was eying his opponent suspiciously.

  “I don’t have to throw in with anybody. And I don’t have to let anybody walk over me either.”

  “All right, all right,” said Rutledge impatiently. “Nobody’s trying to. Just stay in your own garden. I’ve got enough to worry about without your giving misinformation to Cartwright.”

  “It wasn’t misinformation!” Mrs. Cobb was prepared to fire up again.

  “I don’t care what it was,” growled Rutledge. “Leave Cartwright to me, that’s all.”

  Thatcher noted that it was the lanky Southerner who was anxious to avoid a reopening of hostilities. A referee would have had no hesitation in awarding the bout to Mrs. Cobb on a technical knockout. Clearly the lady’s position at National Calculating was a strong one if she could take on Jay Rutledge concerning a matter which, while by no means clear to Thatcher, seemed to have reference to the operation of Rutledge’s division. On her own ground, she must be even more formidable. It would be interesting to see Morris Richter trying to give her orders. Thatcher suspected that the situation simply did not arise. Richter, if he remembered properly, showed a rather startling loyalty to Mrs. Cobb. No doubt he had learned that that was the way to survive.

  Meanwhile Mrs. Cobb was savoring the fruits of her triumph. She subjected her late antagonist to a thoughtful inspection. After a moment’s silence, she spoke quietly. “You know what the trouble is, Jay?” she remarked in conversational tones. “You want to keep everything to yourself. Just letting anybody know the total sales of your division is a terrible exposure to you.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Rutledge deliberately, “and I don’t much care either.” “It’s true,” she continued inexorably. “You want to keep everything a secret—your contracts, your generals, your books, and your plant.”

  “What do you mean—my books?” replied Rutledge, stung on a point which had become a battle cry at National Calculating since the advent of Clarence Fortinbras. “I’m perfectly willing to show my books to anyone. I don’t have the kind of thing to hide that the rest of you do. I make profits, remember?” he drawled unkindly.

  “That’s what makes it so strange.” Mrs. Cobb still spoke in a mildly reflective mood, but Thatcher had seen the danger signals once and knew she was again on the verge of losing her temper.

  “You’re mad!” said Rutledge quietly. “I was the one who persuaded Chip to go through with the Sloan’s audit. I’ve been ready to show my books to anyone.”

  “Not to Clarence, you weren’t!”

  Mrs. Cobb put her hand to her mouth in a sudden uncharacteristic movement of confusion. But Rutledge and Thatcher had both heard her unguarded slip. They stiffened instantly.

  “Oh, it’s Clarence, is it?” It was Rutledge’s turn to be thoughtful. “You know, I always wondered how come he was so knowledgeable. There just had to be an inside tipster who was slipping him scandal. But I never thought of you, Margaret; I didn’t realize you were capable of that sort of thing. I suppose it’s because you got tired waiting all these years for some kind of success, some kind of recognition.”

  Rutledge shook his head. He rose.

  “Wait, Jay.” Mrs. Cobb stretched out an impulsive hand. “I can explain everything.”

  “I’m sure you can,” said Rutledge sadly from the door. “You always do, don’t you? But this time I don’t want to hear.”

  He turned and left the room slowly, but very surely.

  Chapter 18

  Lady-in-Waiting

  It was a moment before the silence was broken.

  “I don’t know what’s come over Jay Rutledge,” Mrs. Cobb said in a voice that retained its edge.

  Thatcher turned his eyes from the door. Like her, he had been taken aback by the uncharacteristic offensiveness which Rutledge had brought to the argument, and by the implacability of his exit; Mrs. Cobb’s comment reminded him that normally she was the most self-possessed of women. Yet her exchange with Rutledge had been heated, and even now she was in the grip of an emotion that disturbed her habitual, rather glacial composure.

  As he watched, she took a deep breath and sat down at her desk, her lips tightly compressed.

  “I’ll be getting out of your way,” he said apologetically. Although he had taken no part in the dispute, he felt the embarrassment natural to a man who, however innocently, has become involved in a free-for-all.

  Mrs. Cobb ignored his comment, and continued to stare at the door through which Jay Rutledge had taken his dramatic exit. “I simply do not understand him,” she repeated. “Jay is normally the most balanced and sane person at National. It’s so completely out of character for him to cast aspersions, and walk off in this preposterous manner . . .” She let the sentence trail off and shrugged her shoulders to punctuate it; but clearly she was not through with John Thatcher, who waited for the return of her attention with some uneasiness.

  He rather thought she wanted to talk to him without knowing quite how to begin, and if Mrs. Cobb wanted to talk, John Thatcher was willing to oblige. “Of course, his position is a little awkward. I gather that he and Mr. Fortinbras didn’t hit it off . . .” he suggested.

  She stopped him with a look of almost paralyzing intelligence. “You heard Jay, Mr. Thatcher,” she said, quietly mocking. “Surely you realize that he was accusing me of hiding some more sinister connection with Clarence. And I did call him Clarence! That’s very suspicious, don’t you think?”

  Thatcher bowed his head, accepting reproof. The low level of intelligence obtaining generally at National Calculating had led him to make the error of treating Mrs. Cobb as if she were the mental equal of Chip Mason.

  “Well, I can allay any suspicions you may have,” she continued with a wry smile. “There’s no reason to hide it now. Clarence Fortinbras was my brother-in-law.”

  In-laws being such comic sorts of relations, Thatcher was conscious of a start of amused anticlimax, which he prudently suppressed. And in his silence, Mrs. Cobb continued, in a musing voice. “He marri
ed my sister Emily. When he told me about his descent on National Calculating, he suggested that it might embarrass me, or put me in a difficult position. I told him that I didn’t mind in the least—and frankly, National needs me more than I need National—but he insisted. So we simply didn’t publicize the fact of our relationship.” She stared bleakly into space for a moment. “And that’s all that Jay’s sinister suggestions are worth!”

  Thatcher braced himself not to be intimidated by this formidable woman. “Well, that does explain a good many puzzling odds and ends, I confess.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him, and her eyes were almost too knowing, he thought. “As you yourself mentioned,” he explained, “you called him Clarence once or twice. It gave rise to some questions in certain circles. Then—by George!” he broke off as a sudden thought struck him. “Did Dr. Richter know that Fortinbras was related to you?”

  She smiled openly at that. “Has Morris been protecting me? Yes, I rather think that he did stumble on the fact. He saw us lunching together one day, and Morris is terribly curious about things. He came into my office a little later and made a number of heavily significant remarks. At the time, I was too busy to humor him. Did he think that I might have killed Clarence?”

  Thatcher temporized. “I think that he might have been afraid that you were . . . involved in some way. He’s fond of you.”

  “Morris will be quite a nice person if he ever grows up,” she said with absent affection but no undue respect for her chief. Thatcher was inclined to accept the assessment of both: Mrs. Cobb was quite capable of murder, and Richter would be quite nice when he grew up.