by Emma Lathen
“Is she indeed?” he murmured politely.
“Hetty said the Brahms dragged,” Tom repeated with simple pride. Then, punctilious about social obligations, he turned to Ecker. “But I’m sorry we didn’t know about your boy.”
Ecker came as close to bridling as a seventy-year-old man can.
“Can’t guess where this music business came from,” he said gruffly. “As near as I know, his father can’t sing a note.”
“Same thing with my daughter,” Ives agreed. “The rest of the family can’t stand the sight of blood.”
“You’re lucky,” said Robichaux, retailing the experience of a worldly friend who had inadvertently produced a clergyman.
On this harmless topic, Gardner Ives managed to spin his way through dessert. Only when they adjourned to a lounge did he edge toward the reason for their gathering.
“I was very pleased to hear the result of Winstead’s study,” he proclaimed. “Although we already knew the company was very strong.”
Waving away the waiter bearing a tray of cigar boxes, Ecker fumbled in his pocket. “I’m glad it’s over,” he rasped. “Pain in the neck while it was going on. Now we can get back to work.”
Given Ecker’s performance so far, Thatcher would not have been surprised to see him flourish a corncob pipe, but he achieved almost the same effect by producing a battered pack of Camels.
“Yes, indeed, Winstead must have been disruptive,” Ives said soothingly. “And I quite see how you would want a few days to pull yourself together.”
For the first time he struck the wrong note. He could have been encouraging a convalescent after a nasty bout in the hospital.
“Oh, we’re pulled together. Sometimes I think people are crazy,” Ecker said largely. “We’ve been making the best coffeepot in America for years, and now thousands of customers are rushing in to buy it because they saw a picture of me in a funny hat.”
The message was clear. Conrad Ecker, vis-à-vis ASI, was in the catbird seat and he knew it.
“Splendid,” Ives forced himself to say.
“Even so, I guess we could all use a little rest while we see how things work out,” Ecker said deliberately.
“But what else is there to find out? I know that technically there are still some charges against your production man, but they’re bound to be dropped. So everything will be all right.”
Gardner Ives, Thatcher saw, had not yet factored in the inevitable consequences of Bob Laverdiere’s exoneration.
Very slowly extinguishing his cigarette, Ecker shifted forward in his vast club chair and explained the facts of life.
“You see, the cops haven’t found a motive for Hunnicut’s murder at my company. So now they’re bound to look at yours.”
Gardner Ives goggled.
It did not help when Tom Robichaux, mellowed by the brandy snifter he was cradling, nodded sagely.
“Stands to reason,” he remarked in unfortunately sprightly tones. “Particularly the way Hunnicut was lipping off.”
Thatcher hastily intervened in order to give Ives breathing time and to cloud the issue. “There is, of course, no suggestion of complicity by ASI. But there is always the possibility that one individual may have been endangered by Hunnicut and no doubt that is an area that will receive official scrutiny.”
But Conrad Ecker had not driven down from Bridgeport to wade through mists of obscurity.
“The point is, which individual?” he retorted.
Gardner Ives was still in shock.
“But it’s absurd to think my executives are running around stabbing people,” he blurted, involuntarily revealing a fine distinction between his employees and Ecker’s.
“Thought the same thing myself when they arrested Bob,” said Ecker, mentioning his nephew with an effort. “But somebody did kill Hunnicut. You can’t get away from that. And I don’t want him running around my company with a skewer.”
Groping for an answer, Ives could only say, “It will probably turn out to be a motive from his personal life. An old girlfriend or something like that.”
By now Conrad Ecker had gone as far as he was prepared to go. He conceded that police suspicions might easily prove to be wrong, just as they had in the case of Bob Laverdiere.
“I’m even willing to say that I still like the sound of the merger, always assuming the numbers reflect our growing market,” he continued blandly. “I’ve got nothing against some preliminary talks, so long as we all know where we stand. And that’s simple enough. Nothing gets signed until this murder is straightened out.”
By the time Gardner Ives disjointedly called an end to the evening, Thatcher thought that Conrad Ecker could congratulate himself. Two major points had been made with brutal clarity. The Ecker Company was worth more money with every passing day.
And, from now on, it was ASI that was on trial.
Chapter 22
SETTLING DAY
What Conrad Ecker began, the New York Times finished.
“Good God!” Gardener Ives sputtered over his first cup of coffee the next morning. A paroxysm of sneezing convulsed him but Mrs. Ives took her cue from his right hand. Whenever Ives was affronted by a news item or an editorial, he poked it with a martial forefinger. Now, as he groped for a handkerchief, she slid the paper into position where she could read for herself.
“‘. . . Sparling Castings, a division of Aqua Supplies, Inc., which is headquartered in Princeton, New Jersey, was indicted yesterday . . .’ Oh, dear.”
Her hopelessly inadequate response coincided with a sinus-clearing honk from across the table.
“And that means it will be in the Journal,” Ives said thickly, shoving back his chair. “Probably on TV, too.”
“Aren’t you going to finish breakfast?” she twittered. “You know you’ll get a headache if you don’t eat something.”
“I’ve already got a headache,” Ives informed her.
Mrs. Ives was not surprised. “You got in awfully late, and you tossed and turned all night.”
Since she did not have to clean, cook, or run errands, Mrs. Ives channeled her nurturing instincts into semi-professional health awareness. Usually this was acceptable to her husband, but not today.
“I had a very, very disappointing meeting with Conrad Ecker,” he complained, overtaken by an earlier grievance.
But Sparling and ASI on the front pages instantly reclaimed him. The telephone in the hall rang. In Ives’s absence, his wife buttered toast and replenished his cup.
“. . . just a mouthful before you rush off,” she urged when he returned. “No, don’t wolf it down, Gardy. You’ll give yourself indigestion.”
“That,” Ives announced, “was Tom Robichaux. He thinks it could have been worse.”
Despite having heard about Robichaux for months, Mrs. Ives had no idea who he was. Nevertheless she scented an ally.
“You see? The trouble with you, Gardy, is that you don’t know how to relax.”
Ives, who agreed that he was a paragon of responsibility, preened slightly, then declared, “I’d better get over to ASI.”
“To do what?”
It was a good question, but Ives was not around to hear it.
Ives descended on ASI like a fireman answering the bell. His whirlwind bustle initially focused on the trackers who had misled him about the eye of the storm.
“Some stringer in Muncie put it on the wire, and Dow Jones picked it up,” said one of them, peering at his computer screen. “Look, Gardner, I want to get these releases out before noon.”
The lawyers were even less satisfactory. “Once you get into district court, somebody’s bound to notice,” they philosophized. “But we’re filing for a continuance, and if we can settle in the meantime, there won’t be much of a follow-up. Let me get back to you after I’ve talked to Livada.”
Balked at every turn, Gardner Ives raged impotently at fate. To have ASI, good corporate citizen and friend of public television, tarred in the Times and the Journal bit deep. Ro
bichaux & Devane could take the long view, but Ives found stories about infractions of the criminal code as repugnant as exposés in the National Enquirer.
Nor did he share his wife’s opinion that there was little for him to do except field incoming calls with statesmanlike double-talk. For most of the day he fussed around aimlessly, racked by fears that ASI and Sparling would preempt network programming on three television channels and cable. When that bugbear failed to materialize, relief set in, but only moderately.
Elsewhere, a firmer grasp on reality prevailed. The wider ASI family, geared up for a publicity bloodbath, assessed the situation with a collective sigh of relief.
“What’s six inches in the Journal, and four inches in the Times?” asked a staffer largely. “Particularly when they’re all about rules and regulations that nobody understands?”
He spoke too soon. The following forty-eight hours produced a flurry of scattered coverage. Barron’s ran a short piece depicting Sparling Castings as a sinkhole of depravity. ASI was described by some business journals as stodgy, complacent, and lumbering. On the other hand, Time and Newsweek barely noticed while late-night comics stuck to Washington for laughs. The security analysts sniffed the air, consulted their tea leaves, and rendered a split decision. Prudential Bache said hold, Goldman Sachs said sell, and Bear Stearns said nothing.
Throughout the crisis, Gardner Ives suffered visibly. Instead of the prescribed eight-hour sleep, he began snatching catnaps. After years of steering ASI along well-trodden paths, he found himself waiting for the next blow to fall. Again and again, he had to beat down an impulse to seek advice and comfort from Phil Pepitone. As a result, Ives’s stab at morale building was unimpressive.
“. . . appreciate all the extra hours you people have put in,” he said with scripted thanks to the foot soldiers. Then, before they got carried away, he improvised, “I’m still afraid that none of this will do ASI much good. We’re just going to have to wait and see how the pension managers react.”
In all the excitement, he had quite forgotten Victor Hunnicut. So he was looking for trouble in the wrong direction.
Reading about large sums of money is a national pastime. For little old ladies in supermarkets there are mansions in West Palm Beach and alimony everywhere. Sports fans can revel in sinfully large multi-year contracts. Expenditures by rock stars, TV evangelists, and First Ladies—foreign and domestic—are universal crowd pleasers.
At the same time relatively few people lust for details about the national debt, the corn-hog ratio, or Eastman Kodak’s latest restructuring plan. The optimists at ASI and Robichaux & Devane had some justification for thinking that their moment in the sun was too brief and esoteric to attract salacious attention. Unfortunately for them, there was a small minority fascinated by the Sparling revelations, and it happened to be uniquely positioned.
The New York Police Department convened a veritable seminar on the subject. Among those in attendance was Inspector Giorni. What he learned from the assembled pundits did not strike him as immediately germane.
“. . . sure, I understand Sparling mislabeled and shipped to Libya by way of Germany,” he said, consulting notes. “But where and how does ASI fit in?”
This earned him a lecture on corporate structure, with special reference to wholly-owned subsidiaries and legal liability.
“In fact,” said his instructor, soaring to theoretical heights, “ASI might, just possibly, seek remedy from the courts by claiming that there was concealment at the time of the sale.”
“Give me a break,” muttered Giorni, detaching himself from these intricacies. His search for Victor Hunnicut’s murderer was already complicated enough. Sparling just added a new wrinkle.
Giorni wanted information to factor into his investigation, not a post-graduate course. For his purposes, the authorities available to the department knew too damn much.
“But it’s all out of books,” he complained with fine contempt for intellectual prowess. “What I want is someone who knows the score.”
At ASI, there were probably dozens of them. But too many figured prominently on Giorni’s newly revised hit list.
Robichaux & Devane was out, too.
“They’re in bed with ASI,” said Giorni, continuing the process of summary elimination.
Then he reached the Sloan Guaranty Trust.
* * *
“Well, yes, I’ve been spending a lot of time at ASI,” said a puzzled Ken Nicolls. “Tell me what you want to know, and I’ll do my best.”
“This ASI-Sparling business,” said Giorni bluntly. “I’ve got a feeling it might have a bearing on the murder. Trouble is, I don’t have a real feel for ASI, and you’ve been hanging around there for days.”
“They’re all buzzing about Sparling,” said Ken. “They’re saying that Pepitone’s screwed his pitch with this one.”
Giorni pounced. “Pepitone wasn’t mentioned in the papers. Do you mean he picked Sparling, too?”
Nicolls felt he was being towed out of his depth.
“Look, I can’t vouch for any of this. I work with the peasants over there. I’m just repeating what I heard.”
Ken was still explaining his inability to confirm or deny when the door opened.
“Oh, sorry to interrupt,” said John Thatcher. “I didn’t know you had a visitor.”
Before he could withdraw, Nicolls said hastily, “This is Inspector Giorni, who’s in charge of the Hunnicut investigation. He’s been asking me about ASI and Sparling.”
Thatcher did more than sanction cooperation with the police; he pulled up a chair.
“Good afternoon, Inspector. How can we help?” Giorni, when he discovered he had landed a big fish, brightened and transferred his attentions. “Did all this flak about Sparling come as a surprise to you, Mr. Thatcher?”
“Yes and no,” said Thatcher. “These criminal charges were a bolt out of the blue. But long before they surfaced, we at the Sloan had reason to believe that Sparling was not one of ASI’s successes. Now, at least, we understand why.”
“I don’t follow,” Giorni confessed. “What do the two have to do with each other?”
Thatcher tried to boil down the complexities. “The Sparling people wanted to sell their company at a good price. So, to make their books look good, they indulged in the illegal sale of arms. And represented the earnings as part of normal operations. ASI was the sucker who bit.”
“Nicolls, here, says that Pepitone’s to blame for the whole mess.”
Before Ken could protest, Thatcher did so for him.
“No, he’s telling you what some people at ASI are saying. It’s only natural to blame someone when things turn out badly. But the decision to buy Sparling must have been reviewed by many people and, more to the point, Sparling’s books were examined by experts. ASI was not the only one fooled. There was the state of Indiana, the U.S. government, and Price Waterhouse.”
“But Pepitone could still have stumbled across something,” said Giorni, dismissing paperwork. “In which case the talk Hunnicut stirred up would have scared the bejesus out of him.”
Privately Thatcher thought Pepitone was aiming at the presidency of ASI, not shortsighted gains.
“It sounds unlikely to me,” he said, addressing Giorni’s hypothesis. “Ordinarily I’d say you were asking for not one, but two coincidences. However, I admit that with Hunnicut shooting so many arrows into the air, one of them could have landed somewhere.”
“Sure,” said Giorni sourly. “The problem is narrowing the field.”
It was obvious that he was not impressed by the Sloan’s contribution to his endeavors.
“Well, if there’s nothing further I can do,” said Thatcher brazenly.
Collecting the file he had come for, he left Ken Nicolls to the police and retreated. But since there is no rest for the wicked, Miss Corsa simply handed him the phone.
“Ah, Conrad,” said Thatcher. “No, you’re not interrupting.” “I’ve just wrapped up a—what was that?
Sparling? What about Sparling?”
After some excited cracklings from Connecticut, he replied, “Yes, I agree that the Christian Science Monitor is generally accurate. But if you read carefully, you’ll see that Sparling does not materially alter—”
Another outburst from Conrad.
Firmly, Thatcher intervened. “ASI is still in position to make a very attractive offer. That is the assumption under which the Sloan is proceeding, as I think the Ecker Company should.”
The following ten minutes tried Thatcher’s patience considerably.
“Two monomaniacs,” he said to Miss Corsa once he could unburden himself. “Neither of them would care if Sparling shipped poison gas to Fidel Castro. Instead, Giorni seizes on Sparling to help catch his murderer. And Conrad . . .”
Conrad Ecker was joyously expecting Sparling to knock Gardner Ives off his high horse.
Conrad’s glee suggested other uses for Sparling.
“Look,” said Alan Frayne persuasively. “Conrad’s getting a big kick out of watching ASI take the heat. After what Ecker went through when they arrested you, it’s put the cream in his coffee. So the time’s ripe, Bob. Just take the first step, do some stroking, and we can all get back to normal.”
But the sweet breeze of vindication was still buoying up Bob Laverdiere.
“Me apologize to Conrad? Forget it,” he said with unimpaired cheerfulness.
Frayne was not the only one trying to restore peace.
“You should make it up with Bob, Dad,” said Doug Ecker after a blow-by-blow telephone account.
“I’m not the one who has to crawl,” his father thundered. “Unless Bob straightens up, he’s on his way out.”
Doug treated this empty threat seriously. “You can’t do that.”
“Why the hell not?” Conrad demanded.
Doug welcomed the opportunity to revise some of his father’s thinking.
“Because . . . you . . . need . . . him,” he said deliberately.
For once, Conrad was speechless.
