by Emma Lathen
If Ecker’s finances were irreproachable, why had the records office been torched?
Snapping his seat buckle into place, Giorni nodded with grim satisfaction.
“I always knew there was some connection.”
Chapter 25
BULLS AND BEARS
Thanks to Inspector Giorni, the next day was a landmark at the Sloan Guaranty Trust. For once Miss Corsa gave an unscheduled visitor priority over John Thatcher’s work in progress.
“Without an appointment?” Charlie reproached her. “Rose, you must be losing your touch.”
“It’s Conrad Ecker,” she said, explaining and condoning.
“Send him in,” Thatcher said. Then, recalling the possibility of outriders, he added, “He’s by himself, is he?”
Conrad Ecker, his wiry hair bristling, was quite alone when Miss Corsa ushered him in. A forceful tweed jacket enhanced his aura of peppery consequence.
“Nice girl you’ve got there,” he said grandly when Thatcher rose to greet him. “Glad you can see me. I suppose I should have called ahead.”
During the niceties that followed, Thatcher saw that Trinkam was ready to be entertained by Conrad’s quirkiness. Everett, of course, had always been an avowed devotee of the Ecker yogurt maker. Thatcher would have been willing to let them sit in, despite the risk of hearing them described as nice boys, but it was obvious that Ecker was champing at the bit.
Nevertheless, after Charlie and Ev took themselves off, Ecker fidgeted uncomfortably. Finally he found his tongue: “I’ve got to talk to somebody,” he said in a gust.
Formula dictated a soothing That’s what I’m here for. But Thatcher had not reached his current eminence by impersonating a medical caregiver.
“The pressure seems to be on ASI these days. What’s bothering you at Ecker?” he said, plunging in.
“The police are back at our place,” Conrad told him.
At first Thatcher misunderstood, but Ecker went on to dispel the notion of renewed suspicion.
“No, they claim they’re after us this time as witnesses. But what they’re really doing, whether they admit it or not, is picking our brains about ASI. And I don’t like what they’re asking.”
“Well, they do have to find out who murdered Hunnicut, after all,” Thatcher argued.
This vapidity triggered sound as well as fury.
“I don’t give a damn about Hunnicut,” Ecker retorted. “I care about the Ecker Company.”
Thatcher persisted. “Conrad, as long as the police are working, they’re bound to say things you don’t like.”
Ecker glared at him. “It’s not the police who bother me. You saw how sick Ives looked when I told him Ecker was getting more valuable. And we all know why. My God, I thought our troubles were over when the police zeroed in on ASI. But now, everything they come up with over there makes my company look less valuable. And, Thatcher, I don’t think this is all an accident.”
When Ecker was talking about shenanigans in a Sloan negotiation, he had Thatcher’s full attention. “You think Ives is deliberately denigrating Ecker to discourage other buyers?”
“Or to drive our price down. He needs every bargaining chip he can lay his hands on. I don’t begrudge him that, but once he starts playing dirty, I draw the line—even though I don’t see exactly what I should do. That’s why I’m here. And don’t advise me to lie down and keep quiet.”
“No, no,” said Thatcher hastily. “But there’s a middle ground between playing dead and going public.”
“What’s that?” Ecker demanded.
That was the usual huddle to clear the air. If peace did not ensue, the combatants would at least have established their rules of warfare.
“Miss Corsa,” said Thatcher, pressing the button. “See if you can get hold of Gardner Ives for me, will you? If it’s humanly possible, I need to see him today.”
Luck was on his and Miss Corsa’s side. After ruthless telephone forays she discovered that she would not have to dispatch Thatcher to New Jersey.
Gardner Ives, fortunately, was already in town.
“. . . conferring with Tom Robichaux, which we could have expected,” said Thatcher, leading the way up Broad Street. “ASI’s had one headache after another lately.”
“Pfa!” said Ecker, magnificently unsympathetic to any distress but his own.
He was, it developed, one of the world’s many Manhattan haters. Stalking along beside Thatcher, he loathed every face in the crowd, every taxi blocking a crosswalk. “How you can live here beats me,” he muttered.
Thatcher, refraining from witticism about the haunting charm of Bridgeport, replied, “I’m taking you to one of our local beauty spots.”
Robichaux & Devane, that ancient and honorable investment bank, had over the years become a museum piece. Period furnishings and rare Orientals were intended to convey an impression of untouchable superiority. Yet, despite the surrounding grandeur, Gardner Ives and Robichaux looked bewildered and apprehensive.
At sight of his prey, Ecker bore down on Ives.
“Aha!” he growled, ignoring Robichaux, who half-rose in agitation.
“Afternoon, Tom, Ives,” said Thatcher sedately.
With a cockfight imminent, Robichaux regarded this as inadequate but he valiantly tried matching Thatcher’s aplomb.
“Good to see you, good to see you,” he babbled. “Understand you’ve got something you want to talk about, Ecker. Sit down, make yourself comfortable.”
His relief, when Ecker complied, was palpable. Thatcher, on the other hand, remained confident that blood was not going to fly. His man might be up to it, but Gardner Ives looked like a spent force.
Although Thatcher did not know it, Ives was in fact a three-time loser. First he had been put through the meat grinder for trying to duck responsibility in the Sparling debacle. Then Phil Pepitone had gone on to ram the digital reprogrammer down his throat. Now, with Ives’s very survival resting on a speedy and amicable merger, here was Conrad Ecker pawing the ground.
Wanly Ives greeted Thatcher, then turned. “I hear you’ve got something on your mind, Conrad.”
For a dedicated hunter, Ecker exhibited unsportsmanlike behavior.
“You’re right about that, at least,” he began challengingly.
At this Thatcher stirred. As a rule he found it wise to give his principals their head. What this cost in coherence and relevance was usually balanced by sops to the egos involved. But letting an unrestrained Conrad Ecker loose on Ives, in his present condition, would amount to a dereliction of duty.
“Perceptions tend to get distorted once the police start burrowing around,” Thatcher intervened. “Conrad’s been getting some strange feedback, so we decided to discuss the whole subject with you.”
His careful circumlocution was too much for Ecker.
“First they claimed that Pepitone had to be paid off to choose Ecker—”
Tumult broke out before he could proceed.
“Utter nonsense!” rumbled Tom Robichaux, who had himself been part of the selection process.
Thatcher chimed in with a weightier authority. “The Winstead report makes it abundantly clear that Ecker had no need to—”
Ives, already suffering from battle fatigue, opted for appeasement.
“Of course I don’t know a thing about what the police are doing,” he said. “It goes without saying that we at ASI regard any such charge as ridiculous. Ecker is far too strong a company to need to bribe anyone.”
The chorus of praise was futile. Conrad Ecker, as Thatcher could see, had barely scratched the surface.
“Of course it’s ridiculous,” he spat back. “And when it didn’t work out, you came up with a real beaut.”
This silenced everyone except Thatcher who, with considerable courage, said, “Perhaps you might explain what you mean, Conrad.”
Ecker could barely form a sentence. After several false starts, he finally forced the words out: “They’re claiming I stole my ideas from ASI.�
�
Robichaux, never at his best when startled, unwisely chose to treat this as humor.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” he chortled unconvincingly. “That’s a good one.”
With rising choler, Conrad blasted him. “Oh, yeah? What about this guy Bradley? The cops started by asking what Hunnicut said about him back during that inspection trip. Now Bob tells me they’re on a new tack. They want to know how easy it would be for Bradley to steal developments from ASI.”
Ignoring a strangled bleat from Ives, Thatcher came to Robichaux’s defense. “But, Conrad, what does that have to do with you?”
“Plenty,” Conrad told him. “Because then, by God, they want to know if Ecker ever buys ideas that outsiders are trying to peddle.”
Ives was gasping like a fish out of water when Ecker crescendoed: “Where do you think this leads? Somebody’s saying Bradley sold stuff to me. Me?” he choked. “Me, stealing from ASI! Hell, they haven’t produced anything new for the last ten years. I’ve come up with product after product, and good ones, too. Why would I try to get hold of their junk? Compared to Ecker, ASI’s a joke.”
Tom Robichaux turned to Gardner Ives. Thatcher, too, expected a blistering retort to this wholesale barrage. But Ives, blinking furiously, was absorbed by private outrage. For five years he had been Sam Bradley’s chief advocate. It was too late to disassociate himself now.
“What are you complaining about, Conrad?” he yelped. “If any of this is true—which I doubt—it’s ASI that’s being ripped off.”
Thatcher wondered if Ives would ever stop concentrating on himself long enough to recognize that ASI might be harboring a murderer. Or, for that matter, to notice that his response had infuriated Conrad Ecker even further.
“You think I don’t understand what’s going on?” Ecker shouted. “The minute you hear about my digital reprogrammer, the word goes out that I might have stolen it. That kind of scenario a six-year-old could understand. You’re trying to scare away other buyers.”
John Thatcher might be one of the last to hear about the digital reprogrammer, but he was quick to appreciate its implications. Another lucky strike like this one, and it would be Ecker buying ASI.
Ives, however, was thunderstruck. Torn between astonishment at the charge, fear of losing Ecker altogether, and insulted dignity, he blustered helplessly: “. . . never heard of such a thing . . . not a word of truth . . .”
Then, pulling himself together, he reverted to type. “Ecker, I assure you that ASI would never stoop to such despicable tactics. We’re proud of our reputation for unblemished integrity.”
But Ecker was still foaming.
“From what I read about Sparling, you’re not a bunch of choir boys over there.”
With Ives reeling and Robichaux goggle-eyed, Thatcher had no alternative.
“Now wait a minute, Conrad,” he said firmly. “The police are asking general questions. They want to know if it’s possible for Sam Bradley to steal ideas. They want to know how he’d sell them. But did they ever actually ask if Bradley sold anything to Ecker?”
Ecker resented cross-examination.
“Not in so many words,” he said after a long pause.
Thatcher was implacable. “Did they—or anybody else—specifically link Sam Bradley to your digital reprogrammer?”
Losing steam, Ecker said with reluctance, “Well, no.”
“Then,” said Thatcher severely, “this spate of innuendo is all in your own mind.”
Ives grasped what might be his final opportunity. “You’re being a little harsh, Thatcher. Naturally Conrad is very concerned by the mere possibility of such a suggestion. The Ecker Company is Conrad’s good name. But that’s so self-evident that the police would never dream of impugning his personal ability.”
Ives’s well-intentioned contribution took them from bad to worse. Suddenly, with all the fight knocked out of him, Conrad Ecker was left with the one question he did not want to recall.
“Then why are they asking if I’m getting senile?”
Chapter 26
RENTS AND ROYALTIES
Inspector Giorni’s activities in Bridgeport had left him as discontented as Conrad Ecker.
“. . . so we’ve got Pepitone placed right next to that damned skewer,” he complained to Sergeant Gwendolyn Belliers. “What good is that if he doesn’t have a motive anymore?”
It was late at night and Giorni’s desk was littered with the debris of sandwiches and coffee. He himself had slumped down in order to study the ceiling.
Wendy Belliers, who had spent the day at ASI, nodded briskly.
“Right now, Pepitone’s parading around, reminding everybody that he was the one who picked Ecker.”
Giorni was a last-ditcher by nature. “Okay, so Pepitone wasn’t bribed by Ecker. Was he bribed by someone else? Where does he stand with Sparling?”
There was little joy there, either.
“In the first place, it was Ives who really chose Sparling. Then it turns out the Sparling people cooked their books, and the outside accounting firm didn’t catch it. But we’re talking highly technical fraud here. If Sparling bribed anyone, it was the accountants. That lets Pepitone out.”
“Then what about Wiley Quinn?” Giorni continued doggedly.
“I don’t see it,” she said. “He wasn’t being accused of anything that could land him in jail or cost him his job. Sure, Hunnicut was getting under his skin. If you ask me, Quinn was more likely to deck him than anything else.”
This was exactly the conclusion that Giorni had reached, but he liked to clear away the underbrush as he went along. Now he signaled an end to the preliminaries by tilting upright and sweeping the crumpled wrappings from his desk.
“What’s more, a Sparling bribe to Pepitone or a quarrel between Quinn and Hunnicut doesn’t explain that fire at Ecker,” he began. “But when we come to Sam Bradley, we’ve got a fighting chance for a connection.”
With a frown, Wendy said, “I thought Frayne claims the digital reprogrammer was never in any danger.”
“Ah, but what about earlier work from his lab?” Giorni asked, formulating his theory as he proceeded. “Bradley’s had a no-show record for a long time. And we’ve already heard of one case where a product scrubbed by Ecker was brought out by another firm. Suppose Bradley managed to buy one of their rejects from a file clerk? He’s planning to bring it out as his own, when, bang! suddenly he finds out that ASI’s going to buy Ecker and those old lab books could be dynamite.”
Wendy, who had been following intently, grinned. “Here’s an even juicier twist,” she offered. “Suppose Bradley finally did come up with something good, decided to steal it, and sold it through a go-between to Ecker. A merger with Ecker would really throw him for a loop. He’d have to destroy the old lab books, not because of what they contained, but because of what they didn’t contain.”
“I like them both,” Giorni said, nodding appreciatively. “And there’s a plus with your version. At Ecker they get uptight if you suggest that everything didn’t originate with Conrad. I can understand the old man being sensitive about his age, but even Frayne saw red when I asked if they ever bought outside ideas. Still, the main thing is that both of us have found a way to link the fire with Hunnicut’s murder. There’s only one hitch.”
This banished Wendy’s grin. “We don’t have a guru,” she said, her voice tinged with incredulity. “Not a single one.”
The New York City Police Department is justifiably proud of its specialists. But somehow the long list did not include an expert on the marketing of ideas.
“And yet there have got to be professionals around,” she reasoned. “I read an obituary the other day of a man nobody’s ever heard of. But he spent a long life selling ideas to the Fortune 500. There must be some sort of system for doing that.”
Giorni regarded his subordinate indulgently.
“So it’s a business,” he said, his face creasing into a slow smile. “What we do is call a guy who knows all about busines
s.”
John Thatcher was not quite that omniscient, but he never doubted that the resources of the Sloan could produce the right man for Inspector Giorni. As it happened, the search went no farther than Charlie Trinkam.
“Sure,” Charlie said instantly. “Art is the man you want to talk to.”
Like the inventor whose obituary Wendy Belliers had read, Arthur Hanscom Cherniak was a man few people had heard of. Nevertheless, the sale of his ideas provided funds that had made him an investor worthy of the Sloan’s attention.
“He’s been at it fifteen years now, and he’s only forty-five,” Charlie expanded.
“Do you think he’ll be willing to drop by and speak with Inspector Giorni and us?”
“Oh, sure, he’s an obliging sort of guy. All we have to do is pry him loose from that log cabin of his.”
Thatcher’s eyebrows rose as he rapidly revised his preconceptions. “He lives in a log cabin?”
“Well, it’s the kind that’s got three bathrooms. But it’s way the hell out in Putnam County. As if that isn’t bad enough, it’s at the end of a private road through the woods with about a hundred bird feeders drooping off every limb.”
“It sounds as if he’s not our standard client,” said Thatcher, looking forward to the coming session.
Within minutes of his arrival at the Sloan, Arthur Cherniak demonstrated that he, too, enjoyed broadening his horizons.
“I was glad of the chance,” he replied when Inspector Giorni thanked him for coming. “I’ve never met a homicide detective before. It must be interesting work.”
Giorni modestly replied that most murders required only slogging routine.
“And very few of them are the kind people like to read about,” he went on, having met this form of enthusiasm before. “If it isn’t gang-related, then it’s a barroom brawl or a domestic dispute.”
The newspapers, Cherniak protested wistfully, regularly produced something more complicated than that. Giorni, now that he had taken the measure of his man, sensibly deferred his own goal in order to create goodwill. Art Cherniak lapped up every detail of a recent domestic shooting. Even Charlie Trinkam allowed himself to be sidetracked.
