Right on the Money

by Emma Lathen

  “Faking a burglary is for dummies,” he said, suddenly emerging as an arbiter. “All those wives who claim they shot hubby by mistake have the right idea. Admit everything except state of mind.”

  Thatcher gave full marks to the inspector for concealing all signs of impatience. The reward came when Cherniak, after a lingering sigh, voluntarily returned to the topic at hand.

  “I hear you want to know about the sale of ideas.”

  Giorni nodded vigorously. “Yeah, it’s come up in a current case, and I’d like to hear how somebody goes about it.”

  “The answer is there are a lot of variations, depending on what’s being offered and who’s offering it.” Thatcher knew they had to pussyfoot before Giorni would name names. But to edge them forward, he said, “What about giving us a general overview, Art? We can get down to specifics later.”

  “Well, most people who succeed are basically employees and ex-employees of the industry they cater to. They’ve been working for an electronics company, say, or an automotive company. Then they get an idea that’s the direct result of a need they’ve spotted. They know the firms that are likely to be interested in their baby, they’ve got personal contacts all over the place, they can rattle off the commercial arguments for their product. Naturally they have a built-in advantage.”

  Charlie waved proudly toward his client. “That’s how Art got started. He was working for a manufacturer of X-ray equipment.”

  “God, that’s right. I’d almost forgotten.” Cherniak seemed to be peering back through the mists of time. “But it’s a different kettle of fish for the guys who come up with an idea out of the blue. You’ve got to realize that it’s hard for a buyer to recognize the value of something that doesn’t solve an existing problem. You’re asking him to take a leap into the unknown. Personally, I’ve never understood how the first zipper was sold when everybody was happy with buttons. But this is where we come to a fundamental consideration. If you’re dealing with a small gizmo designed for the consumer market, you can begin by selling it yourself. That is, you demonstrate that there really are customers out there. Those are the mail-order guys who run magazine ads and TV spots. Then, if that works, they show up at the trade shows to try for some commercial accounts. If they get the thing off the ground, they can sell the whole kit and caboodle. Some of them manage it, but only with an item that doesn’t cost much to produce. You can go that route with a better knife, but not with a better airplane.”

  Thatcher knew all about the barrier raised by cost of entry into a field, but he saw another distinction as well. “And that system is only feasible when you’re targeting the general public.”

  “Absolutely. And probably most ideas are directed toward the production process. There are big bucks in a better knot-tying machine.”

  Inspector Giorni was more curious about the traceable activities of inventors than about their financial rewards.

  “Okay, but I suppose the first step for all of them must be getting a patent.”

  Cherniak was sorry to puncture the notion that a simple trip to the patent office would solve anything.

  “I’m afraid not,” he said. “Getting a patent at the start is a risky business. In the first place, it takes a hell of a long time—three years isn’t unusual and somebody can beat you to the punch in the meantime. Then, you can kill yourself by not having exactly the right claims on your application. If you apply before your concept is completely realized, your claims may not be broad enough to give you adequate protection. Even worse, if your claims aren’t narrow enough, the patent examiner will disallow you. These days people often deal with an idea as a trade secret. They sell it on that basis, requiring the buyer to get patent protection after the dust has settled.”

  His audience was startled to have the entire elaborate patent system relegated to the sidelines.

  “Then what is the first step?” Thatcher pressed.

  “Persuading a prospect to let you in long enough to give a presentation. That’s not easy the first time at bat and it’s pretty nerve-racking. God, I can remember getting a haircut and buying a new suit so they’d have some faith in my cost figures. I don’t bother about that anymore.”

  The final statement was scarcely necessary. Not many visitors found their way into Thatcher’s office wearing blue jeans and jogging shoes.

  “Between being excited at getting somebody to listen to me and being afraid I’d blow it, I didn’t know what I was doing,” Cherniak continued, lost in a nostalgic glow. “The whole thing was a blur.”

  Charlie Trinkam was always indulgent to youth.

  “Well, you must have done something right, Art. You sold your gizmo.”

  Cherniak beamed. “Not that time, I didn’t. It was the second time out that was a success.”

  The information emerging was less and less to Inspector Giorni’s liking. “Look,” he said, frowning, “the guy I’m checking on seems to fit your first category. He’s in the business, he’d know what firms to approach and how his idea would fit their product lines. But, if he’s stolen it from his company, he’s not going to go around presenting it himself, is he?”

  “Hell, no,” said Cherniak, taking crime in stride. “There’s too much risk that he’d run into someone who knew all about him and his employment. He’d use an agent.”

  “I thought agents in this field had a bad reputation,” Thatcher ventured. “That they were simply hucksters exploiting innocent simpletons.”

  Cherniak snorted contemptuously. “Oh, that bunch. There are hundreds of them circling the patent office. But there are some real agents who perform other functions. Max Steele, for instance, negotiates contracts for me. Then, if I don’t know the right firms, he finds a sales rep experienced in the field. The thing is, good agents don’t take just anybody. They demand a track record or its equivalent.”

  “Would my man qualify?” Giorni asked. “Always assuming the agent didn’t know he was stealing.”

  “Oh, I think so. From what you say, he could easily demonstrate that he was a serious prospect. He’d submit a professional presentation, accompanied by a list of the most likely buyers with an analysis of their product lines. Not to mention that he’d know what agent to go to.”

  Now that a hopeful road was appearing, they had reached a watershed.

  “Then it would really be useful to find out who those agents are,” Giorni said suggestively.

  “I can help you there, Inspector, but you’re going to have to loosen up,” Cherniak warned. “At the very least, I’ve got to know what field we’re talking about.”

  Giorni had seen this one coming, and he had no doubt what the result would be with such a dedicated reader of crime news.

  “Probably small kitchen appliances?” he began slyly.

  “Say, are we talking about that stabbing at the trade show? Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “Or possibly a digital reprogrammer.”

  The crime buff disappeared, to be replaced by the inventor.

  “For the consumer market?” Cherniak exclaimed excitedly. “Now which genius came up with that one? ASI or Ecker?”

  “Apparently Conrad Ecker,” Giorni said slowly, watching for signs of disbelief. “Although they tell me it’s not the sort of thing he’s done in the past.”

  But Art Cherniak evinced only respectful admiration. “Nothing that old bastard did would surprise me,” he said, bestowing the accolade of one professional on another. “Well, with this info, we can get started. If you like, I’ll call Max and ask him to put together a list of the agents who were probably approached by your man.”

  Cherniak was as good as his word, calling Washington on the spot. After triumphantly announcing that the work would begin immediately, he refused an invitation to lunch. True to Charlie Trinkam’s description, Cherniak was already yearning for his woodland retreat. Within minutes he was rushing off to catch a train.

  As soon as the door closed, Giorni dropped the veil of anonymity. “Of course it isn’t g
oing to be that easy. Sam Bradley wouldn’t use his own name.”

  “Don’t let that bother you, Inspector,” Thatcher said reassuringly. “You say there’s a limited list of ASI projects that failed to come to anything. Find an agent who’s handled one of them, and you’ll have a starting point.”

  “Then you can blow the alias out of the water,” Charlie proclaimed with gusto.

  Giorni favored his companions with a disenchanted gaze. “Look, when banks ask questions, people answer whether they want to or not. It doesn’t work that way with the police. These people in Washington will probably start yapping about confidential information.”

  “I don’t see how. After all, these agents are hired precisely in order to publicize the achievements of their clients. Their business is letting people know what’s for sale. And that’s all you’re asking to know. The rest will be a matter of tracking backward.”

  Insensibly Giorni was cheered by Thatcher’s analysis.

  “You mean, if the right product’s there and they give me the name of the client, I’m home free.”

  “Sure,” said Charlie, weighing in. “Nine chances out of ten, the client will be something called General Equipment Corporation at a P.O. box number. The signatures will be provided by a straw man.”

  All those experts back at headquarters were finally going to pay their way.

  “If there’s one thing our Fraud Squad is good at,” Giorni said, nodding happily, “it’s getting behind a straw man.”

  Chapter 27

  PAYING THE PIPER

  While John Thatcher huddled with New York City Police and inventors from the backwoods, Miss Corsa set about tabulating the latest arrears. By the time Inspector Giorni departed, she was reordering all immediate priorities. As a result, the following morning found John Thatcher back on his normal bland diet. Impeccable Wall Street credentials were required before anyone gained access to him. Fourth-quarter reviews, alternating with first-quarter estimates, crowded murder and mischief off his docket. At spaced intervals he was permitted light relief in the form of good gray Everett Gabler.

  Mercifully for Thatcher, this unnatural state of grace was abruptly terminated by a frantic telephone call from Tom Robichaux. Miss Corsa, despite well-founded suspicions, could scarcely deflect one of the Sloan’s traditional peers.

  “Tom!” Thatcher said with rare pleasure. “What new convulsions have you got from ASI?”

  Where the police are concerned, reciprocity is seldom the reward for services rendered. Thatcher did not expect Giorni to keep him abreast of the search for illicit moonlighting by Sam Bradley, but any discoveries there would be convulsing ASI. Tom Robichaux could never be considered a reliable source, but during Thatcher’s stint of forced labor he was, at least theoretically, available.

  “ASI?” said Robichaux, drawing a blank.

  With resignation, Thatcher reminded himself to smuggle in Ken Nicolls when Miss Corsa was not looking and asked, “What’s on your mind, Tom?”

  “Henrietta wanted me to make sure you haven’t forgotten about tonight,” Robichaux replied.

  “Certainly not,” said Thatcher, upborn by the conviction that Miss Corsa would remember what he did not.

  She briefed him later. “You’re due at seven-thirty, in the Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria.”

  “It will make a nice change,” said Thatcher.

  He was tweaking the wrong taskmaster. Miss Corsa truly honored the sacred wellsprings of private charity.

  A Musical Evening with Friends of the Julliard met standards loftier than hers, if a thousand dollars a plate was any criterion. Fully rigged out in white tie and tails, John Thatcher surveyed the usual gala scene—favor-laden tables, convoluted floral arrangements, and a Cunard-level bar—as well as the usual faces. He was engulfed by brilliant gowns, smiles, and diamonds.

  As a rule, putting a check in the mail sufficed for the reigning Mrs. Thomas Robichaux and her pet project. Over the years Thatcher, and half of Wall Street, judging from the acquaintances he sighted, had Saved the Rain Forest, Built the National Cathedral, and Preserved New England Antiquities with cold cash. But one consort in recent memory had actually required supporters of nonrepresentational art to view the sorry stuff. Now the current incumbent, a Friend, had deputized poor tone-deaf Robichaux to corral a live audience.

  Without high expectations, Thatcher deferred his quest for modest entertainment amidst this organized festivity in order to consult the program. Coming events (brought to him with the compliments of Robichaux & Devane) included brief remarks by assorted luminaries, then a musical interlude.

  Appended to this chilling text were some explanatory notes. Since moderato ma non troppo simply confounded his ignorance, Thatcher moved on to more intelligible code words. Despite recent changes in the tax laws, “patron” still stood for princely munificence. For “associate member,” Thatcher and his fellow initiates read pittance throughout.

  He was approaching the middle range of respectable contributors like the Chase Manhattan, Paramount, and the Sloan Guaranty Trust, when a top-tier name jumped up at him. There, big as life, was the Ecker Company, sandwiched between Dupont and Ford.

  Before Thatcher could decide how to interpret this temerity, his attention was claimed.

  “Long time no see,” said the voice in his ear.

  Slewing around, Thatcher encountered Charlie Trinkam. Predictably, Charlie had a decorative brunette on his arm.

  “Ah, good evening, Mrs. Laverdiere,” said Thatcher. With a nod toward the Sloan’s ranking bon vivant, he flourished his program at Tina. “You’re just the person to help me out. Tell me about this extraordinary generosity of yours to Juilliard.”

  Tina, radiant in a draped Grecian gown, was impersonating a dear little dimwit. “Oh, it’s not my generosity,” she fluttered. “It’s all of us. Ecker’s really rooting for Juilliard, and tonight we’ve all turned out to prove it. Why, Doug and Gloria have come up from Florida, and at this time of year, that’s something.”

  “Of course,” Thatcher agreed politely.

  But Tina’s prattle had alerted Charlie. “I see you two have already met,” he charged.

  “We’re old, old friends,” said Tina with an artful throb.

  Charlie, who rarely encountered playfulness to equal his own, was prematurely hopeful. Then Bob Laverdiere spoiled his party.

  “Yup, it’s a great night for all us Eckers,” Laverdiere sang out, enveloping Tina in a boozy hug.

  “That does it,” murmured Charlie sadly. His code, elastic about husbands, proscribed business after hours. Once the lovely Mrs. Laverdiere was identified as part of the Ecker Company, she was off limits. With regret for what might have been, Charlie moved on to greener fields.

  “Why’s he going away?” demanded Bob plaintively.

  Despite these distractions, Thatcher continued delving into the Ecker Company’s big-time commitment to the arts.

  “And are Conrad and Mrs. Ecker here, too?” he probed, improbable as this vision appeared.

  “With bells on,” Tina told him. “Alice is wearing the dress she bought for Betty’s wedding.”

  “Betty’s second wedding,” said Bob lugubriously. Then a long sip from his glass revived his spirits. “Say, this champagne’s really good. Let’s get the name and buy a couple of cases, Tina.”

  “Fine,” she said, sharing the joke with Thatcher. “One drink and Bob starts buying cases. That’s why I’m the designated driver.”

  “But it’s special,” her husband protested. “Here, have a taste. Better yet, I’ll get you a glass. I’ll get both of you a glass. Just wait right here.”

  With fuzzy determination he tottered off—past several tray-bearing waiters—in the approximate direction of the bar.

  Instinctively, Thatcher braced himself. Like Charlie, he had no innate fear of husbands as such but, too often, when they got tipsy, they strewed tight-lipped mates in their wake. Coping with enraged females had never been Thatcher’s forte.


  But Tina continued to bubble.

  “As you can see, we’re all celebrating,” she said cheerfully.

  Apparently the extended Ecker clan was presenting a united front. Thatcher was willing to accept this as gospel but he still wanted to know why.

  “Douglas, Junior,” Tina explained as if the whole world knew.

  Junior, Thatcher suddenly recalled, was Conrad’s gifted grandson. More to the point, tonight he was the family star.

  “. . . at Juilliard, where he’s doing brilliantly,” Tina continued. “That’s why he was chosen to conduct. Of course that’s a tremendous honor, but on the cello, Junior’s already a concert-caliber soloist.”

  Thatcher, no slouch at small talk, knew his limitations. Precocious genius, on or off the cello, reduced him to generalities.

  “No doubt you’re all very proud of him,” he said. Even if Junior was a budding Mozart, that should be safe.

  “Ye-es,” said Tina slowly. “Doug and Gloria are simply bursting. That’s why Ecker’s gone overboard for Juilliard. But there’s a downside, too.”

  “There always is,” said Thatcher, shifting automatically from one romance to another. In family firms as in family farms, only one happy ending is permissible—handing over the reins to the rightful heir. A sale to strangers is not a commercial transaction, but the death of a dream.

  And, as Tina demonstrated, a dream that is easily misinterpreted.

  “Of course it’ll be a thrill to have a superstar in the family,” she mused. “But in many ways it would have been so much easier if Junior were just a nice ordinary kid, who could take over when others leave off. Of course we all understand that Junior has to do his own thing.”

  Silk, satin, and dangerously high levels of perfume in the atmosphere usually caused Thatcher to suspend his critical facilities. Tonight some compunction for Junior moved him.

  “But, Mrs. Laverdiere, it is Doug himself who introduced the discontinuity. His retirement created the gap.”