by Emma Lathen
“Of course. Thank you Miss Corsa. Mr. Schneider, I am afraid that...”
“No, no, no apologies. Absolutely right. Withers is your president, isn’t he? Can’t keep him waiting.” Schneider laughed with practiced joviality—Thatcher could see him in conference with Brad Withers talking about your “young man” Thatcher—and rose to grasp Thatcher’s hand across the desk. As he gathered his coat and hat, he continued in satisfied tones. “All I wanted was the assurance that you would give this serious attention.” Feeling for his pipe, he looked around the office, then commandingly at Thatcher. “I think you’ll come to see that a partial distribution of the estate is the only answer.”
After another round of farewells before Miss Corsa’s desk, to which Miss Corsa remained completely indifferent, he was able to speed Schneider’s departure with promises that the Sloan would be in contact.
Thatcher watched his visitor stride down the hall and disappear around the corner. Not quite the country cousin if he recognized Withers. The unquestioning self-confidence, not to say arrogance, of a man who hires and fires.
“Miss Corsa, do we know who this Schneider is?”
Miss Corsa produced a business card. If invited she could obviously contribute a few strictures of her own. The card read:
Schneider Manufacturing Company
Felts and Industrial Textiles
100 Central Street
Framingham, Massachusetts 01701
508-242-2010
Arthur Schneider, President
“New England,” muttered Thatcher. “I thought so.” He flicked the card with a forefinger, then added, “Will you try to get young Nicolls in here today or tomorrow, Miss Corsa? Apparently he’s the one who can explain all of this to us. Tell him I’ll want a memo about the Schneider Trust.” If nothing else, Thatcher thought, he could protect members of his staff from the kind of hectoring of which Schneider was capable. No member of the Sloan had to tolerate bullying—at least, not for a nuisance account.
He dismissed the Schneiders from his mind, as he stood in front of Miss Corsa’s desk. “Let’s see. I wanted to put through a call to Everhardt tomorrow. Will you remind me, Miss Corsa? And I’ll want to talk with Walter Bowman later in the day. I think that’s all I had on my mind.”
Miss Corsa noted the requests in her book and then, as Thatcher prepared to return to his own office, permitted herself the ghost of a prim smile.
“You won’t forget your appointment, at three-thirty?”
“Appointment—with whom?”
“Mr. Withers.”
“Good Lord!”
Chapter 2
Payment Deferred
Normally Thatcher planned an early departure from the bank after a meeting of the Investment Committee so that he could devote a long evening in his apartment to his own review of the Sloan’s investments. But this afternoon Brad Withers had detained him with an enthusiastic description of how the Sloan’s “corporate image” could be improved by an expanded program of public relations. It was therefore almost six o’clock when Thatcher returned to his desk, to find its otherwise virginal surface embellished by a note from Miss Corsa indicating that he had an appointment with Ken Nicolls at 11 AM the next morning and by a memorandum from Nicolls himself. As he picked it up, Thatcher reflected that the familiar yellow papers represented a rush job; Nicolls had obviously been galvanized by the imminence of his first direct contact with the august head of the trust department. He settled down to read.
SLOAN GUARANTY TRUST COMPANY
Trust Department
(INTER-OFFICE MEMORANDUM—NOT TO BE USED OUTSIDE OF THE TRUST DEPARTMENT)
TO: John Thatcher (cc C. Trinkam)
DATE: Dec. 10
FROM: K. B. Nicolls
FILE NO.: 137-42-11
SUBJECT: Schneider Trust
CODE NO.: 67-(N)
1. Creation of Trust
The Schneider Trust was established on April 19, 1932, by Klaus Arthur Schneider for the benefit of his grandchildren. The original trust res consisted of certain securities chosen by the grantor and having a market value at that time of approximately $10,000. The Sloan Guaranty Trust was appointed trustee in the original trust document with full powers for the reinvestment of the trust funds in accordance with the laws of New York State governing the investment of capital by fiduciaries.
2. Terms of the Trust
The terms of the trust do not permit distribution of income. All income is to be reinvested and added to the principal. Upon the death of the last surviving child of Klaus Arthur Schneider, the entire trust corpus is to be distributed to his grandchildren (or to their issue in the case of death). The grandchildren do not share equally but take per stirpes:—that is, equal segments of the trust follow the line of each child and the grandchildren take as representatives of their parent rather than as individuals.
Thatcher grunted his dissatisfaction. He resented Nicolls’ painstaking definition of per stirpes. In his opinion, his subordinates should leave that sort of gobbledygook to the law department and say what they mean in plain English. Or, have the tact to assume that 25 years in the trust business had left him with a working knowledge of the basic vocabulary. He continued reading:
3. Investment of Trust Funds
The approximate value of the trust, if liquidated last week, would have been $300,000. A complete schedule of current investments is being prepared. The original investments of the settlor were extremely satisfactory (including blocks of IBM and RCA acquired in 1932) and no substantial reinvestment was undertaken until after World War II. Large purchases of Polaroid and Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing (3M) were made at that time and contributed to the impressive rate of growth of the corpus.
“My Lord!” Thatcher muttered, “‘The impressive rate of growth of the corpus!’”
4. Schneider Family
Klaus Arthur Schneider died in 1933 and was survived by all of his three children. The elder son, Arthur Schneider, senior, died in 1942 leaving one son, Arthur Schneider, junior, and one daughter, Grace Schneider Walworth. The younger son, Carl Schneider, died in 1936 leaving one son, C. Robert Schneider. The only daughter, Mrs. Hilda Schneider Henderson, survives; she is seventy years old, and has one son, Martin E. Henderson.
In addition to the trust, which in 1932 formed a very insignificant portion of Klaus Schneider’s assets, the grantor left a family business to his three children. Voting stock in Schneider Manufacturing Company was left to his two sons, and non-voting stock was left to his daughter. A year after the grantor’s death, Carl Schneider sold his interest to his brother Arthur Schneider, senior. The president of the Schneider Manufacturing Company is now Arthur Schneider, Jr, and Martin Henderson is Vice-President in charge of Sales and Distribution.
5. Distribution of the Trust
The trust becomes due for distribution upon the death of Hilda Henderson, last surviving child of Klaus Schneider. Formal notification was received by the Sloan Guaranty Trust, on October 25, of this year, that Mrs. Henderson had suffered a stroke from which recovery is extremely improbable. Her physicians at Lenox Hill Hospital anticipate death within six months at most.
The children of Arthur Schneider, senior, and Hilda Henderson have all been in contact with the Sloan Guaranty Trust. They have been unable to supply any information as to the whereabouts of Carl Robert Schneider, son of Carl Schneider, and to date efforts of the Sloan to locate him have been unsuccessful.
Thatcher glanced over the last page again. “The children of Arthur Schneider, senior, and Hilda Henderson have all been in contact with the Sloan Guaranty Trust.” The “all” confirmed his fears that the Sloan was involved with far too many Schneiders; and he was still in the dark as to the rash promises that Arthur Schneider (presumably junior) had extorted, if any, from Nicolls.
He swept the memorandum together and pushed it into his briefcase. Not quite what he wanted, but to do young Nicolls justice, he had pulled the information together quickly enough
, considering that he had no idea why it was wanted. And presumably he would outgrow his enjoyment of technical jargon.
Nevertheless, thought Thatcher, as he closed his office door and started down the corridor where cleaning people were already busy with their evening rounds, he was not much further along than he had been when Arthur Schneider left his office.
Most of the doors he passed stood open on dark and vacant offices. Five o’clock was the nominal closing time at the Sloan Guaranty Trust and at five o’clock secretaries and file clerks firmly saluted their superiors and the trust department was left to those who had to stay. Frequently Thatcher encountered Charlie Trinkam or Everett Gabler, while Walter Bowman’s staff was legendary for its devotion to duty after hours. He was amused to note, however, that in the December preholiday bustle, it was only around the corner, where junior officers were domiciled that there were still signs of life. Brad Withers might contemplate with pleasure a corporate image of a Sloan staffed with gravely dedicated toilers who strained every sinew for the public weal but Thatcher knew the facts of life; only the junior staff was ostentatiously chained to duty.
The frosted glass panel which bore the name “Kenneth B. Nicolls” was lighted, and sounds of activity came from within. On an impulse, Thatcher tapped briskly.
“Come in,” Ken Nicolls called without interrupting his tie-knotting. “I’m not lending you any more ties, Joe, until you bring back that green one you borrowed last month,” he continued as he finished his critical self-examination in the small mirror hung on the closet door, straightened to his full six feet, and turned to survey his visitor.
“My Lord!”
“Not quite,” John Thatcher said. It was painfully apparent that Nicolls was not kept afterhours by the exigencies of duties at the Sloan.
Instead of a soberly attired young banker, mature of judgment, and devoted to duty—what he had hitherto been presented with—Thatcher beheld an embarrassed young man whose blond hair contrasted painfully with a red face, clearly in a dilemma about his exposed shirttails.
“Do you have a minute to spare, Nicolls?” he asked him.
“Certainly, sir,” the younger man said hastily. He would be late meeting Joyce, but nothing could be done about that. From pure nervousness he made an ineffective pass at smoothing his hair.
“It won’t take long, I trust,” said Thatcher without sarcasm. “I’d just like to hear some more about the Schneider Trust that you handle.” He looked severely at Nicolls, who shifted awkwardly, then continued, “I’ve had an incomprehensible interview with Arthur Schneider that I hope you can explain. And why don’t you sit down?”
The question of tucking his shirt in was settled, Nicolls thought confusedly as he obeyed Thatcher’s injunction. His own immediate superior, Charlie Trinkam, was a jovial type whose camaraderie had always contrasted with Thatcher’s somewhat aloof manner. And Thatcher seemed more forbidding than usual as he sat in front of Nicolls’ desk looking with patent disapproval at the Modigliani-adorned wall.
Trying to hide his growing apprehension, Nicolls circled the desk, pulled out a drawer, and rapidly made a mental review of his handling of the account. No junior bank officer relishes the thought of dissatisfied clients complaining to his superiors.
But Thatcher’s irritation was directed toward himself, not Nicolls. He had stopped at his subordinate’s cubicle without thinking, and he disapproved of impulses which by-passed the normal institutional routes of communication. It was one thing to interview young Nicolls in the morning after he had had an opportunity to consult with Charlie Trinkam; it was another to catch him off guard, half-dressed, and without benefit of briefing. But Nicolls seemed to have pulled himself together, so perhaps no harm was done.
“Good Lord,” said Nicolls pulling folders out of his desk, “has he been bothering you too?”
“He has,” replied Thatcher grimly, “and I want to know why.”
“We can’t locate one of the heirs to this trust, and he’s furious at the possibility of a delay in distribution.”
“Better start at the beginning. I don’t really understand why Klaus Schneider should have set up such a small trust if he was a man of substance.”
Nicolls nodded as he sorted some papers. “Yes, it really was a sort of gamble. The old man had collected some insurance in 1932. He was a shrewd businessman and decided to take a flier in the market, buying when prices were at rock bottom and tying it up for a substantial length of time.” Nicolls warmed to his subject, “Of course, he didn’t foresee the war, but he did very well. He picked up some RCA at the middle of the depression.... ”
Thatcher broke into what was clearly going to be an enthusiastic description of market behavior since 1932: “And you’re sure there was no desire to skip the children.”
“Oh, no, sir,” Nicolls replied. “The Company—Schneider Manufacturing Company—was really the bulk of his very substantial fortune. He’d started it in 1875 or 1880 and it was very prosperous—they started out with textiles, and then branched out into industrial cloth.” Thatcher must have looked blank, because Nicolls added, “Things like felt linings for paper machines, and musical instruments. It’s all very specially made, you know. Well, in any event, the business was left outright to the old man’s children.... No, this trust was no more than a little gamble.”
“All right, Nicolls,” Thatcher said mildly, “I’ll bow to your superior wisdom. Now we have $300,000.... ”
Nicolls took the sentence to indicate interest in the portfolio; he again broke in. “Yes, sir, at least $300,000. In fact I have hopes of a trifle more if it’s distributed in the near future.”
Thatcher noticed the satisfaction; all trust officers became zealots, he thought, with amusement. “And you’ve been handling the investments?” he asked.
“For the last year and a half, sir,” Nicolls said enthusiastically. He rubbed his jaw in a somewhat sheepish gesture. “It was my first independent account.”
“I’m sure you’ve done excellently by these people. Better than they deserve. But what I want to find out about is this missing heir business. Now we have the old man—did you say his name was Klaus?—setting up a trust for his grandchildren. Right?”
Nicolls nodded, and Thatcher continued, “And there are four grandchildren who do not share equally. Now they are—”
“Robert Schneider and Martin Henderson, who get $100,000 each because they are only children. And Arthur Schneider and his sister, who get $50,000 apiece. Of course, if Robert Schneider turns out to be dead, and has no heirs, then Martin would get $150,000, and the others would take $75,000 each.”
“Yes,” said Thatcher. “Then it’s clear enough why the others want the question of Robert settled. How did this all come up? You said the bank had been notified of Hilda’s condition. Who told us? Arthur Schneider?”
“No, sir. Martin Henderson, Hilda’s only child, wrote me at the suggestion of the family lawyer. So I wrote back asking him for the addresses of the other heirs. Well, a few days later, he called me up and asked me to lunch. At the Pavilion,” he said, dwelling with obvious pleasure on the recollection.
“Do you mean that Martin Henderson lives in New York?”
Nicolls looked surprised. “Yes, sir, he handles the sales office for Schneider Manufacturing in New York.”
“Good Lord!” Thatcher exclaimed wrathfully, “if Martin Henderson lives in the city, and Martin Henderson gets a double slice of the trust, and it’s his mother who is dying, why in the name of all that’s holy is it that insufferable ass, Arthur Schneider, who erupted in my office as the spokesman for this whole pack?”
Nicolls couldn’t help grinning. “I suspect he likes to look on himself as the head of the family. Then, of course, he is the President of Schneider’s, and far more important in that area ....” “Well, never mind,” Thatcher said. “Tell me about your lunch. At the Pavilion, I think you said.”
Nicolls nodded. “We talked about the trust, and it turned out that he
really wanted to know why it was necessary to find Robert Schneider. None of the family had realized that all the heirs would have to be found before the trust could be distributed; I think that he was also surprised at the amount involved. When I told him that it was a question of several hundred thousand dollars, the fat was in the fire.”
It appeared that Martin Henderson had communicated with Arthur Schneider, who lived near the Schneider Manufacturing Company in Framingham, Massachusetts. And Arthur Schneider had communicated with his sister Grace Walworth, who lived in Washington, DC.
“I thought I had explained everything carefully,” Nicolls said ruefully, “but the next thing I knew, I was getting telephone calls from Mrs. Rowland Walworth.” He made an expressive gesture.
“She said ...” prompted Thatcher.
“Well, it’s hard to say. She was furious that she should have to wait to find Robert; she was furious that we hadn’t found Robert. And that was about all I could make out.”
“What did you say?” Thatcher asked with genuine sympathy. Not everybody can deal with hysterical women.
“To tell you the truth, sir, I just made soothing noises. I didn’t say much—just sort of sympathized with her. Mr. Trinkam said that I should put everything in writing. He suggested that I write to all three of the heirs, outlining what I had already told Martin Henderson.” He dug into the folder on the desk and handed Thatcher a paper. “Here’s a copy of the letter I sent.”
As Thatcher read the letter, Ken leaned back, and nervously lit another cigarette. What was this all about? Thatcher, in turn, read the letter with an inward sigh of relief, and handed it back.
“It seems sensible and straightforward, Nicolls. Did it placate Mrs. Walworth?”
“I’m not sure. That was the last I heard from her. Directly, that is.”
“What is she doing in Washington, by the way?”
“Army wife,” Nicolls said, meaningfully. “Her husband’s a colonel. They’ve lived all over, and settled down in Washington about ten years ago.”
