by Emma Lathen
A glance at Arthur Schneider, as he stomped into the room, was enough to show that he was thoroughly out of temper. His face was flushed, perhaps with cold, but his lips were tightly compressed. Nevertheless, he ruffled his son’s hair, kissed his wife on the cheek, and greeted Nicolls, before he sank heavily into a chair and accepted a sherry from Jane with a somewhat absent, “Thanks, Kitten.” His domestic obligations fulfilled, he looked about him, and said, “Well, I suppose you all know about Robert.” He shot an accusing look at Ken, who nodded.
“Mr. Nicolls says that he has died,” Mrs. Schneider began in a soothing voice.
“Oh Mr. Nicolls does, does he? Does he say that he has been murdered? And that these pinheaded numbskulls had the effrontery to ask what I was doing on the night he was murdered?”
“Arthur!” gasped his wife. “Murdered!”
“I always knew that he’d come to a bad end,” Arthur continued, “but this ....” The enormity of being murdered overwhelmed him.
For a moment nobody said anything. Then Mrs. Schneider, apparently feeling that this conversation was unsuitable for young ears, shooed the protesting Buddy to his room.
“Gee, Dad, do you have an alibi?” he cried from the hall.
“To your room, young man!” his mother said firmly.
“Well, Daddy, do you?” Jane said.
Arthur Schneider frowned at his daughter. “Now listen here, young lady ...”
But Jane could interrupt her father with impunity. She continued in a reasonable tone. “There’s no use pretending that I care anything at all about this man that I’ve never even seen. But I do care about you. So, do you have an alibi?”
“Josephine, I don’t know what we’re ...” began Arthur. He broke off, took a sip of sherry, and then said, “Yes, my girl, I do have an alibi. And you’re as bad as the police.” The Schneiders, Ken decided, had either forgotten his existence or decided to admit him to the family. John Thatcher would approve, but he felt very much out of place. Both Mrs. Schneider and Jane were clearly determined to hear the whole story.
“Arthur, when was this murder?”
Arthur indicated to his daughter that his glass could be refilled. “It was apparently the weekend I was coming back from Chicago.”
“Arthur!”
“Daddy, not really!”
“And,” Arthur continued, “I told them that if the Mayflower in Washington wasn’t a good enough guarantee that I wasn’t murdering this miserable...” again his feelings got the better of him and he waved his hand in a mute, but perfectly comprehensible expression of exasperation.
“You see, Arthur,” Mrs. Schneider said with a smile. “All’s well that ends well.”
“It’s all right for you to say that, Mother,” Jane said returning with some sherry which she handed to her father. “You two were perfectly comfortable in Framingham and Washington. I was the one who suffered.” Her mother laughed, and then turned to explain to Ken what had apparently become a family joke.
“My husband was flying home from Chicago that weekend. Let me see it was ...”
“Friday the thirteenth,” Arthur prompted. She looked at him for a moment, and then went on. “Yes, Friday the thirteenth. Well, of course there was a terrible snowstorm so they had to reroute Arthur’s plane to Washington, where he very sensibly checked in at the Mayflower, and had a good night’s sleep before coming in the next day.”
Arthur shifted impatiently, but did not interrupt. “I, on the other hand,” Jane said, taking up the narrative, “went to meet my father at Logan Airport, despite the snow.”
“I shudder to think what your driving must have been like,” her mother commented.
Ignoring the interruption, Jane continued. “The plane was due at nine-thirty. At ten they announced that it would be delayed. I sat and waited. Meanwhile the snow was still falling.”
“And I was getting frantic,” Mrs. Schneider added.
“At twelve o’clock I called Mother to tell her that the airline still said the plane was coming in.”
“I do hope, Mr. Nicolls, you sympathize with me. My husband flying, my son with the Outing Club, and my daughter at Logan on the worst night of the year.”
He grinned at her exaggerated tones, and Jane strolled behind her father and massaged his shoulder gently, in a gesture of affection. He grunted, clearly in a better mood. “It was snowing very heavily,” Mrs. Schneider said, “and the end result was that Jane called at two to tell me that there was still a possibility that the plane might be coming in, and I told her that her father was in Washington.”
“Yes,” said Jane, “by this time it was impossible to drive out of Logan, so I had to spend the night there. No coffee, no bar, nothing.”
“You’d think they’d know about things like that, wouldn’t you?” Ken commented. “The trick is to get to somebody who does know. Never ask at the ticket counter.”
“Never call and ask if a plane is going to be on time,” Mrs. Schneider said. “They always lie.”
“It’s all that glamour,” Jane announced. “They spend so much time in their snappy uniforms, and in those glamorous planes and offices that they don’t pay any attention to simple efficiency.”
“I don’t know what I paid for at college,” Arthur Schneider broke in, “I admit mistakes do happen, but this nonsense about glamour ....”
“No, Daddy, you can’t deny it. How could anybody lose a plane ... not to speak of your luggage ... if they were trying to do anything but look pretty.”
“You must admit, Arthur,” his wife said, “that you were quite wild when you discovered that, on top of everything else, they lost your overnight bag.”
Arthur stood up. “Well, mistakes do happen.” He forestalled an answer from his daughter, and apparently feeling that small talk had gone on long enough, turned to Ken. “Well, now that I’ve complained about everything, we had better get down to business. Mrs. Schneider and I would be delighted if you’d stay to dinner but let’s see if we can get a little peace in my study and get our conference out of the way first.”
“I think that’s unfair,” Jane cried. Her father merely said, “Off with you now,” and, leading the way to the study, said to Nicolls in a confidential tone of voice, “Women don’t understand a thing about business. You wouldn’t think so, would you, but my daughter studied economics at college. Ha!” He was obviously proud of his family. Ken said the appropriate things and followed him into a small book-lined room.
“Didn’t want to say so before,” Arthur said, “but I guess this means that Robert’s share of the trust will be split among the rest of us. I can’t really complain about going into those damn fools at the police. $25,000 isn’t bad for one day’s work.”
They had not told him about the children, Ken realized with a sinking heart. Jane and Mrs. Schneider had their work cut out for them at dinner, he thought, as he drew a deep breath.
“Well, Mr. Schneider, not exactly ....”
Chapter 8
Joint and Several Liabilities
The oblique and respectful inquiries initiated by the Sloan Guaranty Trust were, of course, by no means the only investigations into the death of Robert Schneider. At just about the same time that Ken was diffidently discussing the trust with Arthur Schneider, Captain Peter Self of the Buffalo Metropolitan Police was asking questions at Buffalo Industrial Products. And he was neither oblique, respectful nor diffident.
“Naw, Schneider didn’t bother me,” Paul Reardon, the line foreman at BIP, was saying to him. “You had to know how to take him. He was like a horse with blinders on. He was on his way up with his bright ideas and the hell with anyone who got in his way.”
“That can’t have made it easy working for him,” Self commented.
“So? A lot of guys are like that, only Schneider didn’t bother with any sugar coating. I could handle him.”
“Yes,” agreed Self quietly, “everyone says you could. I’m not worrying about that. I’m trying to find out what ki
nd of guy couldn’t handle him.”
“Besides,” added the foreman with a confident grin, “I’ve got an alibi. I walked two blocks home through the snow half an hour before Schneider ever got to that liquor store. And I’ve got four people to prove that I stayed there all night. It’s the first time anything good has ever come of living with my in-laws. Italians, you know,” he explained gloomily, “they like the idea.”
Self did indeed know. He had personally checked the Reardon-Manetti household ten days ago and he remembered vividly his encounter with an excited mother-in-law who refused to let her imperfect control of English interfere with her volubility. He had wondered then how the cheerful Reardon managed to fit in with that pack of passionate, doe-eyed Latins.
“Forget about your family troubles. Tell me about Schneider.”
“It’s like I told you. He didn’t have trouble with the line. Even when he was Production Engineer and was around the men more. He was the boss. He gave orders; we took them. He wasn’t around enough to be more than a pest. Nobody liked him, but that’s all. It’s the brass he had trouble with.”
“I know about that. Tell me more. Did he play the races? Was he a lush?”
“Naw. He went over to Fort Erie a couple times in the season maybe if he didn’t have anything to do, but he never put down any bets around here. And he drank, but nothing to write home about.”
“And women? What do you know about that?”
“I know what I read in the newspapers. He had a green nightgown in his washroom. So, he was normal. We never thought he was a pansy. Why all the fuss?” said Reardon, with his first show of truculence.
Captain Self smoothly moved on to ask about Schneider’s last conversation in the parking lot, before he had driven home to be murdered. The single spat of irritation had told Self all he wanted to know. All the rest was a smoke screen. He already had a file an inch thick on Robert Schneider’s personal habits in and out of the plant. For that matter he also had a file on Reardon’s activities as bookmaker for the plant. But that wasn’t what held his interest now as he droned on about Schneider’s last leave-taking. So Reardon knew all about Schneider’s mystery woman. Self had wanted to know if it was common knowledge. If Reardon knew, then what were the chances that Michaels knew? Did Novak know and, most important, did Kathryn Schneider know? She might not be in touch with the gossip around the plant, but certainly the other two would. He would have to be very cautious with Stan Michaels. But, nevertheless, he very deliberately made his way to the front office and in a flat uncompromising voice told Michaels, “We’ll have to have another talk.” And he asked his questions with no hint of apology until he got what he wanted, Stan Michaels’ breaking point.
The room seemed very quiet after Michaels’ outburst. They eyed each other wearily—two large, bull-necked men of middle years who were strangely different; Stan Michaels, whose arms flailed over his desk as he exploded into protestations and threats, and Self, sitting immobile and contained, as he quietly alternated interrogation and appeasement.
“Take it easy, Stan. We’re not looking for a fall guy.”
“All right, all right. So I didn’t get along with Schneider. Who did? Is that any reason why I should kill him? I didn’t even have any insurance on him.”
“People don’t kill just to make money. Sometimes they kill so they won’t lose it.”
“Lose it!” A sweeping arm imperiled the desk lamp. “In another ten years Schneider would have made a millionaire out of me. He already nearly got us the biggest contract of our lives. You’re talking through your hat.”
“What about these rumors that he was trying to force you out?”
“In a pig’s eye! Look, Roy Novak, Jeannie, and I hold 90 per cent of this business. Even after we go public, I’ll still have control. If there was any forcing, it would have been me who did it. But I put up with him because he was a money-maker and I would have gone on putting up with him. I’m just telling you this so you’ll know I wouldn’t have had to kill him if I wanted to get rid of him.”
“If he was so important and so valuable, wasn’t he dissatisfied with just 10 per cent?”
“Sure. He was always dissatisfied, just on general principles. I was letting him buy more bit by bit. But in his own quiet way, he was a big spender. He didn’t have much spare cash ever. I would have been dead and gone for twenty years before Schneider owned 40 per cent of the business.”
“Well, he may not have been great on saving, but he was due to come into a $100,000 of cold cash. He should have been able to do some bargaining with that.”
“What!” Michaels assumed the posture of a man belted in the midriff. It looked very phony, thought Self, but then all of Stan’s gestures were larger than life.
“Yes, rich relatives in New York.”
“So what?” grunted Michaels, recovering his belligerency. “A big roll still didn’t make him kingpin around here. I’m getting sick of this. This is the fifth time you’ve been here. And you’re not the only one. I’ve got everybody on my neck. The underwriters are raising Cain, Roy Novak’s away seeing about some licenses just when I could use him here, and we need a 30 per cent jump in production if we’re going to be able to nail down this new contract. And you want me to spend all my time telling you where I spent the night of December 13th! Well, I’ve told you. Right here. I couldn’t get that damn Pontiac started on the ice, the radio said the roads were closed, so I said the hell with it and sacked out on the couch. Now beat it and let me get some work done.”
“O.K., Stan, let’s not make a federal case out of this. You say you spent the night here. But all we know is that you were here the next morning when Reardon showed up, and he says you looked as if you were on the couch all night. Your clothes were rumpled and you needed a shave. That doesn’t mean that you couldn’t have gone down town and come back here before morning when you found out you couldn’t make it out to your place in Hamburg.”
“O.K., I don’t have an alibi. Nobody in Buffalo has an alibi for that night.”
“I know it,” said Self. “That blizzard was a godsend for whoever pulled this job. Everybody either got home four hours late, or they tried to get home and couldn’t so they showed up at a relative’s house around midnight or they took a bus and the driver can’t remember because he was too busy skidding on ice, or they put in a call to the AAA which couldn’t get to them for three hours, or they slept in their office without any witnesses. Paul Reardon’s the only man in Erie County who has an alibi and he has in-law trouble instead.”
“Well, if you’ve got all that to worry about, Pete, take a load off your mind and forget about me. I didn’t have any reason to kill him.”
“All right, so he couldn’t push you out. What about Novak? He must have counted on coming into the business some day ever since he married your daughter. After all, they say he was the bright young man around here until Schneider came. Roy wouldn’t like that much.”
“Nuts. Roy got along with Bob Schneider a lot better than I did. Besides Roy’s never been on the production end, just the financial end—even before Schneider came. You know, Roy started off as an accountant.”
“Then what about his stake in the business? Was he still going to step into your shoes?” pressed Self.
“Sure, sure. Jeannie will inherit my holdings. Then she and Roy will have control. Schneider couldn’t do any more after my death than before,” Michaels was now visibly sweating, but he summoned up a weak grin. “Besides, you’re worried about me murdering Schneider, not Schneider murdering me. Remember?”
“Actually, it was Novak I was asking about,” said Self quietly. He paused and then continued, “But we can wipe that out now anyway, Stan. We’ve checked up on him. He was in Montreal just the way he should have been, sitting in on a poker game that didn’t break up till late at night.”
Self affected not to notice the heavy sigh of relief which Michaels tried to restrain too late. So Stan not only knew all about it, but he was
quite certain that Novak had known too. Had the two men discussed it? Self thought not. It was not a subject on which Michaels could be expected to be forthcoming, and Novak was notorious for his tact; as are most young accountants who marry the boss’s daughter. The only thing to do at the moment was to try another tack.
“Did Schneider ever take things home from the plant?”
“Sure he did—papers, drawings, sometimes a trade journal if it had an article he wanted to read.”
“I don’t mean that sort of thing. Something that would go into a small box.”
Michaels, in sheer gratitude at having left behind the whole question of Novak, was even trying to be helpful.
“In a box? You mean a piece of equipment? Why should he do that? He didn’t have a shop, and he wasn’t much with his hands anyway. None of them are nowadays.”
“You know what I mean. It was in the Courier. Somebody took something from his apartment after he was murdered. There was a mark in the blood—about two and three-quarters inches by one and a half. It was made from some kind of cardboard.”
“What makes you think it was a box? Maybe it was some kind of a ticket.”
“Yes,” agreed Self patiently, “it could be something like that. What I want to know is whether he could have taken any small object from the plant that would be important to anyone else.”
“Look, Pete, we don’t make guided missiles; we make felt. Nobody’s going to pull a blackjack to steal a screw from one of our machines. They’re just plain ordinary screws.”
Self was inclined to share this view and, as both men were now speaking in the robot monotones of complete exhaustion, he brought the interview to a speedy close and took his leave. It was significant that he had not once broached the topic of Schneider’s relations with women.
Stan Michaels’ entrance into Reardon’s glassed-off cubby hole was elaborately casual.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get in earlier, Paul,” he began, “I want to clear the weekend schedule with you.”
