Murder Makes the Wheels Go Round

by Emma Lathen

  All of this activity centered around the sleek Super Planty poised in majestic immobility next to the reflecting pool where it had been stationed the previous day. The pool was doing the occasion justice. Instead of the leaden liquid surface so often presented by standing water or the glassy mirror of a motionless summer afternoon, today the pool was a beautiful blue, stirring into 100s of little ripples by the spring breeze which was whipping the many flags flying overhead. The car’s chrome grillwork was picked up by the water so that silver highlights danced over the crinkly blue surface.

  “Well, everything’s ready except that the brass hasn’t shown up yet,” said Buck as he led Arnie and John firmly to their front row seats.

  “We were hoping to see Madsen,” protested John, fighting against fate.

  “Well, he’s here all right. Over there with Hauser; but I think he will be pretty busy.”

  John followed Buck’s gaze and repressed a shudder. Madsen was involved with a little group on the sidelines where Hauser happily presided over the press. Issuing sharp commands, waving his arms, strutting around like a turkey cock, Hauser was clearly having the time of his life. A prudent man would have stayed safely in the shelter of Buck’s orbit, but then John mused, Hauser had never been prudent or sensible.

  Arnie had resigned himself by now to a wasted morning surveyed the crowd with a jaundiced eye. “This has been going on long?” he asked disapprovingly.

  “For hours. One of the guards told me that some people were here before 7 AM. Why even my secretary got here on time. Haven’t seen her since; must be around here somewhere.”

  Locating any particular secretary would have been difficult since the office staff was brightening the scene with cotton summery dresses as they maintained a busy air of activity by passing back and forth, in and out, never very far from the focal point of attention, the Super Planty. Chances to see a crown prince don’t come often. Some mysterious system of communication had been established, however, which allowed a young woman to interrupt a conversation every now and then by brightly announcing that Mr. So and So was wanted on the phone. MM had dressed up to meet its public.

  “And not just the secretaries,” Buck continued on a less impressed note. “Most of the wives are here too. I guess they want to see what a prince looks like. Di left the house before I did this morning.” He waved casually across the pool to where Di was resplendent in a rose silk suit, talking intently to Orin Dunn, who was shifting uncomfortably.

  “Makes a nice outing for everybody,” Arnie said as he was trying hard to get into the spirit of things.

  “Yes, but it’s still tough right now. You have to admit...Hey Thad, come over and meet some people.” Thad, UAW Local 7777 of the AFL/CIO, known to John only through his photographs in various newspapers, dropped into a nearby seat and allowed himself to be introduced. He looked like what he was, Labor’s Man of Distinction. “Well, Thad, this isn’t your sort of rumble. You’re supposed to be against crown princes and sheikdoms. What are you doing here? Keeping an eye on the opposition?”

  John, who had heard some of Buck’s views about his stay in jail, was not surprised by this camaraderie. A man who could take the inmates in stride in a federal prison was not going to be thrown off by a mere union official. Thad’s answer was brief and just as friendly, “Yes, but I’m supposed to be very much for cars. As a matter of fact I’m taking part in the presentation.”

  “Can you beat that? What do you have to do with it?”

  “I represent labor.” Thad smiled slightly. “Tell me, Buck, who’s going to represent Plantagenet, Ed or Ray?”

  There was a brief silence as Buck eyed Thad with some annoyance. Thad, in turn, was examining his square tipped fingers.

  John kindly interceded, “Wahl seems incredibly busy.” Buck, whatever his virtues, was not up to sparring with Thad. Gratefully everyone turned to watch Wahl direct the labors of several people in natty overalls emblazoned with “Plantagenet” in Italian script.

  “He’s trying hard, that’s all,” said Buck grumpily. With that he said, “Well, I see people over there who are arriving. I’d better go over there.” With a friendly nod Buck rose and strode away to integrate himself into the welcoming committee now surrounding the first of a long line of limousines sweeping into the driveway. Only a cynic would have called this an escape. Thad, John was willing to wager, had been born one.

  They watched Buck greet men just struggling out of a shining limousine. Then Thad uttered a short exclamation, “There are Coningly and Shattuck from the Board of Directors.” He paused meaningfully, and said, “And Eberhart, the former president.” As the aisles formed among the spectators for the dignitaries ascending to the dais, Thad continued thoughtfully, “You know Eberhart’s the man that the judge said was responsible for the price fixing. Now they’ve put him up on the platform and they’ve got old Buck giving everyone the glad hand. If they let Jensen muscle in on Wahl during this presentation, it must mean they are going to take them all back. I don’t think Krebbel is the man to pull something that raw. He gave into French about inviting Eberhart, but I bet he draws the line right there. If you ask me, Jensen isn’t hiding out so he can steal everyone’s thunder at the last minute. Jensen’s not here because he is licked and knows it.

  John maintained diplomatic silence in the face of a speech he regarded as deliberately designed to elicit his comments. He noticed that even Arnie heroically bit back a commentary on the management astuteness that could keep such a decision not only from the world but Wahl himself.

  Undeterred by the lack of response, Thad went on, “Of course, Ray might have so much inside information about the company that Krebbel doesn’t have any choice but to keep him. But if that’s the way the wind blows, things are going to get pretty ugly.”

  Having made the Wall Street interests aware of the union position, Thad bestowed a valedictory smile on them as he moved off to be photographed. “Nasty,” Arnie said softly.

  “But suggestive.”

  Arnie shrugged. “Heck, I didn’t say he was wrong. No matter how you slice it, this sort of situation, uhoh, here’s Celia. And something’s up. She looks as if she’s had trouble. You don’t think she’s run into Ray, do you? Do you mind if we have her here with us, John? I don’t like to leave her alone in this crowd.” Without waiting for a reply, he stood and beckoned her over imperiously. But in the end he had to go to her. She was walking blindly through the crowd, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth, oblivious to the curious looks she was drawing. She saw Arnie and said, “I’m so ashamed. I don’t know what to say...” She gasped as he led her to the chair next to John.

  “Now, Cele, don’t worry about that. Just take it easy and you don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.”

  “But I’ve got to tell you. He’s just lost control I can’t believe the things he’s saying. I wasn’t looking for him you know. I just bumped into him. And he said you just have to decide what it is you want and then go out and get it. But it’s the way he looked while he said it. I tell you, Arnie, I am frightened. I never thought things would come to this...”

  Arnie, who was rapidly soaring in John’s estimation by the massive lack of self-consciousness he displayed in dealing with a nearly hysterical woman at a crowded business function, ceased giving vent to his soothing noises and put a straight question to her that righted her attention. “When did you meet him?”

  “30 minutes ago. On the other side of the building. It’s deserted with everyone over here.”

  “What set him off? Or was it just seeing you?”

  His cross examination had a clearly beneficial effect on her. Straightening up she gave a final decisive sniff into the scrap of linen she held. “No, that is, let’s not talk about it anymore. Arnie, and Mr. Thatcher, oh dear, I know I’ve behaved like a fool and I’m so sorry to have inflicted that upon you. Oh, look, here’s the prince arriving.”

  From the last of the stately limousines French was emerging in compan
y with a slim dark haired young man clad in slacks and a sport jacket. So much for Hauser’s flowing robes, John chuckled quietly and with immense satisfaction. As the two men shuffled uneasily for precedence in an “After you Alphonse” routine whereby French tried successfully to extend the courtesies due from host to guest and Crown Prince Bulbul tried unsuccessfully to extend those due from youth to age, there was a disturbance in the driveway. The driver of the limousine was reluctant to miss any of the glories about to unfold. Since he knew there were no more limousines to come, he delayed putting his machine into motion. A stubborn little red car tooted impatiently to get by. Unable to believe his ears, the driver turned to give the insistent motorist a frosty glare. A moment later he was galvanized into such a frenzy of action that he jerked his Plantagenet Scepter, “Symbol of Achievement,” up the driveway in a manner singularly inappropriate for any professional MM driver. The cause of the commotion became apparent when Krebbel emerged from his red Drake, “The Lively Fun-loving Compact.” A titter from the crowd greeted his appearance. Not daunted, Krebbel gave a friendly wave to the right, left, and strode unhurriedly up to the platform where he took his seat next to the prince.

  “I think that’s ridiculous. Why can’t he use a Planty like everyone else?” asked the querulous voice of a newcomer.

  “Hello Audrey,” Celia said cautiously, “Gentlemen, you have met Mrs. Wahl haven’t you?”

  Indeed they had as Arnie and John acknowledged with bare civility and with no enthusiasm for another round with her. Celia’s caution was unnecessary because Mrs. Wahl was presently sober. As far as John was concerned that wasn’t a great gain, though somewhat so he admitted to himself.

  “Well, he probably just came in from one of the plants,” Celia said calmly.

  “I know, I know,” Audrey replied in her evidently standard perpetually irritated voice. “Ray told Ed he was going to start the day at Plantagenet before he came here. That’s not what I mean. He shouldn’t be running around doing errands today. He should have been here in the car with the prince. And, Ed should have been there too,” getting to the genuine source of her complaint. “Why Ed isn’t even up on the platform. It’s a Plantagenet they are presenting and Ed’s in charge of Plantagenet isn’t he?”

  As John feared, Audrey was no easier to get along with sober than drunk. But the whining note in her voice failed to conceal the urgency in her desperation. Celia took the bull by the horns in a manner John regarded as rash to the point of folly.

  “Andrey, stop hinting. Are you trying to say that Ray is going to make the presentation?”

  “Ray, oh no. He’s not going to be a problem anymore. Audrey’s lips paused with malice as she went on, “That’s been taken care of.”

  Celia demanded, “What do you mean?”

  “Just that the division isn’t going to do the honors, that’s all,” Mrs. Wahl said sulkily. “Krebbel is going to do the whole thing himself. I guess they are starting now.”

  Celia frowned worriedly. Before she could speak a voice over the microphone announced the prince’s national anthem would now play. A medley of weird wailing noises broke forth in clashing discord. The audience obediently came to its feet and an expression of bewilderment appeared on the prince’s face.

  “10 to 1 they even got the wrong music,” Arnie said disgustedly. After at least 17 verses of someone’s national anthem, there came a vast shuffling of feet as the audience reseated itself. Krebbel thereupon delivered a credible speech under the circumstances. He hit all the bases about the efforts of the Plantagenet division, the union represented by Thad, the workers on the assembly lines, and wound up painting a picture of the glorious future for MM. He concluded by saying the specific merits of the car would be demonstrated later by PR.

  The prince was not to be outdone. He said he regretted his father’s absence, in his flat American drawl, and went on to apologize for his attire saying he was delayed in his flight from California where he was studying at Cal Tech. Pleasantries followed with the informality to be expected from a Californian, which the young man clearly had become, the merits of Cal Tech as a rival institution to MM, and his own competence as an engineer. It was a truly Oriental display of gratitude for this invitation to speak and the splendid car he was about to receive. He ended his remarks by stating his personal preference for a sports car, aptly the MM Hotspur, to much applause from the audience. At this point the ceremony was handed over to PR and everything went wrong as it usually did with Hauser, John thought. Hauser went through a tedious list, getting certain things wrong that made the engineers guffaw. Hauser overrode those guffaws with renewed zeal by moving to the demonstration part of his presentation. He used a long pointer to his chart to do so; most speakers would have noted the restiveness of the audience but not Hauser. He kept going, finally swinging open the front door. He let a silence develop to spark anticipation and went on, “And now,” he shouted in the accent of one gone completely mad he continued, “you have heard that this mode was designed to be completely armored, impervious to bullets and mortar fire. We will show you.”

  A flunky rushed forward with an ominous looking object. “This,” he said impressively, “is a machine pistol issued by the Army capable of piercing 2 inches of sheet metal. I will shoot it from point blank range and you will not even see a dent on the bodywork.”

  A hushed silence should have descended on the audience. Instead the press looked bored. Buck said, “Good Lord,” loudly enough to reach the back of the audience. The prince looked worried about his car.

  A brief staccato of firing and it was over. MM was as good as Hauser’s word. The shiny metal showed not a dent though the paint was the worse for it. The prince and the dignitaries let out a sigh of relief.

  Triumphantly Hauser swung open the rear door and a bloodied head and shoulders of a man crumpled forward until lying at Hauser’s feet. For a moment, the whole scene was a frozen tableau.

  Then 17 women screamed simultaneously and Hauser backed away from the body. His faithful aide rushed forward, bent down, and exclaimed, “It’s Mr. Jensen. He’s dead. You must have killed him.”

  Celia went white and slumped upon Arnie as Audrey let out peal after peal of shrill hysterical screams that resounded through the clear spring morning.

  Chapter 6

  Automatic Transmission

  A short time later the forces of order and decorum asserted themselves and 2 recumbent forms were removed from the scene of battle. One was the late Ray Jensen and the other Hauser himself, meeting the crisis by fainting.

  They were of course not the only ones to leave the poolside shaken up. Most spectators made less dramatic exits. While John helped Arnie revive Celia, John noticed that Audrey had recovered enough to demand that Ed take her away. He spotted Di among the secretaries similarly fleeing the scene in reasonably good order. The men were harder to identify but they all seemed to melt away except for a long black police car that deposited the advance guard of the Michigan State Police.

  Total confusion ensued. PR tearfully assured everyone they had not killed Jensen since the car had no puncture. The situation was not improved by the simultaneous arrival of 4 cardiac doctors called separately to attend to Hauser.

  Buck pitched in with a light hearted approach starting with, “It happens all the time,” and ending with a tedious story about an executive who was thought to have a heart attack in a tennis game but turned out to only have a cracked rib.

  “There they go,” as the 4 doctors departed. “Undoubtedly already toting up their bill,” Buck chuckled. “Now we’ll see some action,” he added with gusto. John thought that although perhaps not appropriate commentary it at least moved people off the subject of Jensen, at least for the moment, so they could individually get their balance back.

  Buck was disappointed by the slowness of it all. The senior policeman was taken in hand by Krebbel, who gave him accurate and a detached view of the situation, John thought. Various techs busied themselves with the car
’s interior and the gun itself. Beyond demanding the names and addresses of those who had remained, and accepting the statement of the company nurse attending to Celia who was in shock, the police expressed no immediate need for witnesses. Arnie and John satisfied themselves Celia would remain in the MM infirmary until her sister arrived and then sought relief at the bar in their motel.

  Arnie said almost unnecessarily, “This is going to be a mess.”

  He was right of course, John knew. Hauser was incapable of capitalizing on the most newsworthy event of his life, the same could not be said for the rest of the American media.

  By the time Arnie and John could proceed to a late lunch, precedent was being broken and an industrious youth was hawking Detroit papers throughout the Telegraph Motel’s posh dining room, the Wild Steer. “Vehicle of Death,” John read, that would be good for business as MM business just got worse and worse he reflected.

  “It could be worse, I guess,” Arnie said but wasn’t exactly sure how. “Any facts?”

  “Won’t be until the later editions,” said a Saginaw parts dealer at the next table. “But they’ll bring the papers in here.”

  He too was right. After a profitless afternoon communicating with their New York offices, Arnie and John met later that evening for another round of drinks in the motel’s cocktail lounge, aptly named the Fuel House.

  “Hugh thinks I should stick around this weekend,” helping himself to salted peanuts and tossing off his drink. He continued in a slightly disrespectful tone about his boss, “Hugh says that maybe we will have to defer this stock issue until the mess here is cleared up.” He looked inquiringly at John.

  “Yes. That’s the line Bowman has sold our Investment Committee on. Don’t worry. With the market behaving the way it has been, and recent events here, MM won’t be issuing any stock for a while,” as John paused to say, “Ah there are the evening papers.”