Murder Makes the Wheels Go Round

by Emma Lathen

  “That’ll shake up the steel industry. You’ve got to hand it to them. Ah, the driver? The guy who took the Planty to the pool that Thursday? No, and they are still hounding us about it. If this goes on, I’ll pull my people out,” reverting to his bellicose public manner, as he went on, “That’s a red herring. First, why would he? Second, I’ll bet he wasn’t authorized. Probably one of Hauser’s people. They’re all over the place; note they haven’t made a big deal about a PR guy hopping in for the ride. Why all this fuss about the driver? Just another case of bias against union people.”

  Riley cut him off before he ranted on further, “Georgeson is convinced the murder stems from sex and/or money. And I suppose he’s right. But I can’t make him understand the different forms that money takes.” He summarized Georgeson’s statement of faith and his failure to instruct. “That’s interesting. But Georgeson’s wrong. It’s got to be sex or money. People murder because they have a passion for something. The whole point about a passion is that it is single-minded. You don’t go passionately chasing off in 2 directions. That’s what makes the case against Madsen stink. I suppose he is capable of murdering someone; they keep telling us we all are. But he couldn’t kill Jensen because the 2 of them didn’t care about the same thing. Glen would never kill about MM; Jensen wouldn’t kill about anything else.”

  Riley let out a sign of relief. Thad got it right. He replied, “That’s it. I’ve felt all along Jensen’s death had to make sense to someone in terms of MM.”

  Thad looked thoughtful. “You’ve been here long enough to get the feel of the place. I’ll tell you something, for what it is worth. There’s been a feeling of incompletion around here for months. Everyone’s known it, and everybody thinks it is because they didn’t decide whether to take back Jensen and Holzinger. But I don’t. I think the biggest mistake French made in his life was not letting Krebbel dig out the facts on who tipped off your people at Justice. French is no fool; some think he is because he is something of a windbag. But he can be tough when he needs to be. But on this one he made a big mistake.”

  Riley nodded slowly, “Of course we’ve been just as glad they didn’t start digging around. But what makes you think it is so important?”

  “Because the tip came from someone in the know; someone in the inner circle. Normally most corporate maneuvering is out in the open, and everybody knows who their enemies are. But this was a switch. Here somebody moved underground and did it to bring the whole house of cards tumbling down. I don’t know who it was or whether it worked or whether it backfired. But I do know that everybody up in the executive office has been living with this knowledge and pretending to ignore it. Everyone but Jensen. He was a vindictive man and never would have rested until he found out. That’s why I say French made a mistake. He could have trusted Krebbel to handle it smoothly, and to have the whole thing buried before those 3 got back. But Jensen wouldn’t care where the chips flew; he was like that. And there was nothing anyone could have done to stop a man like that. If you ask me, that’s why everyone had been sitting around biting their nails waiting for him to get out. And I’d be willing to bet that is why he was murdered.”

  Riley agreed.

  Chapter 14

  License Suspended

  Riley found his conferences with Georgeson irritating and those with Thad insightful. Nevertheless he had the consolation of evenings with Susan. They took him to restaurants costing far more than his per diem rate and led him into heated illogical arguments about MM’s standards of commercial honesty. Curiously he found these evenings more than adequate compensation.

  John had no such solace. His days, when not involving strange forays were occupied by conferences with MM financial executives. His evenings were spent in the bosom of the corporate family. Again he enjoyed the amenities of the Hunt Club, again he dined with French, who was reviving tactlessly it seemed to John. The Wahls entertained him at a cocktail party that he hoped to avoid. Hauser bore him off to the Kingsley Inn for an extended paean to the art of PR in modern America.

  Thus when the Sloan phoned him just before noon on Friday he was not tempted to indulge any further his weakness for stagnant murder investigations: “No, no, Miss Corsa. Tell Withers I am flying back to New York tonight.”

  “And Mr. Bowman wanted me to ask you if you think it would be advisable to schedule a special meeting of the Investment Committee tomorrow morning,” as she ticked the item off her list.

  “On Saturday morning?” John had unfairly forgotten that he had contributed to Bowman’s sense of urgency about MM. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. You might let him know, Miss Corsa, that it is highly unlikely MM is going to proceed with its financing just now.”

  “Yes, Mr. Thatcher,” she said. Her disapproval told him that she had seen through his pretenses, even if Walter Bowman had not.”

  “Any important messages?” “I’ve taken care of everything, Mr. Thatcher she replied kindly.

  It might be dog-eat-dog among the MM upper management John reflected as he packed. At the Sloan there was only one threat to his position, Miss Corsa, who was thankfully as devoid of ambition as of other emotions as far as he could tell.

  He was so cheered by the prospect of returning to his own office and apartment, blessedly deficient in motel decor, that he resolutely beat down a flickering sense of dissatisfaction about knowing no more about Jensen’s death now than a week ago, when that eminent executive slumped out of the back seat of the Super Plantagenet.

  “A week wasted,” he concluded censoriously. “You have found out about the MM underwriting in some detail,” he countered to himself. This held no water since he knew enough about the MM underwriting before he left New York to make the correct investment decision. But Thatcher was not a man to brood over past errors. Escape was at hand; he greeted Mack with real anticipation as the lordly Super Plantagenet rolled up to transport him for the last time from the Telegraph Motel to MM. It developed on the trip as they proceeded that Mack felt he had to ask a personal question, seeing as how Mr. Thatcher was leaving that night.

  “Ask ahead,” John invited.

  “At this bank you own, you’ve got a car?” asked Mack.

  “A Plantagenet of course,” John said with grave benevolence, unhesitatingly sinking the pearl gray Rolls Royce with which Withers dazzled visiting dignitaries.

  Mack beamed. This merciful tempering of justice brought its own reward. As the Plantagenet glided alongside the MM Pool, John sighted a crumpled cigarette wrapper floating brazenly on its pristine surface. Instructing Mack to be ready 4 PM, incautiously inquiring if that would give them time to make his 6 PM flight, and being told the Plantagenet would get him there on time, John entered the MM lobby, reviewing the minimum courtesies demanded in this last round of conferences. Madsen, who had a special claim to civility, he had already called. Madsen had sounded harassed. Mrs. Jensen, predictably, had not been in. John, who had been driven to reading the local paper by his extended stay in the area, could well believe that anyone invariably described as “the grief-stricken young widow” might choose to disappear. That took care of his real obligations; Mrs. Wahl and Mrs. Holzinger would get nothing more from him than flowers via Miss Corsa.

  This left an irreducible minimum of one, Krebbel. With luck he might escape the rest of the front office. There was that assistant treasurer and he mulled over others. He was engaged in this uncomplimentary review of the MM family when he saw Riley in the lobby. A sense of something undone, of some source untapped, which would have been recognized at once by Riley, stirred. John checked it and stepped over to say goodbye.

  Riley replied he was sorry to see him depart. Then unable to resist the temptation to talk to another financial specialist, Riley described Georgeson’s suspicions about Madsen with considerable acidity.

  “The fool,” Thatcher said. He was not referring to Captain Georgeson. He understood why the police suspected Madsen; he was merely surprised that Jensen’s anomalous position at
MM had not received more scrutiny.

  When he remarked as much, Riley agreed. “Georgeson has gone overboard on the personal motive. The only thing Madsen can be grateful for is that there isn’t enough evidence for an arrest.”

  On this sober note they parted. John ascended in the elevator with his sense of well-being evaporated. He found that his final exchanges with Krebbel were not going to be the pleasant dialogue of their lunch at Guido’s Cafeteria.

  “Sorry you are going,” Krebbel said upon learning John’s travel plans. At last he was beginning to show signs of the strain he had been living with since the murder John noticed.

  Mendaciously Thatcher agreed that it was too bad the press of duty recalled him to the Sloan. He expressed formal regret for the difficulties surrounding the MM financing and his belief that after these temporary awkwardnesses were over, MM would grow and prosper. He skillfully sidestepped comment on the financing itself.

  Wahl, as always less perceptive than Krebbel, launched into a last minute attempt to sell Thatcher on the hypothetical stock offering. He too showed the signs of stress with blood shot eyes and an unhealthy skin tone. John became aware that ordinary stress was the least of Wahl’s problems. He was riding an uneasy course between nervous anxiety and incipient arrogance. He was now firmly ensconced as the Plantagenet division manager; this might explain the arrogance, but not the fear which so clearly accompanied it.

  “... get a copy of those reports for you,” Krebbel said interrupting Wahl. He stabbed a desk button and his secretary materialized. “Miss Shaw, will you get those projected sales figures the division managers sent in? I’d like Mr. Thatcher to have a copy before he goes.”

  Miss Shaw withdrew, and John assumed the look of a man who has been promised a pearl of great value. The 3 men spent the next few moments in conversation dominated by Wahl’s continuation of his ill-timed sales pitch, “... and the Planty is a beautiful job,” Wahl announced.

  “How does Consumers Union like it?” John inquired provocatively, eliciting an amused glance from Krebbel.

  Consumers Union, it appeared, had rocks in its head. Wahl was about to embroider when Miss Shaw appeared and reported that the preliminary Projections were not in the file.

  Krebbel frowned slightly. “We didn’t route it on to Holzinger did we?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Miss Shaw. “I’m sorry, Mr. Krebbel. But with all the excitement I seem to have forgotten to log it.”

  “You haven’t seen it have you Ed?” His division manager looked confused so Krebbel went on, “Miss Shaw, why don’t you call around the divisions. If we can get hold of it I would like Mr. Thatcher to have a copy before he leaves--”

  John interrupted hastily, “That’s quite all right. I assure you it is not necessary.”

  “Don’t give it a second thought,” Wahl said recovering his aplomb, as he continued, ““No trouble at all is it Miss Shaw?”

  Miss Shaw fell in line and agreed. “I’ll try to locate it,” said as she withdrew before John could protest more with his eye on the clock and mind on his 4 PM departure time. If this was the new Wahl shored up by position and security, John preferred the old Wahl as he suspected Krebbel did too.

  But Krebbel was too suave an executive to take obvious offense at the usurpation of his position as host to Thatcher and boss of Miss Shaw. Favoring Wahl with an appraising glance, Krebbel remained silent. John resigned himself to 10 more minutes of conversation. After 20, he braced himself to plead flight time. But before he could speak, Miss Shaw erupted into the office.

  “Yes?” said Krebbel stiffly.

  “Mr. Madsen had it. It was in his files,” she continued dreamily.

  “Good. Well just run off a copy,” Krebbel said.

  “And when they went to get it they found a gun,” Miss Shaw said as her eyes widened at the recollection. Speechlessly they stared at her. “Millie was looking through Mr. Madsen’s Annual Reports and there, stuffed at the back, was the gun.”

  “Well,” said Wahl. “That’s it after all. Sally told me they had a fight in Ann Arbor.”

  “Now wait a minute Ed. Don’t go jumping to conclusions,” Krebbel said with forced calm. “You’ve got no proof that this had anything to do with Jensen. Glen may keep a gun in his office for all sorts of reasons.”

  “Baloney,” replied Wahl tersely. “I know how you feel, Frank, but this is too big to soft pedal. You are going to have to call the cops.”

  Before Krebbel could reply, Wahl received unexpected support. “You don’t understand, Mr. Krebbel,” said Miss Shaw as she sank into a nearby couch. “Millie said we shouldn’t say anything until we checked. She called personnel and read them the serial number. It is the same gun that was stolen before Mr. Jensen was shot.”

  “The darn fool. But you don’t have any option now, Frank. Half the plant knows by now,” Wahl concluded.

  Krebbel was white. “Yes,” he said almost under his breath. “I don’t have any other choice now.”

  No thought John. Wahl was making very certain Krebbel had not the slightest option.

  The ensuing 2 hours were a nightmare. Georgeson, informed of events over the phone by a seemingly reluctant Krebbel, had crisply listed a number of impossible demands. These included keeping Madsen ignorant of the afternoon’s dramatic discovery, holding incommunicado everyone who did know about it, and not letting anyone near the relevant file cabinet.

  For the first time, John felt the onset of a wave of sympathy for the much tried MM management. It was apparent that most of Georgeson’s injunctions were going to be violated. The least John could do was abstain from exacerbating the situation with an immediate flight out of the state. Therefore, the 6 PM flight to New York was taking off minus its most enthusiastic passenger by the time Georgeson put in a delayed appearance.

  Georgeson was accompanied by a representative from the DA’s office. Although he had postponed his own arrival to seek legal counsel, he took instant exception to similar conduct by Krebbel. “Look here,” he stormed. “I thought I told you to keep quiet. Now you’ve spilled the beans to Madsen and brought in your general counsel. That’s not cooperating.”

  Krebbel did not allow himself to be provoked. His was voice was deceptively mild as he replied, “It is customary for a corporation to inform its general counsel of any legal problems, Captain.”

  Georgeson turned an ugly red. He was clearly not going to take this but had his attention diverted by the MM general counsel, as Victor Appleby smiled deprecatingly, “I see you have had the foresight to bring a stenographer along. Would you like to open the record of this interrogation with a statement of your objections to Mr. Madsen being represented by counsel?”

  “Certainly not,” snapped the Assistant DA mindful of several recent Supreme Court decisions. He directed a look of rebuke at Georgeson and mounted a counterattack. “Captain Georgeson has no objection. He was merely surprised by the nature of Mr. Madsen’s representation. Are we to understand that Mr. Appleby is representing Mr. Madsen in his personal as well as corporate capacity?”

  This genteel wrangle continued for several minutes more, evidently affording considerable satisfaction to the 2 lawyers. In the meantime, the principals measured each other. Georgeson, having refused the offer of a chair, was athletically flexing himself on his toes, glaring triumphantly across the room at Madsen. The economist, drained of color and vitality, was huddled on the sofa, eyeing his tormentor hopelessly.

  With the preliminaries over, Georgeson took command. “All right, Mr. Madsen. There’s no point in stalling. Obviously Mr. Krebbel here has brought you up to date on the discovery of the gun. And we’ve got plenty of witnesses covering every minute of that gun since it came out of your file cabinet.” He waved to indicate the presence of Millie, Miss Shaw, Wahl, Krebbel, and Thatcher. “So there’s no point in claiming we’ve pulled a fast one. OK, now what’s your story? How did it get there?”

  “I don’t have any story,” Madsen said dull. “I’ve
never seen the gun before in my life.”

  “Just something the fairies left behind, eh, Mr. Madsen? Who has keys to that cabinet?”

  An exhaustive survey of the security governing file cabinets followed. Madsen had a key. His secretary had a key. In theory the cabinet was locked whenever she was absent. In fact a less rigid procedure was generally employed. The cabinet was left open when the secretary would be absent for just a few minutes.

  “And I suppose just anyone could waltz in and loot your files without being noticed?” asked Georgeson with heavy sarcasm.

  “No. I didn’t say that. Of course it would have to be someone with legitimate business in my office.” Madsen then avoided looking around the room. The statement spoke for itself. Only an insider could have acted that way.

  Wahl raised his eyebrows and shook his head commiseratingly, heedless of Krebbel’s frown.

  Georgeson pressed on. “You say you don’t know much about guns. But the record shows you were on active duty from 1942 to 1945. Tuesday night? We have witnesses who place that fight on Wednesday night. And Jensen was never seen alive again. What did he threaten you with? Or did you lose your head and go berserk? Who saw you on Thursday? Where? When? For how long?”

  And finally, “You better get your hat and coat. We are taking you in.”

  The departing cavalcade was a sober group, with Appleby hovering beside his exhausted client. As the doors closed behind them, Wahl gave a sign and said, “What a shame. But he was crazy about Celia, you know.”

  The statement was inoffensive but the emotions it carried was not regret. It took a moment for John to identify, then it came. Wahl had just communicated overriding relief.

  Chapter 15

  Financing Arranged

  4 days later John was at his desk on the sixth floor at the Sloan. Nevertheless, despite a barricade of junior trust officers and protective secretaries, he was remote from the Detroit convulsions only geographically. On Friday the murder weapon had some to light in Madsen’s file cabinet. On Saturday Madsen had been charged with first degree murder. MM was as much in the news as if it were suffering a major strike or attempting to raise prices. At the Sloan, the Empire Club, and even the West Side Tennis Club, John found MM providing the central topic of conversation with tedious regularity.