Murder Makes the Wheels Go Round

by Emma Lathen

  It came as no surprise that John’s Tuesday morning conference with the Sloan’s research chief should deal with automotive matters. “I don’t deny that MM has troubles,” said Bowman who thought he was making a handsome concession, “but they still have great potential. I understand they have the inside track on a big NASA contract. Waymark-Sims is still optimistic.”

  “And Madsen’s arrest?” John cut in.

  “Madsen may have been arrested but you can’t convince me he is a murderer.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you, Walter, as Walter swept on, “The man simply isn’t the type. But that’s beside the point. The fact is MM will surprise you. I want to keep an eye on it.”

  He continued at length, showing John he was only incidentally concerned with murder. Bowman’s specialist eye remained unwaveringly focused on profit for the Sloan.

  “Wait a minute,” John intruded when Walter came to a pause and began preliminary attempts to raise his great bulk from his chair to his crutches. “What’s happened to Bay Vitamins? Cook sent me a report and I don’t like the look of things.”

  Walter fell back, dissatisfaction on his normally placid face. “Bay Vitamins,” he said in tones appropriate for Typhoid fever. Bay Vitamins, a small firm with a dramatic weight reduction plan, so promising 8 months ago, had encountered rough going. Among its formidable adversaries were the AMA, FDA, and Reader’s Digest. The net result was that the Sloan’s investment, modest to begin with, was daily growing more modest.

  “Well John, here’s the story.”

  As he reviewed the debacle with Bowman, and considered the ongoing salvage operations likely to appeal to the Committee, John felt the familiar satisfaction of being back in harness. Miss Corsa had competently handled the routine documents that flooded his desk in his absence, but when he arrived in his office on Monday he had a backlog large enough to keep his thoughts from straying to MM, and more insistently, Madsen and Celia Jensen. Virtuously he determined to concentrate on business and not murder. His report on MM, dictated to Miss Corsa at 9:30 AM Monday, was a model critique of its financial situation, with pessimistic overtones, together with a fair summary of the Waymark-Sims position, exclusive of Arnie’s intemperate remarks. John had initialed the report, dispatched it, and then resolutely turned to other things.

  Walter was droning one, “I’ll call Robichaux & Devane. But as things stand now I recommend we keep selling. Unless there is a possibility of a merger,” he said hopefully.

  “Sell,” John said and Walter nodded.

  Walter signed and struggled to his feet. “I suppose so. Oh, by the way,” he added transparently, “I understand Berman flew out to Detroit today.”

  John shook his head. “Only a personal trip. Walter. Arnie is a friend of Mrs. Jensen’s and she’s in some distress about these latest developments. His trip has nothing to do with business.”

  Walter was all innocence as he said, “I see. I just wondered you know. Hugh Waymark is still all for MM. I thought maybe Arnie was going to settle things. Well I’d better get back to work. I’ll let you know about Bay Vitamins.”

  John watched him leave and again shook his head, this time at the tenacity of the financial man. Then, obediently implementing plans to clear his desk, he returned to the encyclopedic document that had been forwarded to him by the indefatigable Everett Gabler, senior trust officer. Idly John flicked the pages of what appeared to be an exhaustive historical review of the Sloan’s training programs. His eye fell on Gabler’s comparison of personnel procedures in the Investment Division with those in the Trust Department; it came as no great surprise that Gabler found those of the Trust Department immeasurably superior. Skipping several pages, John reached the climax of the treatise, a searching analysis of personnel techniques of the future entitled, “Projected Standards of Selection Under Various Assumptions of Size of Staff over the Next Decade.” John murmured to himself, “Why am I reading this?” as he buzzed his secretary.

  Miss Corsa presented herself promptly with dictation pad in hand. “No I don’t want to dictate,” John said. “Miss Corsa, what is the reason for this enormous report that Gabler produced.”

  “I’ll get Mr. Gabler for you,” said Miss Corsa, as she deposited a newspaper on his desk.

  “Oh no,” said Thatcher, brutally before she could leave. Not only did he intend to avoid an extended conference with Gabler, and all conferences with Everett were extended, he enjoyed extracting information from Miss Corsa. “Sit down, Miss Corsa. I want to know why Mr. Gabler sent me this thing. There must be a reason. I don’t know what it is, but I have every confidence you do.”

  Miss Corsa in a very dignified manner protested, “Really, Mr. Thatcher.”

  “That won’t do, Miss Corsa,” said John at his sternest. “I respect the high professional manner with which you discharge your duties, and I realize that most of your vast information about the Sloan is not for my ears, please don’t interrupt. But simply as a time saving device, this time I am going to have to ask you to tell me what this Gabler business is all about. You do not have to reveal your sources.”

  He was pleased to see Miss Corsa was stunned by his flow of eloquence. “Come, come, Miss Corsa,” pressing his advantage. Miss Corsa capitulated.

  Mr. Gabler had been summoned to Mr. Withers’ suite last week, it developed, during one of that executive’s descents upon the bank, between stints of deep sea fishing in the Bahamas and slaloms in Zermatt. Mr. Gabler had emerged from this interview rigid with indignation and so moved, in fact, that it had been 2 days before the secretarial staff learned the provocation: Mr. Withers had asked Mr. Gabler to consider the possibility of Sloan employment for a youthful connection graduating from Harvard Business School in June.

  “His nephew, Bud,” John said appreciatively. He had met young Gilbert Withers Austin.

  “Yes,” said Miss Corsa repressively. “I understand that Mr. Withers thinks he might be useful in Rails and Industrials.”

  “Yes,” said Thatcher with gravity. “Well we will let Mr. Gabler fight his own battles. A man with his experience should be able to slough this youth off onto Trinkam.”

  Miss Corsa unbent. “Mr. Trinkam was also been with Mr. Withers,” she confided. “He’s preparing a memo for your attention too, I understand. Is that all, Mr. Thatcher?”

  John waved release and devoted a moment to the menace of Bud Austin, youthful, ponderous, and probably unavoidable. He came from a family with a high sense of public duty, of course. Possibly it might be wise to suggest a career in government, say the Senate, would be more worthy of his talents. After all, the concept of on the job training had expanded since his apprenticeship at the bank.

  The headline in the afternoon paper just delivered to him by Miss Corsa erased his smile, “MM officer Charged with Love Nest Slaying,” it screamed in all caps.

  The 2 photos on the front page showed Madsen, surrounded by guards, and Mrs. Jensen, behind a large hat and dark glasses, as they had appeared at Madsen’s arraignment. Celia had decided to come out of hiding, regardless of notoriety and scandal, in order to support her lover. Poor woman!

  Of course she had Arnie out there. But this was a time when a friendly call might mean a good deal. John’s efforts to reach her before leaving Detroit had been abortive, the secretary at the Rectory being unwilling to reveal Celia’s whereabouts even to John. It was worth another try; within minutes Miss Corsa had him connected with Louise Burns, who agreed that talking with Thatcher might be good for Celia and produced her sister.

  “Oh, Mr. Thatcher! You know they have arrested Glen for murder.”

  John agreed he knew and asked how bad things were.

  “The lawyers are impossible. They started out by trying to persuade him to plead guilty on a manslaughter charge, to claim that Ray stole the gun and brought it to the fight.”

  John’s brows contracted. If that were so, the prosecution’s case must be air tight. “That doesn’t sound encouraging,” he agreed.


  “Thank goodness they have changed their minds.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, when they heard the outlines of the prosecution case at the arraignment. Apparently they feel that the shift in the murder time is a good thing for Glen.”

  “You mean the police have abandoned the idea of a Wednesday night fight? I thought they were pushing that.”

  “They were. But there was a fraternity party down the street on Tuesday. 3 of the students went to headquarters to say they saw the fight on Tuesday. It seemed so wonderful at the time. I thought all of our troubles were over.”

  “I suppose the police now claim that the murder was an aftermath of the quarrel.”

  “Yes, they say Ray was shot at the Plantagenet plant on Wednesday afternoon.” She broke off as her breath caught on a convulsive sob. “They’ll say anything, as long as they can accuse Glen. But at least the lawyers agree now that Glen should fight every inch of the way.”

  That of course was good and bad John knew. Either the lawyers felt this time shift indicated weakness in the prosecution’s case or alternatively that it was hopeless to plea absence of premeditation when the victim had been killed the next day rather than in the heat of battle.

  John did not relay these doubts to Celia. Instead he expressed muted joy at this turn in events, sympathy for the participants, and an eagerness to be of service in any way possible.

  After hanging up, he returned to the paper for a close perusal. If the murder had taken place at Plantagenet on Wednesday afternoon, he reflected with a start, it must have coincided closely with his plant tour. Then the body had been bundled into the Plantagenet, and he recalled its gleaming isolation in the basement garage, or wait! John reread the paragraph. These journalists were masters of inexact language, as they wrote, “... shot Jensen Wednesday May 16 at MM’s Plantagenet plant, concealed the body in the back seat of the Super Plantagenet...”

  John scowled. It seemed hard to believe that anyone in their right mind would take the chance of shooting Jensen in a well-lighted plant where 2 shifts worked regularly, then lug his body to the car. True, the car was so grotesquely long that it afforded opportunities for concealment, but still...

  What if Jensen had been killed in the car? The more he thought about it the more convinced John became that this must have been how it happened. Surely the police had lab proof by now. It made the whole thing more plausible. 2 men, wishing to talk privately, casually seating themselves in the Plantagenet. A quarrel, a shot, somebody slumped down...

  But then, John reflected, following this train of thought, what about the 2 men who drove the Plantagenet to the MM pool on Thursday? And the crowds around it? “Pfa,” John said irritably, tossing the paper on his desk.

  “What are you pfa-ing about John?” inquired Charlie Trinkam from the doorway. “Miss Corsa told me to come in.”

  “Come in, Charlie,” said Thatcher, wrenching his thoughts from Madsen. “I warn you I am in no mood to waste time talking about Withers’ nephew...”

  “No, no,” said Charlie hurriedly. He had taken his own reading of John’s expression. “I can handle that. It is this Maryland Fund Report,” he said, handing John a blue-jacketed file. “They’ve just hired a new research chief and I want you to tell me if I’m crazy or he is.”

  Silence reigned, except for Miss Corsa’s distant typing, while John scanned the document Charlie had proffered. Unexpectedly it provided comic relief.

  The Maryland Fund, if its report could be credited, was convinced that disarmament was around the corner; in consequence, it was initiating a program of selling all stocks and bonds remotely connected with rockets, missiles, planes, communications, and military contracts.

  “And the strange thing,” John said when he digested this, “is that this may be a good time to sell. I don’t like the looks of the market, Charlie. These people may be covering up their pessimism.”

  “I don’t like the market either,” Charlie agreed, “but if you’ll read on, you’ll see that the Maryland Fund is investing heavily in discount houses, prefabs, and textiles.”

  “Good Lord,” John said. “What’s happened to them?”

  What had happened, Charlie explained, was the Fund had hired a new research chief based on psychological tests.

  “Well, you know what that means. Everybody from Wall Street registered strong homicidal tendencies, so they hired this nut boy from Boston. He’s above average in normalcy I understand.”

  “We’d better warn our people,” John said just as Miss Corsa buzzed.

  “Mr. Withers is on the phone.”

  “I thought he was going to Switzerland,” John grumbled. “Hello, Brad. Fine, good...yes...yes, I’m free for dinner... What? Oh good, I’ll see you both...”

  Charlie was silently interrogative as John glowered at the phone.

  “I am dining with Brad and Waymark. You know what that means don’t you? It means that eternal dunderhead Waymark has corralled Brad, who did go to Switzerland by the way, but unfortunately came back, and now Brad is convinced MM is the buy of the century.” John clearly felt better having gotten this off his chest.

  Prudently Charlie agreed that this was a net addition to the considerable difficulties of running the Trust and Investment divisions of the Sloan. He took his departure without giving an opinion, which was that, on the whole, he too was inclined to think well of MM.

  John was left to simmer in his own wrath. His essential fairmindedness only contributed to his irritation. Despite antitrust convictions, murder investigations, and executive arrests, it was still possible MM might have a good financial year. The stock market, particularly in this long slide, was unpredictable.

  If in the general decline of the glamor stocks MM, old, established, and expanding appealed to buyers being burned by whiz bang outfits, then the Sloan might well profit from participation in the new issue.

  Things being what they were, John found the prospect completely distasteful.

  Chapter 16

  Overtime

  Dinner at Ken’s Chop House with Brad and Hugh Waymark did not allay John’s premonitions. “On Monday her husband showed up at the chalet,” Brad said with a knife poised over his plate, assuming the expression of an indignant bloodhound. “On the chairlift she never said a word about expecting him.”

  Waymark shook his head sadly. “Terrible,” he said. “Still, I envy you Brad. Skiing must be great exercise. Out of the question for me with my tricky heart of course.”

  Although his well-schooled features remained bland, John was conscious of burgeoning resentment. The conversation of his colleagues depressed him. Not that he deplored the anecdotal ribaldry of the one, all of Brad’s chance met women had husbands speeding to their sides, or sympathized with the ailments of the other. After all, Hugh had never seen fit to go skiing during the 50 years preceding his heart attack. No, it was simply that he had good reason to mistrust this small talk. Withers trying to jolly him up only could mean one thing, John knew.

  The dinner conversation had commenced with a spirited overture on the atrocities contemplated by the Port Authority, “Twin towers 110 stories high; you know what that will do to the vacancy rate around City Hall nearby. Playing the tax edge for all its worth.” Withers conversation had started things with a flourish; now his running mate was ready to launch the major theme.

  “Heard from Berman today,” Hugh remarked casually.

  Withers chimed in on key, “Oh yes? What did he have to say?”

  “He now expects MM to be going through with its new issue. Things are really shaking down out there since Madsen was arrested.”

  John remained noncommittal. “That seems natural.”

  “Of course everyone realizes, now, that Jensen’s murder had nothing to do with the company. Just a simple case of one man after another’s wife.” “Terrible, terrible,” muttered Withers, momentarily forgetting alpine chairlifts.

  “So you see,” continued Waymark, turning a deaf ear to his
supporter, “MM has really been an innocent bystander. You can’t hold them responsible if one of their people goes out a commits a personal crime.”

  “That’s exactly the kind of defense they tried in the price fixing case,” John was provoked into retorting, and went on, “and much good it did them.”

  Waymark pushed his pilsner glass to one side and addressed himself seriously to the task of placating the head of the Sloan Investment Division. “Now John, you know it’s not the same sort of thing at all. If an executive goes out and fixes prices, he’s acting in what he believes is the company’s interests, but murder, well that’s something else entirely.”

  John broke in to say that as nearly as he could tell Jensen’s murderer might have been acting in the interests of humanity. Hugh tut-tutted this frivolity, and Brad helpfully reminded them that every company expects its management to infringe on antitrust laws. John allowed himself the luxury of a fleeting vision of Brad heading a vast marketing organization, and then returned to the business at hand.

  “Very well,” John said, “I grant that if Madsen is the murderer it is remotely possible the stock won’t be affected.”

  “What do you mean ’if’? Brad complained. The police have arrested him.”

  “Did Arnie have anything to say about it when you spoke with him,” John said pointedly.

  Hugh admitted that Arnie said the situation was fluid. John reminded himself to call Detroit and get Arnie’s opinion first hand. Hugh was far too experienced to act as a conduit for information detrimental to his product. In the meantime all John could do was fight a delaying action, as he went on in that vein, “Even so, we’re just where we were 4 weeks ago, which doesn’t make MM an ideal investment or even a good one.”