Murder Makes the Wheels Go Round

by Emma Lathen

  Hugh countered, “No, we’ve got more information now. When you went out there, all we had was the first quarter report. Well they’ve just shown Arnie the sales figures for April and May. Now you know Arnie’s never been enthusiastic about the MM setup. But even he admits you couldn’t ask for anything better. Sales are booming.”

  John closed his eyes. It was typical, he thought, that MM at this juncture would turn in a spectacular sales report. Undeterred by notoriety, management dissension, and murder, somewhere a band of dedicated sales people were doing their job well. It was the kind of factor that one could all too easily overlook in the insulated environment of a front office. Krebbel, while prepared to use a light hand in dealing with the machinations of immediate subordinates, obviously reserved his real efforts for the business of designing salable cars and then selling them. As a potential investor, John honored this judicious selectivity. It might, after all, be necessary to reconsider the entire MM situation.

  Hugh was too wise to disturb these obvious internal communings. He refreshed himself with a quaff of pilsner and a warning motion to Brad for silence. After the moment of silence and suspense, John shook his head and looked at his 2 companions irritably. “Yes,” he said, “that makes a real difference.”

  “Knew you would see it our way. The opportunity of a lifetime,” Brad concluded.

  “In any event,” Waymark said, with a caution he knew would appeal more to Thatcher than his chief’s enthusiasm, “I think you’ll agree that it might be worthwhile taking another look at MM. Why don’t you go back out to Detroit? They’re already digging out all their information for Arnie.”

  In future days, John was to maintain that his return trip to Detroit was the result of pressure on high and in no way attributable to his personal dissatisfaction with the publicly accepted solution to the Jensen murder. Miss Corsa knew better but kept her own counsel on the matter, as always when it came to Mr. Thatcher.

  Sloan senior management do not simply hurl themselves onto the nearest available plane when they decide to go to Detroit or elsewhere for that matter. Particularly when the market is falling rapidly enough to give executives a new insight into the nature of 1929. John’s next day was therefore devoted to an intensive review of the Sloan’s market position, with all the ancillary effects that this sort of activity entails.

  First, and most important, the Sloan made a major move into the bond market. Second, and even more inevitable, frayed tempers appeared on the 6th floor with increasing frequency as the day progressed. Gabler was reduced to speechlessness by a call from a client even testier than himself who made a practice of keeping his funds briskly circulating in short term treasuries and took this occasion to congratulate himself. Trinkam, the soul of camaraderie, was driven to snarling at an alarmed visitor that people insisting in investing in US Steel had to take Roger Blough, their legendary CEO, as they found him. At 4 PM Bowman exploded from his lair to defend the Research staff against a series of unusually acrimonious accusations; Walter found Gabler in a mood to take on all comers. Their ensuing scene conducted before a spellbound audience of 2 secretaries and 4 Japanese dignitaries was destined to find its place in the institutional folklore of the Sloan.

  John, in addition to trying to control the energies of his pugnacious subordinates, spent the day working his way through a monumental agenda. 7 PM found him sitting in his office during a temporary lull, recalling his intention of phoning Arnie Berman. He eyed the door to his outer office appraisingly. Relations between himself and Miss Corsa had hit a new low at 5:30 PM when he had presented her with 15 pages of handwritten statistical manuscript and the news that the news that the resulting typewritten product must be hand delivered that evening.

  It was not the work. Miss Corsa, a virtuoso of the typewriter was ever willing to sacrifice herself to the call of duty. There was, it appeared, a technical snag. “But Mr. Thatcher,” she protested, “how can I get anyone to proof read at this hour?” Her tone made it clear that simple consideration on the part of her employer, with regard to a problem she had often been required to bring to his attention, would have enabled her to secure the services of an assistant well before closing time.

  On a normal day John would have advanced an apology and that would have been that. This, however, had not been a normal day. “Surely you can find someone to do it with you,” he said briskly. “There are people around; I can hear typewriters.”

  Miss Corsa bridled. “They are staying because they have their own work to do,” she said unanswerably. “And all these numbers have to be proofed.”

  She looked at him meaningfully. Attempts on the part of secretaries to inject menial tasks into the lives of their nominal superiors are never ending. But John was experienced and wily. “Then you just have to find someone on another floor,” he said, washing his hands of the entire affair. Nothing in the world would induce him to go through that report once more. It had been occasioned by a panic strickened call from the trustees of a large corporate pension fund. The conversation had resulted in a demand for an instantaneous analysis of their extensive portfolio, coupled with a hysterical threat to leave the market entirely. Just where they planned to go was unclear.

  John examined his phone longingly. It would be simpler to call Detroit himself than to deal with an unappeased Miss Corsa. On the other hand, she would certainly view any such antic behavior on his part an act of aggression amounting to open warfare. Therefore he advanced towards the door. Mere prudence suggested that his request be delivered in person not over the intercom. Happily he could hear a reassuring drone from the outer office, which indicated that some helot had been dragooned.

  He cleared his throat. “Er...Miss Corsa?”

  She looked up. So did her companion. John beheld an apparition, surely not more than 16 years old, decked out in lavender eye shadow, bobby sox, and an elaborately curled mop of hair. “This,” Miss Corsa said, “is Miss Tourene, who has kindly agreed to help me. This is Mr. Thatcher.”

  The apparition shifted her wad of chewing gum and said cordially, “Pleased to meetcha.”

  “We are very grateful for your assistance,” he said with feeling.

  “It is nothing. My boyfriend isn’t picking me up until 8 PM anyway.”

  “Splendid,” he said heartily. “When you have a moment, Miss Corsa, perhaps you could get me Mr. Berman in Detroit.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Thatcher.” Miss Corsa could be relied upon to maintain his prestige in public. Well if was a matter of prestige he could at least keep up his end, which he did by pausing in the doorway, and bowing ceremoniously to each of them.

  The apparition grinned appreciatively. Then the formalities being over she returned to the work at hand as he heard her rasping voice: “In the 4th column here, it should be 973 not 943.”

  Clearly the report would be delivered tonight, come hell or high water. John was still recovering from his exposure to Miss Corsa’s press gang tactics when Arnie came on the line.

  “John? Waymark called today. He said you would be coming out again.”

  “If the sales numbers are as good as he claims,”

  John said cautiously.

  “Oh the sales are all right,” as Berman’s voice conjured up a host of considerations which were not.

  John was in no mood for equivocation. “Well then what’s wrong?”

  “Jensen’s murder. I don’t think he did it and I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole thing blows up again.”

  “You’ve been talking to Celia,” John said with equal bluntness. “Are you sure that...”

  Arnie cut in, “It is not just that. When you get out here, I think you might want to talk to Riley. He isn’t influenced by Cele,” he said fairmindedly.

  “Riley? You mean the DOJ man?”

  “That’s right. He knows more about the front office at MM than they do themselves, and he’s convinced Jensen was murdered to keep him from talking.”

  John was dubious. “He may be riding his h
obbyhorse.”

  “Sure. He may be. But did you know that Jensen was threatening to start a real witch hunt for whoever gave the feds the tip?”

  “Oh, so that’s the way the wind blows.” John frowned into space as he recalled MM’s general reluctance to speculate on the rapid promotions following Jensen’s downfall. “It makes sense,” he admitted. “That murder was certainly convenient for several people.”

  “Exactly. And Madsen is one of the few people up there who didn’t stand to gain or lose a thing from the trial. That’s what makes Riley think everything is too pat. Anyone could have dumped that gun in Madsen’s file. He was the obvious fall guy.”

  It was obvious Arnie was firmly enlisted in the proMadsen forces, a group not to be despised, if it included the DOJ, as John went on, “Doesn’t Riley have any idea where that tip originated?”

  No. But he is putting his records through a sieve again. You really ought to come out and see for yourself.”

  “I have no choice,” John said with acidity. “Waymark and Withers between them seem to cherish an ineradicable affection for MM.”

  Arnie’s moroseness made itself felt 1000 miles away, “Well the way things are going, MM will probably make a mint even if its whole management goes to the chair.”

  That really settled the whole thing. Promising to arrive some time the next day, John rang off and buzzed imperatively. When Miss Corsa presented herself, he announced his forthcoming departure and his need for a plane seat. Silently she made a note.

  “By the way, where in the world did you find Miss Whatever her name?” He gestured towards the outer office.

  “At the Acme Mail Service which rents the 14th floor. Miss Tourene,” as she enunciated her name clearly, “is both helpful and conscientious.” Miss Corsa was coldly reprimanding. Her voice suggested that these were qualities conspicuously lacking in some she could name at the moment.

  John reconciled himself to the fact Miss Tourene, eye shadow and all, was now numbered among the many objects Miss Corsa felt obliged to protect against the depredations of her employer.

  “I am going to Detroit to visit MM again, a company of which you would approve,” he said smoothly. “There they shoot objectionable executives.”

  Miss Corsa was not amused.

  Chapter 17

  Stop, Look & Listen

  On Wednesday John flew to Detroit. Arnie met him at the airport, puffing his cigar with rare vigor. “In a hurry to get to MM?” he asked conspiratorially as he led John to the lot where a beaming Mack had illegally parked the Plantagenet.

  “What alternatives do you suggest?” asked John. Arnie, he knew, was not a man for idle sarcasm.

  “Bloomfield Hills,” Arnie said. John nodded and they were off, as Mack swung out of the airport. “We are having a conference John. I’d like you to be there, based on Riley and I talking the other day.”

  A gathering of the pro Madsen forces had been set for 3 PM, ironically at Jensen’s house, the only site remote enough from curious eyes. Celia, hounded by the press, had taken refuge in the house. The Bloomfield Hills civic authorities, while deprecating murder, reserved their strongest disciplinary action for intruding journalistic vulgarities in their community.

  “I see,” said John. “Are you getting support from MM?”

  Arnie’s lips twisted, “No. They are relieved the pressure is off and want to keep it that way. They could just barely get a neutral company statement out. And some of them make me sick. For example, that Holzinger woman is going around saying it is too bad but Madsen has been chasing Celia for years.”

  “Is her husband saying anything,” John asked.

  “No. He and that whole bunch,” as he sputtered on.

  “What about Krebbel?”

  Arnie shook his head.

  John frowned slightly. “You know I was with Krebbel the day they found the gun. I got the distinct impression he couldn’t believe Madsen guilty. After all, planting the gun in his files wouldn’t have been impossibly difficult. Krebbel isn’t a fool, by a long shot. I should think he would be a good man to have on your side.”

  Arnie shook his head doubtfully as Mack turned off the expressway. As an index of rising income levels, trees began to appear at the roadside, their delicate greenery arching overhead. John would have known they were nearing Bloomfield Hills even if it were midnight.

  “You are right about Krebbel,” Arnie said, “but he isn’t in a position to really help us, no matter what he thinks privately. And he’s really busy these days.” This led to extended conversation during the remainder of the drive concerning the business aspects of Arnie’s sojourn in Detroit. He did not share Waymark’s simple minded enthusiasm, but he agreed with his superior that MM sales were going to yield a higher net than he, for one, had anticipated; spectacular performance by Buck’s Buccaneers, together with expanded military contracts, accounted for the improvement. Despite everything else, management had also effected a respectable cost cutting program. Financially speaking MM looked like a good bet.

  “If anything does these days,” John added. “What’s that?” as Mack had braked at a modified road block: a police cruiser, parked on the side street with a policeman leaning against its fender. He was carefully watching passing traffic, occasionally flagging one to a halt.

  “They’re checking up on who goes near the Jensen place,” reported Mack when the policeman gestured for him to proceed. “They had a lot of trouble when Mr. Madsen was arrested, complaints about the damage the reporters did to the nearby lawns. And 1 guy from a Chicago paper tried to break into the house, only he picked the wrong one. Then there were people just cruising around, looking. They kept throwing beer cans out their windows.”

  “Do they know you? Is that why they didn’t stop us?” John asked.

  “Mr. Thatcher. You are in a Plantagenet!” Mack turned then, a little sharply, into the winding driveway of a long low house characterized by the half timbering and casement windows of the pretentious mock Tudor façade. It was all very reminiscent of Riverdale, New York in the 30s, except that this house had been saved from the banality by the absence of frizzled bushes and cluttered borders. Only a giant willow swayed gently in the breeze on the smooth green lawns stretching back to the woodland. At a guess, John would have said that the late unlamented Jensen had decided upon the house and left the landscaping to his wife.

  Celia greeted them at the door, thinner than John remembered. “Arnie! Mr. Thatcher! It’s wonderful of you to come. Do come in ...”

  As they followed her across the hall to a sunken living room, they caught glimpses of shrouded furniture and dust coated oak paneling. The house had been empty a long time and whatever arrangements its owners had made for the upkeep of the grounds had not been extended to the interior. The general air of abandonment was further emphasized by the gritty small paned windows grudgingly admitting the light of a clear spring afternoon and, in the process, transforming it into a pallid murk suggestive of the closing scenes in a tragedy.

  In the living room there were signs of effort. Chintz slip covers and masses of spring flowers fought a rear guard action against the all-enveloping gloom. And from the shadows under a small minstrels’ gallery, Fabian Riley emerged, pencil in hand, an array of papers on the table beside him. “I’m glad you came. I’ve been hoping we could get together some time,” he said shaking hands with John first. They he looked questioningly at Arnie, who was settling himself on the sofa next to Celia. “I don’t know if Mr. Berman has told you...”

  Arnie cut him off, “John is convinced Glen is innocent.”

  “I am,” agreed John, earning a warm smile from Celia. “But I’m not sure what you--or--we can do. The police are satisfied with their case.”

  “All they care about is arresting someone. It is so unfair,” Celia burst out. “Dragging Glen through this, just because we want to get married. He’s the last man on earth...”

  Just then John cleared his throat and said, “Mrs. Jensen, as lo
ng as you have brought the matter up, would you mind explaining...that is, were you actually separated from your husband?”

  Both Riley and Arnie looked respectful.

  Celia snorted, “It was impossible to be separated from Ray. I left him and was starting to think about divorce last summer. Then after he was indicted, he called me. Of course I had to stand by him during the trial, and I couldn’t very well divorce him while he was in jail. But I wrote him and explained that this was all just a delay, I hadn’t changed my mind. Then...”

  “Yes?”

  “I should have known better. Ray paid absolutely no attention. He came out to Lansing and said I had to come back here. It would make things look better at the company. Then I knew Glen had been right; Ray would always find some reason why I had to come back temporarily...for 6 months...for a year...and it would go on and on, with Ray considering nothing but how a divorce would affect his position at MM, while Glen and I got older and older. I had it out with him. I wasn’t going to wait anymore. So you see, Glen didn’t have any reason to kill him. We didn’t care what Ray did, or what MM did, or what anyone else thought.”

  “Now take it easy, Cele,” Arnie said, patting her hand. “No use getting so excited. This is the situation, John. Celia is convinced Glen is innocent, no don’t interrupt, Cele, because she loves him. Riley and I, on the other hand, are concerned about the business side of the whole thing.”

  “You mean that the motive is in the company?” John said. He was delighted to leave the subject of Jensen’s personal life in favor of his professional activities. In view of Celian’s comments he could not believe the prosecuting attorney would feel the same way.

  “That’s it,” Arnie said, puffing on his cigar to a satisfactory kindle. “We thought that by pooling our resources--and our confidential information about MM--we might come up with something.”

  “Highly unethical,” John said amused. This caused both Riley and Celia to break into a spirited defense of the propriety, or the justifiable impropriety, of such behavior. “No, no,” John said hastily. “Just my little joke. What do you hope to gain?”