by Emma Lathen
“What we hope to gain,” Riley said precisely, “is the following: evidence Georgeson and the police are not equipped to understand, that will lead to Madsen’s release--”
“Oh, we must, we simply must,” whispered Celia in chorus. Arnie again squeezed her hand.
“...or” Riley continued, “a really excellent defense for Madsen. It is probably unlikely that we can get him released, but we can give his attorney--”
Eagerly Celia interrupted again to say: “We have retained Leo Chastens. They say he is a brilliant criminal lawyer...”
“But this kind of business detail isn’t the sort of thing Chastens could dig up himself,” Riley concluded. “When we have got our facts straight we will talk to him.”
“I see,” John said temperately. Had Celia not been present he would have added that Madsen’s prospects were unpromising to say the least.
Riley consulted a paper. “Now, Mr. Berman and I were discussing the conspiracy conviction. We agree that it must figure in the murder. We decided that the sensible thing to do is to review the DOJ data.”
Celia, John could see at a glance, would connive at the fracture of virtually any law to free Madsen. Love is a powerful force as Georgeson recognized. Arnie was strong on family feeling. Skeptical by nature, indolent by inclination, Arnie nevertheless exerted himself to help a lifelong friend of his wife.
But Riley? John, watching the thin young man rearrange papers, decided that the force moving him was probably an unprejudiced attachment to the cause of justice. In many ways this was as heartening as the discovery of evident MM managerial competence.
“...so we had been interested in the car industry for a long time. The question was how to prove conspiracy. Our investigators uncovered a lot of economic information about price fixing, but the courts demand hard evidence of collusion.”
Arnie exchanged a look with John. 2 men who knew more about pricing policies in American industry would be hard to find.
“Then out of the blue we got everything we wanted. On March 20th, an envelope arrived addressed to the Assistant AG at the DOJ, with a Detroit postmark of March 18th.”
“Whoever addressed it knows who’s in charge of antitrust activities,” Arnie pointed out.
Riley nodded. “Yes, Up at MM I know that they suspected the clerks, but the department has assumed that it was someone much more sophisticated in business. We don’t know, of course...”
“What about tracing the typewriter? Celia asked. “You said before the address was typed.”
“Officially our story is that we had no reason to trace it.” Riley swept on without a blush. He had already made his decisions about revealing inside information and could only hope that Julian Summers approved. “But we established it was done on a coin rental in the downtown YMCA. We went even further than that. One of our men traced the photostats to a coin operated Xerox machine at the main library branch.”
Celia slumped back, dejectedly. “He certainly wasn’t taking any chances.”
“Oh our tipster was careful all right,” Riley said. “Anyway in the envelope were copies of your husband’s handwritten notes of the March 15th meeting. It was an important meeting and lasted 2 days. You see they knew they were going to have to correspond with each other, at least on a minimal basis. And nowadays one of the problems in big companies is keeping incriminating documents out of their files.”
“You know all the classic stories such as sales managers who are instructed to burn all their correspondence with a competitor. Or the files on a proposed merger that contains answers to questions in letters that have been destroyed. Or the memos with a big circulation list where the company’s lawyers get hold of all but 1 copy. Well the long and short of it is that Jensen and his pals decided to play it smart and work out a code that made their letters look harmless. Then everything could go into the file, and they’d keep the code at home. Jensen’s notes had that code and all the names. Once we had the code, the rest was easy. And of course, we had a field day when we were able to subpoena the actual code letters in the files.”
As he was speaking, John was examining the copies, handwritten jottings, with names and numbers listed in neat columns,” as he clucked disapprovingly.
“Well they had to keep some records,” Arnie said indulgently, reaching for the documents himself. He continued, “Tell me, Cele, what did he do when he came back from one of these meetings? What was the procedure?”
She shook her head helplessly. “Arnie, I never knew a thing about it. Ray didn’t talk to me about business and we weren’t close the last few years anyway. I thought they were just his ordinary business trips.”
Riley, a bit embarrassed, said, “We looked into it. What happened was Jensen and Holzinger would go to one of these meetings. Then Jensen would bring back some short notes--he acted as the secretary--and write up a memo and have it circulated.”
“But Dunn,” John interjected, recalling that unhappy man. Riley explained that Dunn as a subordinate had not been part of the inner brain trust. He had no role in making policy; his job had been to police execution. On occasion he had also acted as a decoy; for instance registering under Jensen’s name in New York when a meeting was taking place in Chicago.
“It doesn’t seem fair that he had to go to jail too,” Celia said. “Not that I ever liked him. Orin is a cold blooded boy on the way up...”
“He is,” added Arnie, “but not at MM anymore. He’s quit you know.”
Celia was genuinely surprised. “I thought he lived and breathed MM like Ray.”
Once again Riley reflected the thoroughness of the DOJ. “It was resign or be fired,” he said. “Jensen was trying to get rid of him. And I gather that after the murder Dunn felt he had even less of a future at MM
-” His words gave him food for thought; he broke off abruptly to think them over.
“Is Buck in the same position?” Arnie asked. “Buck was in no immediate danger,” Riley said rather abstractedly. “He was a division manager and a very successful one at that. It made a difference. And he had a rich wife, a wife who was very active on his behalf.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” John said, recalling his encounters with Di. “I interrupted you, though. What did Jensen do with these notes? After he brought them back, I mean.”
“Jensen had been in the habit of giving them to his secretary to be coded and transcribed. Invariably she was asked to do it at home so that no unauthorized personnel could catch sight of her work.”
“Naturally,” Riley said stiffly, “we investigated Miss Price very thoroughly. We are convinced she was totally innocent.”
“Naturally,” John said, recalling the attractive Miss Price.
Riley became human. “And if Susan was the tipster I’ll eat my hat.”
“Of course not. But couldn’t she make a rather shrewd guess who was?”
“You don’t understand,” Riley said, as bafflement settled on his features. “To Susan they were little tin gods: Jensen, Wahl, the whole bunch of them. They could do no wrong. And as for the ones she genuinely likes such as Madsen--” He drew a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Take Krebbel for instance.”
As Riley recounted Miss Price’s tribute to Krebbel’s conduct in their contretemps, a decided vein of rancor entered the narrative. Like most men he was not fond of having held up to him an ideal of which he must inevitably fall short. John repressed a grin; he had no difficulty in identifying the younger man’s emotions.
Riley then ended abruptly. “Dunn’s the only one she doesn’t have a good word for.”
“That seems to be beyond all of us,” Arnie added, as he arose to help Celia with a tray of drinks. Arnie went on to say he didn’t understand how Wahl, Krebbel, or even Madsen could claim to be ignorant that MM was up to its ears in price fixing.
Celia, as a former company hostess rather than the current distraught woman, answered him. The corporate world was just that, a world complete with rival factions,
with top secrets, and divided interests. Executive A, expecting benefits from certain developments, might very well hide them from Executive B.
“Be specific,” Arnie said, handing John a welcome Scotch and water.
“Take the current feud.” Her guests looked blankly at her. “Didn’t you know? I ran into Audrey Wahl the other day and she said Ed and his division are at the throat of PR.”
“Lincoln Hauser,” John said grinning.
“Everyone denies driving the Plantagenet to the pool...” She faltered and bit her lip. The fate of both here late husband and the man she loved were intimately involved with that vehicle. Before she could continue, Arnie, moving swiftly for a big seemingly out of shape man, went to her side, leaving John and Riley to themselves.
“I take it Jensen was killed in the car,” John queried in an undertone. Riley nodded as John went on: “Killed at Plantagenet, transported to the pool. I can see why everyone’s denying responsibility for moving the car. Particularly when one of Hauser’s men is already involved as the passenger on that trip. I don’t suppose anyone will ever voluntarily identify himself as the driver.
“Riley looked grim.” I am inclined to think it was the murderer. And I’d swear, too, that it was the man who sent us the information.”
“On the whole, I tend to agree with you,” added John. It was 5:30 PM before John and Arnie started for their motel with Mack at the wheel. John said, “Don’t you think it is a little cruel to raise that woman’s hopes? An acquittal is the most they can hope for.”
Arnie shifted unhappily. “I know that things look bad for Madsen, but I am sure...”
“A lot of good that does us,” John cut in tartly.
Silence descended in the back seat of the Plantagenet. John found himself thinking once more about the movements of the Crown Prince’s car.
“...big farewell party for Dunn tomorrow night,” he awoke to hear Arnie say. “You can imagine what that’s going to be like. There’s this fight between PR and Plantagenet, and between just you and me, and whatever is going on with Di.”
John leaned back. “If we were younger and more foolhardy, we would attend it. Probably it will be awkward enough to turn into one of those situations where the truth must come out.”
On that note Arnie added with a mischievous grin, “Well, John. That is what I thought when I accepted for both of us.”
Chapter 18
Flat Tire
John did not expect to enjoy the party for Dunn; but he thought he might learn something as he had said to Arnie on their way back to the Telegraph Motel. Going away parties were apt to be strained even if the separation is voluntary. In cases of retirement they are often pitiful. And when the employee has been terminated the function often descends into the exquisite embarrassment of adolescence.
Especially for an outsider such as himself, John thought savagely, as Ed Wahl completed his anthem to the departing Dunn. Wahl was displaying a talent for unctuous platitude which was surprising and under the circumstances well-nigh indecent.
“Of course we will all miss Orin,” he went on. “Particularly those of us at Plantagenet who have had the privilege of working closely with him. His contribution to MM will long be remembered, and I know you join with me in saying departure is the car industry’s loss and the aircraft industry’s gain. In conclusion, Orin, I just want to say that we will often be thinking of you, and hope that someplace in California you will be thinking of us.”
A burst of applause signified either the audience’s participation in the sentiments or relief at their conclusion. Dunn then rose and, with an unconvincing air of breeziness, thanked everyone for the festivity in general and for a heavy rawhide suitcase in particular. This was followed by more clapping and a surge towards the bar.
“Well, I’m glad that’s over,” remarked Buck as he waited for the barman to provide him with 2 drinks. “I don’t mind these separation parties once they liven up, but it is hell sitting around a table looking at a division manager behind a bunch of roses.”
John agreed that most division managers looked better without garlands.
“Reminds me of Hawaii,” Buck said inconsequently. “Did I ever tell you what happened to Eberhart when he landed there to open the new agency?”
Happily the arrival of Mrs. Dunn interrupted Buck’s reminiscences.
“You’ve all been splendid, simply splendid,” she burbled, affectionately clasping the arm of her husband’s fellow jailmate. “I can’t deny this has been a difficult time for us, but Orin has always said that you and Di were simply marvelous.”
“Oh, Orin’s all right,” Buck said without fervor.
Mrs. Dunn tightened her hold. “Now I want you to take me to Di so I can thank her personally. I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t have a chance to talk to you both. Orin and I are setting forth on a new period...”
Ignoring the appeal in Holzinger’s eye, Thatcher excused himself and let his companion be swept off by Mrs. Dunn, who was displaying that easy flow of language so markedly lacking in the speakers earlier in the evening.
He had not gone more than 2 steps before he was accosted by Arnie. “This is turning into a real celebration,” he said, looking around the room with disfavor. “And if you ask me, what they are celebrating is Madsen’s arrest.”
“Not in my circle,” John replied crisply. “We are celebrating setting forth on a new period of life, though we can’t deny that things have been difficult.” Berman had no trouble identifying the source. “You have been listening to that Dunn woman,” he said with simple certainty. “Never mind her, she’s a crackpot. It is those others, especially Wahl. They are only too relieved... Oh, hello, there, Stu. How are things going?”
Stuart Eberhart came to rest beside them. “I’m glad you could make it, Thatcher.” Although the exPresident, he shook hands and surveyed the room with a proprietary air. “These occasions are always painful, I think.”
John agreed heartily. It developed, however, that Eberhart was referring to something loftier than social discomfort.
“I have seen many people come and go at MM,” he pontificated, “but I never really get used to it. Of course there are those who don’t make the grade. They haven’t got what it takes. Some adjustment there is necessary,” he conceded. “But these people who change for the sake of change, who can’t wait for a division to open up... There was none of that when I was a young executive. You may not know this but I came to MM in 1931. Of course the industry wasn’t what it is today.”
John could scarcely help knowing this since complete bio details of his affiliation with MM and the price fixing in the car industry, had appeared widely in the press during the conspiracy trial. Thanks to a Time cover store he also knew Eberhart invariably drank hot chocolate rather than coffee for breakfast. For a moment John was tempted to remind Eberhart of the massive documentation available to anyone seriously interested in the subject. But no, if he was to act as the enemy within the gates, and that seemed to be Arnie’s intention, it behooved him to remain tactful.
In that vein John said, “Nothing is the same today. Why I remember at the Sloan in the 20s...” And John followed with a long anecdote about employee stability in banking between the World Wars. Eberhart laughed politely. The car industry had become overcome with young executives so that he was unaccustomed to having his stories about the 30s capped by those of the 20s.
“Ah, you are one of the lucky ones,” he said with a touch of malice, “still at your desk. It was a sad day for me when I had to hand in my resignation. Bad health you know. But when we get to our age, it is only wise to look ahead.”
“Three sets of tennis a day keep me in condition,” John replied coldly.
Hastily Arnie interjected that he anticipated no trouble at all with his retirement. His intentions were good, but being only 43 his contributions were not well received.
“You will find that many things you plan to do now are too darn much trouble then,” as Eberhart sou
nded plaintive. “Take deep sea fishing, for example. I’ve always gotten in a few weeks but somehow I didn’t manage it this year.”
Arnie could have pointed out that this was probably due to the exertions required to keep out of jail. Instead he changed the subject. “Here is your guest of honor,” he said. “I can’t let him pass without saying goodbye.”
Orin Dunn favored them impartially with a fixed smile, “Just going the rounds. I don’t want to miss anybody.”
“Orin, my boy. I hope we aren’t going to lose sight of you entirely,” as Eberhart clapped a paternal hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Let us hear from you. It seems as if it were only yesterday you came to us.”
“It wasn’t very long ago,” Dunn agreed. “And who would have thought in a few short years we would both be out of the company?”
“Now, now. This is no time for bitterness. Think of the future. You have your whole life ahead of you. And a great career, I’m sure.”
It occurred to John that barring a few differences in style both Mrs. Dunn and Stuart Eberhart favored the transcendental approach to job relocation.
“Well let’s hope so Stu. Anyway, aircraft’s the business of the future. I’ve got to think in terms of the long haul, you know.”
“You certainly haven’t done much thinking about the short haul,” a tart voice said.
Dunn started nervously.
“I’d like to see you for a few minutes, Orin,” continued Di Holzinger.
“Now look, Di, this is no place... Why don’t...”
Di interrupted him ruthlessly. “But then, it is so hard to find you in the right place. Your maid keeps telling me you are out.”
“Well, I have been pretty busy lately. And--”
Di interrupted him again, “I don’t care how busy you have been. If you think you are slinking out of town without seeing me, you are insane. Now, are you going to come with me, or do I do my talking here?”
Di was not making the slightest attempt to moderate her voice. Everybody in the immediate vicinity was listening with rapt attention.
