by Emma Lathen
“If you think I’m going to let him get away with...” began Wahl.
“I don’t think so. I know so.” Krebbel did know how to exert authority. “Not only are you going to let him get away with it, he’s going to let you get away with it too. My job is to see that we turn out cars at a profit, and we are going to do that, no matter how much you have to swallow. I’m not going to have this operation undermined because you 2, or anyone else, can’t stand the pace.”
Wahl began to bluster, “Now just a minute...”
“No. I have given all the minutes to this that I plan to give. This is it, Ed. I don’t care--Yes, what it is?”
Krebbel’s secretary looked doubtfully into the room, whose occupants were ranged about in warlike postures. Hauser stood in the exact center of the rug, his legs angled apart and his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Sputtering noises bubbled forth in an involuntary rhythm. Wahl hovered over Krebbel’s desk, with his jaw outthrust and his weight suspended on one beefy hand.
“Yes, Miss Shaw?” Krebbel said impatiently.
“It is Mr. Wahl’s secretary. She says he has an appointment, and are you coming?”
“Me?”
“It is the union negotiation,” explained Susan Price over Miss Shaw’s shoulder. “They are starting to...kerchoo,” she sneezed. Her eyes were red and watery and she clutched a handful of tissues.
“God bless you,” Wahl said automatically without relaxing.
“Thank you Mr. Wahl. Mr. Casmir and his staff have arrived. And you said that perhaps Mr. Krebbel would come in Mr. Madsen’s place. As a gesture of management solidarity.”
“Sorry, I forgot,” grumbled Wahl.
Krebbel smiled wanly. The mention of the union had brought Hauser’s head up alertly. Miss Price sneezed again.
“Having a little union trouble?” Arnie asked a bit provocatively.
“Certainly not,” Wahl, Krebbel, and Hauser said as one.
Susan shook her head. Her eyes were now streaming.
“You better come, Frank,” urged Wahl.
Krebbel was thoughtful. “Yes, you are right. And John why don’t you and Arnie come too? After this morning you really owe us a chance to show you a little...er...management solidarity was it, Miss Price?” he said soothingly.
“That’s right,” Ed said, adding his welcome to those of his president. “At least for the first session. I’ll be tied up with them for the rest of the day. In fact, it might be a good idea if you went home, Miss Price. You’ve been under the weather all morning and there won’t be anything that you really need to do while I am meeting with them.”
Susan produced a watery smile and admitted that she would like to nurse her head cold at home. And with a very convincing demonstration of esprit do corps, in face of a union onslaught, the MM front office marched forth to meet Local 7777 of the UAW.
In Union there is strength, John thought ironically.
Chapter 20
Fringe Benefits
However admirable the unity evoked by the potential union battle, the scene was not yet a scene of storm and strife. Cold blooded calm was the order of the day, thought John 30 minutes later as he sat listening to the mellifluous voice of the union leader, Thad Casmir.
Thad, flanked by bespectacled men in conservative business attire, was reading a prepared statement on the topic of “additions to the agreed list of full pay holidays.” Although presumably he felt strongly about the subject, he did not indulge in a public show of naked emotion. John approved.
Across the table, listening intently, was the unified Management team with Krebbel the head, courteously expressionless as usual; Buck, restively fiddling with pencil and paper; Wahl glowering at Thad. Behind the principals was the MM staff of accountants and lawyers at the ready.
“You have to watch him,” one of them confided when he ushered John and Arnie to the table. “He is a smooth operator.”
Listening to Thad’s persuasive tones, John agreed. He was extremely, almost offensively, reasonable. without batting an eye he was arguing that the MM hourly staff insisted, to the point of being able to strike about it, on 5 additions to the already agreed upon list of paid holidays in the current contract. Fender assemblers, Thad claimed, felt very strongly about Citizenship Day, Yom Kippur, Veterans’ Day, Flag Day, and particularly St. Patrick’s Day.
John, a veteran of many prolonged conferences, watched the brisk passing of notes on Management’s side and the visible thought gathering that culminated in statements (1) identifying Labor’s demands as grossly inflationary, (2) protesting the unyielding and stubborn nature of Labor’s negotiators, and (3) deploring Labor’s refusal to discuss the real issue of the current negotiations, namely, revision of the work rules to standardize coffee breaks on a companywide basis.
Wage rates were to be negotiated later.
John looked at Arnie and said in an undertone, “I don’t know why we are here.” Arnie gave him a shrug of fatalistic acceptance. John himself was not in top form. The Sloan might make money from MM. It had better be a quite unusual profit to compensate for the discomfort he had already been subjected to, he thought.
Thad, having listened to Krebbel’s rebuttal about how MM was incapable of acceding to the union’s irresponsible and preposterous demands, smiled and continued with the union/management dance. John saw there was no likelihood of fireworks here. Krebbel’s imperturbability was matched by Thad’s oily determination. Both were all business, in marked contrast to their seconds. Impatience on Buck’s face; mulishness on Wahl’s; pursued lips among the assorted others. The two principals had shown nor expressed any feelings.
“I could not go to our stockholders with your proposal,” said Krebbel.
“Nice balance of interests here,” Arnie said. “Smart cookie, Krebbel. Handles Thad coolly unlike what we saw earlier with Wahl and Hauser, John.”
John nodded his agreement. He had come to the conclusion that Arnie and he, representing Wall Street money markets, had not been pressed to attend this meeting through any juvenile pride in the success with which Hauser and Wahl could compose their differences. Krebbel was too subtle for that. Instead he was giving them a long delayed opportunity to view the kind of managerial competence that would guarantee the profitable performance of MM. And high time, thought John irritably, that Krebbel realized that involvement with alcoholic wives, intramural battles, and convulsive emotional scenes was not calculated to sway financial people. At least not favorably, he added.
Arnie and he were being given a view of business as usual, as well. John had to admit that this prolonged duel with Thad showed more thought, preparation, and general efficiency than he had previously believed available to MM.
Madsen, as he recalled, had organized the staff work. Was he preparing notes and briefing his superiors from his cell?
Arnie had not forgotten this either as he said, “Madsen did a lot of the homework on this.”
Unfortunately a good economist and researcher can be a murderer too. Moved by rage, by love, by goodness knows what, Madsen might have shot Jensen at some chance encounter in the division, during an inspection of the internal wonders of the Super Plantagenet, for example. John did not think it likely, but knew it was possible. More important, the state of Michigan was convinced of it and was doing its best to assemble proof to that effect. No wonder Arnie was depressed, he thought.
To keep himself from asking himself if Michigan had the death penalty, John turned his attention back to the bargaining table. Frank and Thad, like rival chieftains, had retired from the spotlight; 2 juniors, armed with dissimilar and conflicting statistical data, presented information on MM output per person since 1936.
Neither pessimist nor statistician by nature John retreated again to his own thoughts and dispassionately examined management. The union was presenting results of a study proving that MM’s profits were excessive--by no means the most favorable moment to view Krebbel, Buck, or Wahl. Thatcher’s eyes narrowed slightly. Were
they troubled by untroubled questions? Did Buck know what his wife was saying? Did he realize that she and the enigmatic Orin Dunn gave every evidence of being up to something? Buck was listening to the union statistician intently. His good natured, normally rather foolish expression, had been replaced by one of exaggerated sobriety.
What did Krebbel think of the scene he had just left? How did he feel about Wahl? His confidences to John had been careful and calculated. What did he really think of his newest division manager?
John found his glance returning to Wahl, now biting his lip with restrained aggressiveness. Wahl was enjoying his sudden elevation. And Mrs. Wahl made no bones about her open satisfaction with it. The Wahl income and the Wahl future had both been improved by Jensen’s murder.
Wryly John realized that once again he was thinking about the economics of murder not emotions of murder. Nevertheless, he regarded the management side of the table with the same cool speculation that he saw in Thad’s eye. What were these men capable of? What did they want? What would they do to get it?
In the last analysis this was what mattered to the man who represented organized labor at the bargaining table. It was also what the investment community wanted to know.
And to Madsen and his supporters it was vital. Unless Jensen had been killed because Madsen wanted his wife. Thatcher did not believe it. The statisticians, having clarified nothing, finished their presentations; the first team took the field again.
“In these exploratory conversations,” Krebbel said, consulting a note, “I’d like to suggest a step that may lead to some progress. The company would be willing to consider October 8th to next year’s list of accredited paid holidays. Solely as a means of expediting these discussions and without prejudice to dates...”
The real horse trading had begun. MM, through Krebbel, was going to suggest that, with unparalleled generosity, it might consider absorbing one more paid holiday.
“Any discussion of increased holidays that gave us only Yom Kippur would be a waste of time,” Thad said affably. The union side of the table, apparently amused by a rare pleasantry, looked merry. Extended silence.
“But,” continued Thad, thoughtfully examining his manicured nails, “purely on an exploratory basis, we are willing to consider dropping Veterans’ Day from our current list of holiday demands. I don’t know what our men, men who fought in 2 world wars, are going to say. But I’ll try to convince the membership...”
His staff shook its head, admiring this selflessness.
In short, they were getting down to brass tacks.
MM would yield 1 holiday. The union would insist on 4. The statisticians would be recalled. After discussion MM, on a purely exploratory basis, might consider 2 holidays. It would point out the fearful competitive position resulting from this largesse; it would speak strongly about cost price squeezes. But it would consider, just barely, 2 holidays.
The union, sympathetic, aware of the difficulties, would reply that it understood MM’s position; unfortunately feeling among the membership ran so high that unless it could guarantee at least 3 holidays, why, it might not be able to control the workers. They would probably...just walk out.
John let himself consider the gamesmanship of the situation as somebody introduced the ominous word “arbitration.” This was a newly hired lawyer who was severely reprimanded after the meeting by his superior from MM’s Law Department. “Our general position, Brewster, is against government intervention. Apart from the strength of the relative bargaining positions, John felt there was something in the intrinsic content of the demands that predicated the outcome of these proceedings, namely, the nature of the holidays. Citizenship Day seemed doomed to him.
Chairs scraping woke him up. The meeting was adjourning for a short break. “Let’s say 15 minutes,” said Krebbel. There was an automatic synchronization of watches before Krebbel, gesturing to Buck, retired for a brief caucus, and Thad, huddled with his staff, engaged in a half time pep talk.
John, rather bored, drew a small sheet of paper to him, a neat mimeographed list of the union’s original demands. “St. Patrick’s Day, March 17th,” he said idly.
Arnie settling back with a new cigar roused himself to speech. “You know, this gives you an insight into those long sessions they have at the bargaining table, doesn’t it? I’m surprised that they ever get finished
-Where are you going?”
For John, not hearing a word that Arnie said, had pushed back his chair and was striding from the room. “Phone call,” he said. “I didn’t realize that St. Patrick’s Day was March 17th.”
Puzzled, Arnie watched him push his way through the cluster of men at the door. There had been a snap of urgency in John’s voice.
“So,” murmured Arnie.” March 17th is St. Patrick’s Day?” He considered this, and then came to a conclusion. We’ve been in Detroit too long.”
Chapter 21
The Open Road
30 minutes later Arnie sat alone in the deserted conference room. He was out of cigars. Celia and Madsen waited for good news that did not come. Everyone at MM seemed to have gone mad as Arnie sighed. John hurried back into the room and was stopped short at the sight of the lone solitary mournful figure, and said, “I thought the meeting was going to resume.”
Arnie looked up and said, “Yes. Well it resumed for all of 2 minutes. Then the MM people discovered urgent business elsewhere, so adjourned until tomorrow. And to be honest, Thad was none too pleased the way Krebbel, Buck, and Wahl stomped out of here--”
Unceremoniously John interrupted. “You didn’t mention that business about St. Patrick’s Day, did you?”
He sounded deadly serious. Briefly Berman wondered how to explain things to the Sloan. “As a matter of fact, I did,” he said, automatically searching his breast pocket for a cigar. “They noticed you weren’t here, and I did say that you were busy calling Withers to tell him that St. Patrick’s Day is on March 17th--”
“Good God!” John said turning on his heel.
For a moment Arnie sat considering things. Then he got up and hurried after Thatcher. He was hard put to match the older man’s stride. “John,” he said breathlessly, “would you please explain in words of one syllable--”
John ignored him. He turned the corner and pounded down a rarely used stairway, taking 2 steps at a time. Arnie, trotting behind him, could see his face only at turns. He looked forbidding. “Just tell me what the heck we are doing,” Berman called after him. John scarcely heard him so intent was he on his mission. John strode into the lobby where a flurry of secretaries returning from a coffee break scattered like agitated pigeons before him. Their flight revealed the thin figure of Fabian Riley, studiously consulting a notebook.
“Just the man I want,” John muttered without breaking stride. “Riley. We are going to need your help.”
Fabian Riley looked up. Thatcher, with a humorless smile said, “We have all been inexcusably slow, my friend. Has it occurred to you that St. Patrick’s Day is March 17th?”
Riley echoed John’s words looking as blank as Arnie felt? Then with an expression of shocked consternation, he dropped his notebook and hurried after Thatcher, who was already outside the building looking around for Mack and the Sceptre.
“That blasted car has been hounding us every minute we have been here,” John murmured irritably, “but when you want it...oh there he is. Mack! Mack!”
From the far side of the MM Motor Pool, Mack hastily disassociated himself from a friendly game of 5 card stud and hurried to his vehicle. Riley demanded of John, “What are you doing? Where are you going?”
“Miss Price has already left,” John said impassively. “She’s probably home by now. And I think she’s in danger...”
“You mean--” “I do.”
“I’m coming with you,” Riley said with determination.
“What’s going on here?” Arnie asked patiently. His companions ignored him.
“You are going nowhere Riley,” John ruled. “You
are going to stay here and use the authority of your office to rouse the police. We will try to head him off.”
“There won’t be time...” Riley protested mutinously.
Thatcher was already hastening into the front seat of the Plantagenet now at the curb. “You are wasting time as it is. And endangering her life, I might add.” He turned to exchange a few words with Mack, then leaving him in severe shock, he turned back to say, “He’s driving a 1966 Viscount, black with white sidewalls.”
Obedient to John’s command, the great limousine was already moving down the driveway with Fabian Riley running back towards the lobby. Arnie had previously emerged from his bewilderment and scrambled into the back seat of the limousine before it took off.
“And Mack, hurry. It is literally a matter of life or death.”
Mack hit the accelerator, Arnie reached for his nonexistent cigar, and the scenery on MM Road began to rush by faster and faster as they took off.
Riley bellowed into the phone, “I don’t care what Georgeson’s doing. Put me through to him now.” Georgeson’s secretary had never heard Riley raise his voice, so she knew this was serious and acted accordingly.
While he waited, Riley picked up a memo pad and was occupied crushing it between his long nervous fingers. The receptionist in the MM lobby cowered in her chair because she, too, had never heard Riley raise his voice or be anything but scrupulously courteous.
“Georgeson? Thank goodness. Listen to me. We have discovered who killed Jensen...What? No it is not Madsen, you fool. I don’t care... Listen, it doesn’t matter what you think...”
Meanwhile the 1966 Viscount driver drove carefully, just 5 miles over the legal speed limit. He was heading for the Willow Run Expressway and downtown Detroit, and it wouldn’t do to get picked up for speeding. It wouldn’t do at all. Automatically he checked the rearview mirror; the normal flow of traffic was heading for the access ramp. No avenging fates, no nemesis...
