The Longer the Thread

by Emma Lathen

  Accordingly Thatcher leaned back and listened to a casual exchange between Olmsted and Eric Marten. They were discussing the sales outlook for the coming season. What he heard he approved. In many firms, the commercial manager becomes a glorified public-relations man, full of enthusiasm but weak on detail about his industry. This was not true at Slax. Eric Marten certainly projected enthusiasm, but he did so with a wealth of information. He knew a great deal about the garment trade and about Puerto Rico.

  After an exhaustive discussion of coastal shipping along both Americas, he answered a question. “I’ve spent my whole life in the islands,” he explained. “I grew up hearing about shipping in these parts.”

  David Lippert, when he arrived, made a less favorable impression on Thatcher. But that may have been because he was so clearly nervous. He declined coffee on the grounds that there would be insufficient time.

  “Cesar is already through,” he explained. “And I’m expecting Norma any minute. You know my wife’s a part owner, don’t you?”

  Thatcher simply nodded. Privately he wondered what sort of bankers Lippert thought they were if they did not know who owned the controlling stock in a family firm. But he had no time for further reflection. The intercom announced that Mrs. Lippert was at the front desk.

  They picked her up there and proceeded into the executive suite. Cesar Romero appeared from an office to join them on their way to the conference room. It was he, indeed, who threw open the door and stood back to let Norma Lippert precede him.

  Behind her, the men could see only part of the room. It was enough to tell Thatcher that something was terribly wrong.

  The conference room was not empty. Instead, the chair at the head of the long table was occupied. A man in work clothes lay slumped forward, his head and one outflung arm resting on the polished teak.

  Norma had moved into the room automatically. Now she was the only one near enough to see the shattered skull, the pool of blood, the ugly ooze of matter.

  She froze.

  Her rasping intake of breath was the one sound in the room. She was struggling not to scream.

  As her husband pushed his way to her side, she gasped painfully, “Oh, God! It’s Benito Domínguez! Oh, no!”

  Then she pitched forward.

  Chapter 5.

  Pinking Shears

  While David Lippert struggled to support his wife, the other men stood fixed. Finally, Eric Marten took three strides forward.

  He bent over the body. One look was enough to make him retreat, his face drained of color.

  “Christ!” Then, his voice louder than ever, he snapped out commands. “Cesar, find the nearest phone and get the plant doctor here. And you’d better call the police. Olmsted, can you help Dave get Norma out of here? She shouldn’t see this.” A tight turn of his head indicated the bloody mess on the table. “And, Thatcher, do you mind staying here with me so we can vouch for each other?”

  His peremptory tactics worked. The others shook themselves free of paralysis. In minutes, Thatcher and Marten were standing guard alone.

  “Is there any chance that he’s not dead?” asked Thatcher.

  “You should see the exit wound. He must have been shot in the back of the head. The bullet tore his face apart, coming out.” Marten groaned. “My God, what a mess!”

  Thatcher could not decide whether he was talking about the victim or something else. Marten himself seemed to feel there had been ambiguity in his words. Shrugging restlessly, he again approached the table. Cautiously he placed his fingers on Domínguez’ wrist.

  “I can’t feel any pulse,” he announced. “But half the time I can’t find my own. I—now what the hell?” he broke off to stare at his own hand, then peered more closely at Domínguez’ closed fist.

  “What is it?” Thatcher asked sharply.

  Marten was half murmuring to himself in bewilderment. “It’s sand. Now will you tell me why Domínguez came here to the office with a handful of sand?”

  “I have no idea,” said Thatcher. “Who is Domínguez, anyway?”

  “One of our foremen,” Marten replied absently. He was still rubbing some sand between his fingers. “Benito Domínguez was the one who—” Then he stopped. “He was just one of our foremen, that’s all.”

  Neither the broken sentence nor Marten’s uneasy prowling up and down the side of the room was necessary to tell Thatcher there was more to it than that. If Benito Domínguez had been an ordinary foreman, presumably he would not now be lying here with his brains blown out. John Thatcher did not ask any more questions. Very soon other people with greater authority would be doing that. He had a strong suspicion that he was going to learn more about Domínguez before many hours had passed.

  It did not take that long. The doctor and a patrol car arrived almost simultaneously. While the doctor assured himself that Domínguez was dead, the policeman made a call to headquarters. To no one’s surprise, this call produced a very superior officer. Captain Vallejo’s rank, his efficiency and his familiarity with manufacturing premises marked him as a specialist. He was the man who handled trouble at any of Fomento’s cherished transplants.

  He was also dauntingly well informed.

  “It will save time, I think, if I tell you there are certain things I already know,” he said when he joined them in the room where they had been waiting for him. “For instance, I know that there has been considerable industrial sabotage here at Slax Unlimited.”

  There was total silence. It was surprising, Thatcher thought, how guilty Slax’s executives looked as they all avoided each other’s eyes.

  The lack of response exasperated Captain Vallejo. “You must understand that I know this without asking a single question, merely from the gossip that has been busy in the last few days. You are in the best position to know how much I will learn from interrogating the entire work force.”

  Cesar Romero stirred unhappily.

  “Is that really necessary, Captain?” he asked.

  “You do not think so?” Vallejo was gravely ironic. “I am not, after all, receiving much assistance from the management of this company.”

  “What do you mean by that?” David Lippert burst out. He was sitting on a couch, holding his wife’s hand. Norma, pale but composed, had refused the police offer to drive her home. “What can we tell you? We don’t know anything. We marched into that room to have a conference, and Domínguez was there, dead! That’s all we know!”

  “You could tell me something about the background.” Vallejo paused. “Instead of leaving me to find out for myself—possibly from more hostile sources.”

  “What does background have to do with it?” Lippert persisted. “Somebody shot Domínguez. It’s your job to find out who.”

  “Exactly. Perhaps it would help if I tell you what I already know. First we have a dead foreman in your executive offices. That in itself is rather unusual. There are two entrances to the executive block. One is through the front door, past the receptionist. The other is through the door to the plant, past a number of people on the work floor. That door is used only by executives and foremen. Anyone else using it would cause comment. Finally, we have the hour of the day. Work begins on the line at seven-thirty o’clock. Normally the executive offices begin work at eight. But today Mr. Lippert, Mr. Romero and Mr. Marten were all here long before eight. In fact, you were all here at the time the murder must have been committed.”

  “You have not forgotten, Captain Vallejo, that today we had a conference with our bankers scheduled for eight o’clock?” Cesar Romero interposed quietly. “Our presence is readily explained.”

  “You may have an explanation for being here. Nevertheless, you were here. Now we come to the question of sabotage.” Vallejo looked around the quiet circle as if waiting for a contribution. When none came, he went on. “There are certain similarities in all cases of industrial sabotage. In small plants, management always has suspicions as to who is responsible. This leads to certain bad feeling. The bad feeling usually e
rupts in some way.”

  “Horseshit!” Eric Marten snapped. “We don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He looked at his colleagues for support. He did not get it.

  “That won’t work, Eric,” David Lippert said bluntly.

  Thatcher was interested to note that in this crisis, at least, the realist at Slax was not Marten but young Lippert.

  Romero was shaking his head sadly. “You are forgetting my office has glass walls, Eric.”

  Captain Vallejo viewed this dissension with approval. “That is more sensible. In time, I will find out everything that has happened. But what went on behind glass walls I will know before the morning is out. My assistants are already questioning the men on the line.”

  Marten groaned.

  David Lippert tried to counterattack. “Why don’t they start a search for the gun instead? I’m not trying to tell you your business, but we’ve already had one murder here. I’d feel a lot happier if I didn’t think some maniac is still running around the building, fully armed.”

  “We have found the gun—in your executive suite.”

  Someone in the room caught his breath sharply.

  “It had been dropped into the wastebasket in the conference room,” Vallejo continued smoothly. “Needless to say, it had been wiped of fingerprints. And now perhaps we could return to the subject of sabotage.”

  He received unexpected assistance.

  “Yes, I think you should tell the captain everything that happened,” Norma said with a troubled frown. “I’d like to know myself.”

  Lippert looked down at his wife in dismay. Both Eric Marten and Cesar Romero broke into speech.

  “Very little happened . . .”

  “You’ve got the whole thing wrong . . .”

  Between the two of them, a simple story emerged. There had been no overt hostility, no serious threats, no real suspicion. There had only been natural irritation when several major losses prompted tactless remarks by Benito Domínguez.

  “He did not have a sympathetic manner,” Romero said.

  “He was enjoying the whole damn thing,” Eric Marten said more forthrightly.

  But Slax had been too wily to be provoked into retaliation. Benito Domínguez had not been fired, he had not been threatened in any way.

  “Why did you tolerate him?” Vallejo asked.

  It was Cesar Romero, Thatcher observed, who presented the official position this time. “We considered firing him several days ago, Captain,” he said frankly. “But only yesterday we came to the conclusion that it would not be wise, not before the plebiscite.” He paused, then added persuasively, “You must understand that we did not suspect him of the sabotage. We were simply offended by his attitude. It is true we exchanged harsh words with him. Who would not? But that was all, absolutely all.”

  “You haven’t forgotten those glass walls, have you?” Vallejo reminded them, almost jocularly.

  Marten did the best he could. It might have looked worse than it was, he said. When Domínguez had interrupted a conference, David Lippert had been angry and shown it. But he had not laid a finger on the man.

  “Actually I was the one who hustled him out of the office,” Marten ended.

  Captain Vallejo leaned back, nodding to himself. John Thatcher did not believe that the police captain was satisfied with this story. For that matter the Sloan Guaranty Trust, as represented by its senior vice-president, was not. Vallejo was simply satisfied that this was all he could get for the moment.

  “That will do for now.”

  Marten and Romero heaved sighs of relief. David Lippert closed his eyes. Thatcher was sorry for them if they thought the worst was over. Then he met the eyes of Norma Lippert. She, at least, had no such illusions. She had gasped once during the recital—when Marten had glossed over David’s anger. Clearly the scene with Domínguez was news to her. But she was not weeping over spilt milk, she was looking to her defenses against future attacks.

  Thatcher’s reverie was interrupted.

  “Mr. Thatcher, if you and Mr. Olmsted will review the morning for me once again, I think we might be able to end this session.”

  Captain Vallejo was being conscientious. He had already mastered the morning timetable better than the two bankers. But dutifully they re-covered the ground. Eric Marten had come from the executive suite to greet them at the entrance.

  “So you were already in the suite, Mr. Marten. Were you with anyone?”

  “I’ve already told you. I was alone in my office, except when I looked for David on my way to the reception desk.”

  “And Mr. Lippert wasn’t there?”

  “No, he wasn’t!”

  Undiscouraged, Vallejo continued his questions. They had all adjourned to the cafeteria, Thatcher reported, until the intercom produced David Lippert.

  “And where had you been, Mr. Lippert?”

  “I went into the plant to Cesar’s office. I intended to remind him to get through as quickly as possible so he could join us.”

  “But Mr. Romero wasn’t there?”

  “No, one of the foremen told me he had already gone through to the other side.”

  “So you went ahead to the cafeteria?”

  “That’s right.”

  There was very little else to tell. Thatcher repeated that they had waited until Mrs. Lippert’s arrival, then proceeded to the executive suite, where they were joined by Mr. Romero.

  “Is that correct, Mr. Romero?”

  “It is. I finished getting the day’s run started earlier than usual because of the meeting with Mr. Thatcher. Then I went over to the executive side, where I have another office. I waited in there with the door open until the others appeared, heading for the conference room.”

  “And none of the clerical help was around at that hour?”

  “They just started coming in during the last five minutes.”

  Vallejo nodded to the patrolman who was acting as stenographer. “We’ll have those statements typed up for signing,” he directed before turning back. “You see what we have done? We have established that all three of you were alone for significant periods in the executive offices. We may be able to determine the times more accurately after we have questioned the receptionist, but the main issue cannot be avoided. All three of you were there. You do not admit seeing each other. You do not admit seeing Domínguez. You do not admit seeing anyone else. And it is extremely unlikely that anyone else was there.”

  He was not permitted to go to his next point.

  “You’ve left something out, Captain.” Norma Lippert was calm, almost apologetic. “Someone else was there. I was.”

  Vallejo was visibly annoyed. He knew very well that the fewer the suspects, the more pressure he could bring to bear.

  “I hope that you are not being foolish, Mrs. Lippert?” he said curtly.

  “You mean trying to share suspicion with the rest?” She was almost amused. “Oh, no. You’ll find out when you talk to Dolores. After I got here I told her not to page the cafeteria until I was ready. Then I went into the executive offices and didn’t come out for about ten minutes.”

  “And during those ten minutes?”

  “I was in the ladies’ room. And, before you ask, there wasn’t anyone else there. The secretaries hadn’t arrived yet.”

  Captain Vallejo compressed his lips. “It rounds out the picture,” he admitted. “Everyone who had something to lose by Domínguez’ activities was present.”

  Eric Marten snorted. “What makes you so sure about Domínguez’ activities? There’s no proof he was behind the sabotage. Maybe he was up to something else. We all had good reason to be in the offices, but what was Domínguez doing there? Did you notice that he was holding a lot of sand in his fist? Why don’t you find out about that?”

  “I noticed, but this is the first I have heard about your noticing, Mr. Marten.” The black eyes narrowed. “You were busy while you waited for the doctor. What else did you discover in your search?”

&nb
sp; Marten flushed. “There was no search. I was trying to see if there was a pulse. You can ask Thatcher. I wasn’t alone with the body for one second.”

  It was Vallejo’s turn to be amused. “A shame. If you had been free to go through Domínguez’ pockets, you and Mr. Romero might have told a different story. You really didn’t suspect Domínguez of sabotage, I believe you said. It was only his unsympathetic manner that irritated you. You never feared that he was an anti-American agitator.”

  Cesar Romero had a one-track mind. “We are not concerned with politics,” he said urgently. “And even if Domínguez was behind the sabotage, anti-Americanism had nothing to do with it. He may have been neurotic, he may have believed he had a personal grievance.”

  Norma Lippert was quicker. “Never mind about that, Cesar. What did you find on Benito Domínguez’ body, Captain?”

  “Something his murderer never thought would be there.” Vallejo was enigmatic. “In his wallet is a membership card in the Student-Worker Radical Independence Party. In the pocket of his shop coat is the party’s latest proclamation—exhorting workers to join the fight against American industry in Puerto Rico.”

  Chapter 6.

  Tacking Together

  Captain Vallejo’s interrogation of the work force at Slax proved both more and less informative than he had hoped.

  On the credit side was the volubility of his informants. Fifteen years ago, he knew, the same people would have instinctively retreated into sullen silence—they would have seen nothing, heard nothing, known nothing. But affluence had worked its usual miracle. The men and women on the line no longer thought of themselves as predestined victims. In addition, the grapevine had operated well in advance of Vallejo. Everyone knew that suspicion centered on management.

  And with good reason.

  Because, even under normal circumstances, workers and foremen chorused, it would have been impossible for anybody to go through the door from the plant to the executive corridor without arousing curiosity. Today, of all days, it would have been doubly impossible.