by Emma Lathen
“International and Commercial Credit sure take the cake! Both of them are digging for all they’re worth to get John’s thinking.”
His bait was specifically designed to tempt Everett. Here was an opportunity to point out flaws in other divisions of the Sloan and to forget whatever imperfections existed in the Trust Department—or in Charlie.
Not for the first time, Gabler was too cunning for him.
“The Sloan’s situation in Puerto Rico is inexcusable,” he said severely, “and it is high time that it be rectified. My only complaint is that John should be the one required to do so. Particularly when we are so hard pressed. Now, Charlie, I am seriously concerned about our position in Stevenson Can. Especially with the market moving up . . .”
Charlie accepted defeat like the gentleman that he was. But when his secretary announced that George C. Lancer would like a few moments of his time, he rose perhaps more quickly than necessary.
“Sorry, Ev,” he said. “Maybe we can get back to this later in the afternoon.”
Everett rose, too. “As soon,” he promised implacably, “as you are back in your office.”
Charlie kept smiling. This was not complete hypocrisy. If George C. Lancer, chairman of the board, ran true to form, Charlie would not get back to his office till long after Everett had left for the day, taking Stevenson Can with him.
Lancer, just back from London, was a serious, hard-working executive. There was never any suggestion of carelessness or superficiality in anything Lancer said; there was never any suggestion of speed either.
“Charlie,” he said, when Trinkam reached the magnificent tower suite. “Glad you were free.” His meticulous courtesy was a byword.
“Good trip, George?” Charlie inquired.
“I suppose you could call it satisfactory,” George said finally. “I think we’re going to be able to recover everything from that secondary loan.”
“That’s better than I had hoped for,” Charlie admitted.
George, although innately modest, was pleased. “It helps having someone from here drop in on the branches from time to time. Otherwise—or so I find—they lose perspective. That’s why I am so glad that John is lending a hand with this Puerto Rico tangle. I expect it won’t take him long to straighten things out.”
“Sure,” said Charlie. He was not the enthusiast for overseas branches that some of his colleagues were.
“You know,” Lancer went on, “our liaison with Hato Rey has not been as good as it might be. It may have been a mistake to let our Puerto Rican branch report through International. . . .”
In Hato Rey, John Putnam Thatcher was not straightening out any tangles. He was talking to a policeman.
It was not the way he had expected to spend the afternoon.
Olmsted had been reporting. “. . . So Harry says that Annie should be able to stop this thing in its tracks.”
“She must be a redoubtable woman,” Thatcher had remarked. “I look forward to meeting her sometime.”
By now, Olmsted had no margin to spare for anything but essentials. “That way, if Slax can keep the production lines running, there’s a good chance they’ll meet their delivery dates. Harry has wangled a couple of extensions without any penalty. I don’t say I’m optimistic, John . . .”
In view of what had been happening recently, Thatcher was happy to hear that. Optimism about Slax at this juncture would border on idiocy.
“. . . a big run for Bloomingdale’s for late spring. That should help. With sportswear, some of this hard season selling isn’t realistic any more. Spreading out delivery dates should help a lot.”
Just then, Mrs. Schroeder put through a call. It was Captain Vallejo. He would very much like a word with Thatcher.
“At your convenience,” said Thatcher cooperatively.
“I am in your lobby now.”
“Then come right up.”
Fluidly Vallejo made another suggestion. Perhaps a cup of coffee across the street?
Thatcher appreciated the punctilio with which Vallejo was treating all his North American witnesses. He was being careful not to inflict the sensationalism of a murder investigation on the Sloan Guaranty Trust. Catch the New York City Police Department doing as much! Even with this thought, another came. How long would this tact last?
Aloud, he replied he would be downstairs immediately.
“And I understand that Mr. Olmsted is with you? Perhaps he would be kind enough to join us?”
The three of them were soon in a small, bustling coffee shop half a block from the Sloan. It was located in the arcade of the Bank of Nova Scotia building. Down the street was the half-completed edifice that would be the new Bank of Ponce. Somewhere out of his line of vision, Thatcher knew, another skyscraper was going up—the new John Hancock building. He must remember this rash of construction the next time anybody lectured him about Puerto Rico’s economic growth. When banks and insurance companies scurried to join other banks and insurance companies within the compass of six square blocks, Thatcher felt that the point had been abundantly made.
“I think it was you, Mr. Olmsted, who had met the people at Slax before Domínguez was killed? And Mr. Thatcher had not?”
“That’s right,” said Olmsted wearily. “But I don’t know any of them well. I do most of the work with Harry Zimmerman—in New York.”
Vallejo nodded, giving Thatcher the impression that he knew all about Harry Zimmerman.
Olmsted was painstakingly plodding on. “I’ve met David Lippert—oh, say four or five times. Norma maybe twice. Romero and Eric Marten I just met when I flew down this time.”
“So they are casual acquaintances?”
“That’s right,” said Olmsted.
“That, perhaps, is why you noticed nothing unusual about any of them the morning of the murder.”
“I don’t think there was anything unusual!” said Olmsted, sounding tired.
Thatcher thought he could help. “You must remember, Captain, that we were there for a short time before Domínguez’ body was discovered. Only something quite extraordinary would have registered in that time.”
Vallejo persisted. “And nothing comes to mind?”
Silently Olmsted shook his head.
“I recall thinking that young Lippert might be nervous,” said Thatcher, stirring his excellent coffee. “But since then I have discovered that he is a nervous type.”
“So everyone tells us,” Vallejo agreed. “Another question has occurred to us since we saw you last. Who arranged the timing of your tour of Slax?”
Olmsted was puzzled. “I don’t see what you mean by that,” he said.
Vallejo expanded. Perhaps he had put it badly. But who suggested the tour? When was it arranged? And, finally—Vallejo’s voice was carefully neutral—how many people knew about it?
“Let’s see.” Olmsted was thinking aloud. “I got here the day before you did, didn’t I, John? I got in touch with Lippert right away. We all had dinner that night. I don’t remember who raised the subject, but we made arrangements for me to go through Slax. Then you got here. So I called back to say it might be a good idea—” He broke off. It did not seem like such a good idea now.
“Did Lippert take the lead in this talk?” Vallejo asked.
“No-o,” said Olmsted, searching his memory. “You couldn’t say that. It was a natural suggestion. They all took it for granted.”
“And for what it’s worth,” Thatcher offered, “everybody at the Sloan knew about the tour. I assume all the secretaries at Slax did, as well. It was not a secret.”
“You see our problem,” said Vallejo. “So many people could have killed Domínguez. But why at that particular time? Was it perhaps because important bankers were arriving at Slax? Was Domínguez going to say something to them, show something to them?”
Olmsted was jolted by this thought. Even Thatcher was slightly startled.
Vallejo shrugged his shoulders. “It is only a theory, you understand. But we must not overlook
it. Because it is still not clear why Domínguez was killed.”
Indignation at being considered a catalyst for murder flavored Pete Olmsted’s voice. “But he was some kind of political radical, wasn’t he? Doesn’t that give you a better lead?”
This time it was Thatcher who had to demur. After all, no other Sloan client in Puerto Rico had been troubled by anti-American outbursts. “These radicals seem to be highly selective,” he objected.
Vallejo nodded. “That is true. It would, of course, be most convenient for the management of Slax if this were a falling-out of radicals. But it is hard to believe. These Radical Independents—they are good at riots. But a riot is a triumph of confusion. Everyone loses his identity. A rock flies out from the middle of a mob, and an ROTC cadet has a fractured skull. A shot is fired from a crowded student union, and a policeman lies dead. This does not simply mean harder work for the authorities. It means young people cease to be themselves and do things they would not otherwise do. All this is very different from a planned, cold-blooded murder.”
“And certainly,” Thatcher remarked, “whatever else you may say about Domínguez’ murder, it was not inefficient.”
“The real oddity,” Vallejo went on, “is that Domínguez should have anything to do with these students.”
Thatcher asked what kind of man Domínguez had been.
“He was not much respected,” said Vallejo. “Not by the people who worked with him, not by his wife, not by his neighbors. They all say he talked too much—and sometimes foolishly. But still, he had learned his trade. He supported his family. He had risen to foreman.”
There was silence at their table, if not around them. Dozens of office workers leaving for the day were crowding into the shop.
“If Domínguez was a foolish man,” Thatcher suggested, “perhaps he didn’t join the radicals on his own initiative. Perhaps they recruited him because they needed a Slax foreman.”
Vallejo was interested, but dubious. “I don’t see how we will find out. Nadal and his friends won’t answer our questions, and Benito Domínguez never said a word to anyone else about the Radical Independents. If we hadn’t found the card, we wouldn’t even know he was a member.”
This was too much for Pete Olmsted. “But there was all that sabotage at Slax!” he exploded. “Domínguez was running around throwing acid on material. And that sand—the sand he used to doctor the lubricating oil!”
Thatcher was willing to explore new ground. “I suppose,” he said slowly, “it could be argued that Domínguez was killed because he caught someone else using that sand.”
“My God!” said Olmsted.
Vallejo said only, “There are many possibilities. We are exploring them—all of them. So I am grateful for your cooperation today, as I shall be grateful for any other help you can give us.”
He departed, after renewed thanks, leaving a worried Pete Olmsted.
“I hoped the worst was over at Slax,” he said.
“The worst won’t be over, Pete,” said Thatcher bracingly, “until the police arrest Domínguez’ murderer.”
And even then, he thought, much would depend on just who that murderer was.
Chapter 10.
Cutting to Size
In spite of these forebodings in Hato Rey, morale at the Slax factory in Bayamón had never been higher. The management basked in the absence of sabotage and the production of a record output. The workers on the line were deriving a different enjoyment from bravura displays of combat every lunch hour.
For Prudencio Nadal did not simply fold his tents and depart. An issue such as the murder of Benito Domínguez was not likely to come his way again. Therefore every day he doggedly mounted his rostrum and loosed his eloquence.
At first the front office had been alarmed. But not for long.
“It gives everybody some excitement. Don’t worry,” Annie advised. “Leave this kid to me, and I’ll smear him.”
She punctuated this remark by mashing her broad spatulate thumb against the tabletop in a gesture which Norma Lippert, for one, thought the height of vulgarity.
The tone of the subsequent jousting sprang from the sense of moral superiority common to both contestants. To Nadal, Annie was a capitalist hireling, corrupted into opposing the revolution. To Annie, Prudencio was a rich boy, wantonly willing to close down a plant and throw poor people out of work in a show of self-aggrandizement. Given these views, neither was inclined to pull any punches.
Results, of course, were foreordained. On the practical level, Annie was speaking before people she knew, about problems they shared, in words they understood. Prudencio harangued his listeners as if they had just emerged from a course in sociology. It was the personal vilification to which both warriors rapidly descended that attracted large crowds.
The untroubled, tropical weather of Puerto Rico contributed to the entertainment. By the second day everyone in Bayamón seemed to be picnicking on Slax property. By the third day, people were arriving in buses from farther afield. Word spread rapidly that the opponents were reaching heights of abuse that were well worth hearing.
Here too Annie had the edge. She possessed a richly seasoned vocabulary, drawn from the storehouses of two languages and brought to a fine pitch by experience in the barrio and the ghetto, in the sweatshop and the union hiring hall. She was an instinctive debater, thriving on contention. Prudencio, instead, was an orator, limited to the epithets of the New Left and the few four-letter words popular in his circle. After all, as Annie said with jovial contempt, he was a middle-class boy, raised by middle-class parents, carefully shielded from the rougher elements of island life.
“Like you and me!” she said, underlining her point.
She was in high good humor. For Prudencio Nadal had mistakenly allowed himself to be lured into an exchange about the day-care center. It was a subject that merely bewildered him.
At first it had confused Slax employees as well. But many of them were mothers. They were fully alive to the advantages a day-care center would give their children. Now they were as enthusiastic as Annie had predicted they would be.
Prudencio, accustomed to the fads of his contemporaries, seized on the language issue. “A bilingual nursery!” he sneered. “So that your children can grow up enslaved by the speech of imperialism. In the university, you should know, we do not permit lectures in English.”
Annie smiled broadly. “Naturally this boy doesn’t care whether he learns English or not,” she countered. “He has a rich father. He doesn’t have to look for a job.”
From there it was one pitfall after another for Prudencio. In vain he called Annie a union bitch, a cow milked by fat Americans, a whore sent out by establishment pimps. Annie had deadlier weapons. Prudencio’s reputation for plain living and high thinking had gone before him. To the poor all over the world, it is inconceivable that anyone should voluntarily forgo pleasures of the flesh. Annie was swift to capitalize on this. When Prudencio, goaded by talk of sterilized bottles, disposable diapers and Montessori teachers, scoffed at the petty problems of domesticity, Annie did not make the mistake of treating him as just another man. She went straight for the vitals.
“What does he know of these problems? This niño who’s never been on top of a woman, this choirboy whose voice hasn’t changed, this beardless Che Guevara?” she asked.
By the fourth day, even Dudley Humble had been enticed from his aerie in Hato Rey so that the Sloan might have a Spanish-speaking expert on hand.
“That woman is a marvel,” Dudley reported, bouncing with each word. “I haven’t enjoyed anything so much in years. I don’t know how she thinks up some of these things. Did I tell you she called him an avocado without a pit?”
But Dudley’s enthusiasm was as nothing compared to that of Harry Zimmerman. All week long he sang her praises to anyone who would listen. And the praises became an anthem of joy when, on Friday, Prudencio Nadal finally announced that he was abandoning the field.
“The workers are not ready,�
�� he said severely. “They require further education.”
His departure left Harry jubilant.
“We’ve licked it,” Harry chortled. “Everybody have a good time over the weekend. You’ve earned it.”
Socially speaking, Cesar Romero and his wife, Elena, led a double life. In their shuttered and tree-shaded home in the Miramar section of San Juan, they entertained their many family connections and the friends of their childhood. They both came from professional families rich in doctors, lawyers, architects and professors. The language of these gatherings was Spanish, the topics ranged from literature to politics. But though the community was close, it was not inward turning. Elena had been sent to Manhattanville College of the Sacred Heart, in Westchester. She married shortly thereafter, and her first two babies were born in Cambridge, where Cesar was attending the Harvard Business School. As a result, the Romeros had various ties with the American colony in Puerto Rico. When a management consulting firm in New York sent a man to study the sugar-cane industry, he was often a classmate of Cesar’s. When a brokerage house opened a new office in the Condado, its manager was likely to be married to a classmate of Elena’s. On the whole, the Romeros preferred to entertain their American friends at their beach cottage out in Fajardo. There was swimming and fishing; barbecues and beach dinners were served; informality reigned.
The Lipperts always enjoyed themselves here. This Sunday, after the victory at Slax, they were enjoying themselves more than usual.
“Come and relax, Norma,” Elena called from the patio. “It’s much too hot to be energetic.”
Norma, emerging from the house, obediently dropped into a chair. She had just changed from a bikini into slacks and a polo shirt. Close examination in the mirror had assured her that she was an attractive woman. But not, she ungrudgingly admitted, in the same class as Elena Romero. At thirty-seven, Elena effortlessly exuded ripe sexuality. And, from what Norma had seen of Puerto Rican women, Elena was going to be doing it for another twenty-five years. Happily, Norma had long ago come to the conclusion that anything so uncompromisingly feminine would have overwhelmed David.
